Maximum Chaos

by Don Pendleton

  “I have something to do and a phone call to make,” he said and closed the door.

  He slipped back inside the club and made a swift check of the building. Bolan was looking for Abby Mason, even though he had the feeling she wasn’t at the club. He was right—the place was deserted.

  Back outside, Bolan tapped the cell phone key that would connect him to Stony Man. He listened to the tone, then heard the pickup.

  “It’s me,” he said when Barbara Price came on.

  “And?” she asked.

  “Strike two.”

  “Where?”

  “One of Marchinski’s less-than-wholesome establishments. Up top it’s a pole-dancing emporium. In the basement it’s a holding pen for trafficked women. Four of which I have waiting in a car.”

  “What is it with you and women in peril, Striker? Can’t you just find a normal, healthy one to fill the empty hours?”

  “Anyone in mind, Miss Price?”

  Her laugh was warm and full of promise. “Wait until you touch base, mister. Now, what can I do to help?”

  Bolan gave her the location.

  “I’ll arrange for the local police to attend—welfare, too. Hal can liaise and make sure the women are taken care of. What are you going to do?”

  “Wait around until I see the cavalry arriving. Then I’ll slink off into the undergrowth and leave them to it. Talk to you later, Barbara,” Bolan said and ended the call.

  Back at the car, he explained the arrangements. The woman who spoke English listened, then translated for the others.

  “We all thank you for what you have done,” she said. Her dark eyes stared at him from the pale oval of her face. “Who are you? You do not look like a policeman.”

  “I’m a friend. Let’s leave it at that. Where are you all from? The same place?”

  “Yes. Chechnya. We were taken weeks ago and brought here to America. We are the last of the group. Others were moved on. We do not know where. Will you be able to help them?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe that man back there can be persuaded to talk,” he said. “The police will try.”

  The woman nodded in resignation. “These are bad people. Very bad.” Then she smiled and reached across the back of the seat to touch Bolan’s hand. “I hope we can stay in America. There is very little for us back home. Thank you again.”

  Twenty minutes later, Bolan picked up the sound of approaching sirens and saw the multicolored flashing lights. He nodded to the woman.

  “I have to go now. You’ll be okay.”

  The woman watched him as he slipped from the car and eased into the shadows beyond the club. He was long gone when the cavalcade of police and welfare vehicles swept into the club parking lot.

  Chapter 7

  Trenton, New Jersey

  Harry Jigs drained his coffee mug and considered his next move. He knew what he wanted to do—dig out some more information he could pass along to Cooper. He felt he owed it to the man. Cooper had always been generous—more than generous—and despite his criminal tendencies, Harry Jigs considered himself an honorable man. Cooper wouldn’t be expecting any additional information. He’d made a deal and paid up front. But Jigs figured there was no reason he couldn’t throw in something extra.

  He glanced at his watch. Just after midday. Across the street from the diner where Jigs sat, he could see the entrance to one of Marchinski’s tawdry clubs. The street level was a low-rent strip joint. The second floor was where the main business was conducted. Up there was a fully equipped pornography studio. Jigs had sampled a number of their movies and even he found them hard to watch.

  A little more information on this establishment would be just what Cooper was looking for. Jigs fingered the compact digital camera in his coat pocket. If he could get a few shots of people working in the movie setup, he’d be able to furnish Cooper with current intel.

  Jigs had been watching the side alley ever since he’d entered the diner. In that time, no one had come or gone. Either the place was deserted, or they were all inside doing whatever it was they did. Jigs decided this was as good a time as any. He took out his cell phone and checked the battery then dropped the phone back in his pocket and left the diner, crossing the street.

  Jigs quickly made his way down the alley. There were a couple of large, wheeled trash containers against the club wall and a little farther along, at the rear of the building, was a parking area with a few cars.

  Jigs took out his phone and snapped a number of shots of the cars, making sure he got clear photos of the license plates. He took one of the building, as well. Jigs tapped out a text message, added the photos and sent the message to Cooper’s cell phone. He dropped the cell back in his pocket. Crossing the parking area, Jigs made his way to the rear entrance.

