Maximum Chaos. Don Pendleton

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       Chapter 4

      Trenton, New Jersey

      Harry Jigs’s information was proving out.

      The Tsvetanov warehouse was one of many in an old industrial park on the fringes of Trenton. It was late afternoon by the time Bolan cruised through the worn-down area, taking in the shabby buildings and storage facilities. A couple of expensive cars were parked alongside one storage area; they were high-end models that looked out of place behind a sagging wire fence.

      Bolan rounded the west side of the yard—easing the SUV along a narrow service road—and parked at the far end, angling the vehicle so he’d have an easy exit. Kurtzman had sent an aerial view of the neighborhood, allowing Bolan to check out available escape routes.

      The Executioner wore black clothing complemented by a pair of grip-soled ankle boots. Beneath his soft leather jacket he carried the suppressed Beretta 93R with an extended magazine for extra firepower. He had a keen-bladed lock knife in one of the pockets of the jacket.

      The soldier didn’t yet know the strength of his enemy. Nor did he have any idea of their abilities—not the most advisable way of walking into the enemy camp. But Bolan was running out of time, and the life of a child was at stake—he had no choice but to take a calculated risk.

      Bolan locked the Suburban and moved to the weak section of fence that he’d spotted on approach. The sagging wire allowed him to slip through easily. Bolan moved quickly to press up against the blank end wall of the warehouse. He unleathered the 93R, removing the machine pistol from under his jacket and easing the selector to single shot.

      After scanning the area, Bolan chose to make his way around to the rear; the ground was strewn with debris, and there was nothing beyond the fence but a steep, weed-choked bank. Stepping carefully to avoid kicking any loose debris, Bolan moved across the face of the building until he reached a service door that stood partway open. He could hear muted voices beyond the door, telling him someone was home.

      Bolan slipped through the door and crouched in the shadows. The interior was gloomy, the medium-sized storage building half-full of stacked cardboard cartons. Along the wall to Bolan’s right was a partitioned office with three men inside. As Bolan worked his way through the stacked cartons, the voices increased in volume and the men waved their arms through the coils of cigarette smoke floating around their heads.

      One of the men in the office turned and snatched open the door. He leaned out and yelled at a fourth man.

      “Hey, shithead, go and secure that back door. It’s time we moved...”

      The office door slammed shut.

      A lean figure emerged from the shadows just beyond where Bolan crouched. The guy was armed with an SMG and had an auto pistol jammed into his belt. He was muttering to himself as he headed toward the door.

      Bolan waited until the last possible moment before rising from cover. He slammed the hard edge of his left hand into the gunman’s throat just beneath his jaw. The blow crunched home. The man dropped his SMG, clutching his throat with both hands, eyes staring wildly. He started to make choking sounds as he tried—and failed—to suck air into his crushed windpipe. The man dropped to his knees as Bolan stepped around him and opened one of the cartons.

      Bolan was not surprised to find the carton stacked with porn DVDs. He checked a few of the cases and found that it was material of the worst kind. Bolan looked at the rows of cartons and envisaged the total number of DVDs. According to Harry Jigs, the Tsvetanov organization was engaged in this sordid trade just as Marchinski was—both mobs appeared to be working the converging markets.

      Bolan failed to suppress a grin when he realized the potential here. He could play one group against the other. When Bolan checked other cartons, he found plastic bags full of white powder; Bolan split one of the bags and checked the contents; he dipped a finger in the powder and tasted it—cocaine. Bolan spit out the trace.

      Bolan snatched up the fallen gunman’s SMG and checked the magazine; the weapon was an Uzi chambered for 9 mm Parabellum. The Israeli weapon had been around for a long time, and Mack Bolan was extremely familiar with it. The solid design of the weapon, with its blowback operation, had delivered Executioner justice to many of Bolan’s enemies.

      His mind lingered briefly on the origin of the name Parabellum. Taken from the Latin Si Vis Pacem Para Bellum—If you seek peace, prepare for war—the phrase was close to Bolan’s heart. It was something he understood and practiced.

      Bolan sheathed the Beretta and headed for the office. The argument was still raging, and now that he was closer, Bolan realized the men were speaking in Russian. He had a reasonable grasp of the language and made out they were in a dispute over who was responsible for the final distribution of the goods. The confusion suited Bolan. The men would be distracted, and that gave him the advantage.

      He moved along the length of the office, ducking briefly until he cleared the window then rising to his full height as he reached the door. Bolan slammed his boot against the flimsy door and it crashed open against the inside wall, the glass panel shattering.

      Three startled figures spun around to face the intruder, hands sliding under their coats to grasp holstered weapons.

      “Who the hell are you?” one guy snapped in English.

      “Not good news,” Bolan said. “Leave the guns alone.”

      “Screw you,” the guy yelled, drawing his auto pistol.

      Bolan’s finger stroked the Uzi’s trigger and laid a burst that hammered 9 mm slugs into the mobster’s chest. The rounds blew out his back, taking flesh and spinal bone with them. He was propelled across the small office, slamming into the far wall. An expression of disbelief showed on his face as he tumbled to the floor, weapon slipping from numbed fingers. Blood oozed from the spread of holes in СКАЧАТЬ