Maximum Chaos. Don Pendleton

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       Chapter 3

      Trenton, New Jersey

      Harry Jigs had no love for either Leopold Marchinski or his rival, Dragomir Tsvetanov. The fifty-six-year-old small-time hustler was no saint, but he considered himself at least human compared to the larger crime syndicates.

      The sparring organizations had spoiled life for a number of lesser criminals as they gathered up the city districts. Low-level outfits either sold out to the bigger groups or were swept aside. A number of Jigs’s friends, working similar low-key deals, had tried to fight back, but they’d failed, and in some instances forfeited their lives. People disappeared. Sometimes their bodies turned up on vacant lots or were found floating in the water. The message eventually sank in and resistance fell to the wayside.

      Jigs had seen the writing on the wall so he’d left the game. He’d salted away enough money to live above the breadline. He had no family to support and he didn’t own a car or a house—he lived in the same cramped apartment he’d rented for years. Jigs was a survivor. These days, he added to his savings by peddling information. Nothing grand. Just small stuff he picked up from keeping his eyes and ears open and his mouth shut.

      One of Jigs’s best customers was a man named Matt Cooper. Jigs knew very little about the man, apart from his direct and unapologetic manner. Cooper was honest and without any kind of hidden agenda. He might have been a cop, or even some kind of Federal operative. Whatever his profession, Cooper paid well for information.

      And Jigs was in desperate need of a payday. Sitting in his favorite coffee shop, Jigs perched stiffly on the bench seat, facing the window. Scanning the sidewalk outside, Jigs saw nothing to alarm him. Just people passing by, going about their business. It seemed like an ordinary day. Jigs hoped it stayed that way.

      He spotted Cooper as the man walked past the window and turned in at the door. Cooper stopped at the counter to order a drink, then joined Jigs at his table, slipping onto the bench alongside him.

      “Been a while, Mr. Cooper,” Jigs said. His hand trembled slightly until he realized and clenched his fingers.

      Matt Cooper stared out the window. The first drops of rain hit the glass and slid down.

      “Harry, I remember you had trouble a few years back with Marchinski and Tsvetanov. You still want a chance to get back at them?”

      Jigs had time to consider the question as Cooper’s coffee was brought to the table. He waited until the server had walked away before he spoke.

      “Now that’s a hell of a way to start a conversation.”

      “I could ask how you are or talk about the weather, if that’s what you want.”

      Jigs gave a short chuckle. “Or you could shoot straight to the point.”

      “I need a way to get at Marchinski’s mob—through Tsvetanov, if possible.”

      Jigs listened, his face immobile as he absorbed Cooper’s words. Almost from the word go, he was interested. Anything that might aggravate the organizations was good in Jigs’s book.

      “This liable to lead back to me?” he asked. “You know what those assholes are like.”

      “I just need you to point me in the right direction, Harry. I’m looking for locations where they might have an operation going on, a few names I can zero in on. No one needs to know where my information came from.”

      Jigs smiled.

      He slid a ballpoint pen from his pocket and began to write, filling a paper napkin with information and talking as he wrote. Once he was finished, Jigs drained his coffee and watched Cooper pick up the napkin and glance at it before tucking it away in his pocket.

      “Covers both sides,” Jigs said. “Hit any of those locations and you hurt them where it matters.”

      “Thanks, Harry. That’s all I need.” Cooper drew a folded envelope from his pocket and passed it to the man under the table. “Buy yourself a steak dinner.”

      From the thickness of the envelope, Jigs realized he’d be able to buy himself a plentiful supply of steaks and a private table to go with them.

      Cooper stood, dropping a ten-dollar bill on the table. “For the coffee,” he said. “You watch your back.”

      “I’ll do some more checking,” Jigs said. “See what else I can dig up.”

      “No risks, Harry. Just take it easy,” Bolan said. “There’s a cell number on the inside of the envelope. You can contact me if anything comes up.”

      “Okay.”

      “Remember what I said. Don’t go out on a limb.”

      “You got it,” Jigs said.

      Cooper walked out of the coffee shop, turning up his collar against the rain as he stepped out onto the street. A moment later he was gone. And Jigs was on his own once again.

      * * *

      MACK BOLAN MADE his way back to his SUV. He sat for a moment, listening to the rain drum on the roof, his mind working as he selected one of the locations on Jigs’s napkin. He took out his cell and called Stony Man Farm, greeting Barbara Price when she answered. He gave her the information from Jigs and asked for details on the first location. He also asked for photo ID of organization members, if possible.

      “Have Bear check police files. They might not have been convicted but I’m pretty sure most of the perps have been pulled in over the years, so there’ll be mug shots.”

      “I’ll have everything downloaded to your cell.”

      “That’s good,” Bolan said. He read out the rest of the information Jigs had given him. “Same with these.”

      “You planning a vacation?” Price asked.

      “No. Just working on targets.”

      Price didn’t reply instantly. “Be safe, Striker. There are people here who care about you.”

      “That works both ways,” Bolan said before ending the call.

      As he fired up the SUV, he heard his phone ping. That would be his first information feed from Stony Man. He checked the download, then drove to the motel he was using as a temporary base.

      Bolan parked outside his unit, grabbed a large carryall from the SUV and took it inside. He dropped the bag onto the bed and unzipped it. Along with some changes of clothing, Bolan had brought a selection of weapons to add to the Beretta 93R he was already wearing. He checked his supplies then crossed the СКАЧАТЬ