  There was a roller shutter door with a keypad fixed to the wall beside it. He studied it for a while, wishing he had the time to break the key code, but here and now—in broad daylight—was not the time to risk getting caught. A better chance would come later, when it got dark.

  Jigs turned, ready to make his way back to the street, when he caught a shadowy glimpse of someone standing close by. He had barely registered the presence before something hard slammed across the back of his head. Jigs grunted as searing pain swelled up and he stumbled, falling against the wall of the club. The swiftness of the attack and the overwhelming pain left Jigs helpless.

  “Come nosing around here, you sneaky little bastard, will you.”

  The words reached Jigs as if from a long way off. He tried to regain control of his weakened limbs. Something hit him again and Jigs slid to his knees. He felt hands take hold of him, pulling him upright.

  “Want to see what’s going on inside? We can do that for you, Jigs.”

  They knew his name.

  A jolt of fear ran through Jigs.

  His senses were off-line. Jigs had no idea who had hit him, nor did he understand what was going on. All he registered was the fact that he was being moved. Half dragged into a dimly lit passage. He drifted in and out of consciousness. The movement seemed to go on for some time. Then he felt himself being pushed off his feet. He slammed down on a hard surface and lay there in a daze.

  Jigs heard distant sounds—muffled voices and the scrape of shoes on a hard surface. Someone stepped in close. The hard tip of a boot slammed into his side, driving the breath from Jigs’s lungs. He cried out.

  “Son of a bitch is still alive,” someone said, laughing.

  “Not for long—unless I find out what he’s up to. I know this miserable piece of shit. His name’s Harry Jigs, and he’s been a pain in the ass for a long time. Wake him up—I need to have a talk with him.”

  “Hey, the boss doesn’t want anything happening on the premises.”

  “So I’ll take him somewhere quiet.”

  Jigs felt his wrists being pulled together behind his back and secured with a plastic tie. A larger loop was pulled tight around his ankles.

  Hands took hold of him and he was lifted off the floor, carried to a waiting car and pushed into the trunk. Jigs barely had time to register this before the trunk was slammed shut and he was in total darkness.

  * * *

  THE RIDE WAS ENDLESS. Jigs was jostled around inside the trunk. The air was hot, stale and tinged with the smell of gasoline. Sweat soaked him. The plastic ties around his wrists chafed and tore his skin. Jigs felt the slick warmth of blood run across his palms and seep between his fingers.

  His body hurt. There was a pounding in his skull. Harry Jigs knew he was in trouble. He’d gone too far and now he was paying for his mistake. He had the feeling he might not survive whatever lay ahead.

  Jigs knew Marchinski’s reputation for violence. The mobster surrounded himself with hard people, and if anything was liable to enrage them, it was someon
e spying on their business. Cooper had cautioned him against doing anything foolish. Jigs should have heeded the man’s advice. He had no one to blame except himself.

  The pain in his head grew, and Jigs drifted into semiconsciousness. The car finally came to a stop, but for Jigs, the trunk being opened barely registered. He reacted when he was unceremoniously hauled out of the car and dropped onto another hard floor. Jigs was unable to hold back a groan.

  His unseen captor leaned over him.

  “Still with us, huh? That’s handy ’cause I need to find out what the hell you’ve been doing.”

  Jigs felt himself being dragged across the floor. He was pulled to his feet and leaned against a pillar.

  “Now don’t you run away, Jigs.”

  His captor laughed at his own joke as Jigs felt something winding around his body—a rope securing him to the pillar and supporting him.

  For the first time, Jigs was able to see his assailant clearly and when he recognized the man, Jigs was unable to hold back a shiver of fear.

  Val Corbett was one of Marchinski’s enforcers. Known for his unswerving loyalty and his vicious temperament, Corbett was a loner, preferring to carry out his duties on his own. He was said to enjoy his work almost too much, but Marchinski liked that quality.

  “You know me, Harry,” Corbett said with a smile. “Do yourself a favor and let’s get this over with.” That laugh again. “Not too fast, though. I haven’t had much personal business lately.”

  Jigs sucked in a shivering breath as he stared at Corbett. A cold, hard fact hit him—he wasn’t going to talk his way out of this. Val Corbett did not make deals. He did his job plain and simple.

  Jigs watched the man pull on black leather gloves. Corbett was still smiling as he moved in close and began to hit Jigs. The enforcer knew how to inflict the maximum pain without causing any fatal damage. After all, he wanted Jigs to talk.

  The beating lasted for a few minutes.

  Corbett was sweating nicely when he stepped back.

  Jigs was bleeding profusely. One eye was swollen shut and his nose had been broken. Bruises were starting to show on his cheeks and jaw. His mouth was awash with blood, and more bruises were forming over his ribs.

  Corbett took hold of Jigs’s hair and lifted his head.

  “Harry, I need a break. You know how hard it is to keep this up?”

  Jigs stared at him through his good eye. He hurt. He felt sick. He could feel the blood running down his face and taste it in his mouth.

  “I don’t know what you want,” he mumbled; he found it hard to speak because his lips were already badly swollen and split.

  “I want you to tell me who you’ve been speaking to. Don’t lie to me, Harry, you were seen. You were having a long conversation with this big guy in a diner—black hair, tough-looking dude. He gave you a nice thick envelope. And you wrote something down for him on a paper napkin. And now here you are scoping out one of Mr. Marchinski’s spots.”

  Jigs shook his head.

  “Harry, don’t play games with me. We know you were with this guy. And you know what else? Things have been happening since you talked to your friend. Bad things, Harry. We got hit—real hard. It cost us men and money. You meet this guy, you talk, money is handed over, you give him something and suddenly our places get hit. Who is he, Harry? A cop? Fed? This isn’t looking good for you.”

  Corbett let go of Jigs’s hair and stepped back a little. Then the beating started again. This time the blows were harder. Blood cascaded down Jigs’s front, soaking his shirt. He passed out.

  Jigs was brought out of his semiconscious state by a sharp pain that seemed to engulf his body. He jerked in a spasm. The pain continued, and he was unable to hold back a scream.

  Corbett had torn away his shirt and was cutting deep gashes in Jigs’s lean, naked torso. The cuts were painful but not severe enough to kill. Blood was flowing from the wounds caused by the razor-sharp lock knife Corbett was wielding.

  “You’re back with me. That’s good,” Corbett said, relishing the moment. “It’s time you started speaking, Harry, because I’ll be running out of space to cut. Just give me a name and I’ll stop. Tell me who you snitched to, then it can all be over.”

  Jigs stared at the enforcer. He knew in that moment he was going to die very soon. Corbett would not allow him to survive. And Harry Jigs, even in the terror of the moment, would not give him what he wanted. He owed that much to Cooper. The man had always treated him decently, and he’d promised to use the information Jigs had given him to strike out at the Marchinski and Tsvetanov organizations. That had been good enough for Jigs then, and it was even now.

  “I can tell you...” Jigs whispered through swollen, torn lips.

  Corbett’s smile showed. He moved closer to hear what Jigs was going to say.

  Jigs spat a heavy mouthful of blood into the man’s face—enough to film Corbett’s eyes. Corbett uttered a shocked grunt and stepped back, dragging his sleeve across his blood-spattered face.

  “Bastard,” Corbett screamed, his rage wiping away any restraint.

  And in his fury, he lost it. Anger swept over him, a red rage brighter than the blood streaking Harry Jigs’s face and body.

  Corbett lunged at Jigs, the blade of the lock knife plunging into his captive’s chest over and over in a fit of uncontrolled savagery that only ended when Jigs’s body slumped against the rope around him.

  Chapter 8

  Trenton, New Jersey

  Bolan felt his cell vibrate. He slipped it from his pocket and saw that he’d received a text message with a few attachments. Harry Jigs had sent him the location of a Marchinski business venture that made pornographic movies. The attachments showed a number of parked vehicles and their license plates. There was also a photo of the building.

  Bolan tried to call Jigs, but no one picked up. He let the cell ring on. Nothing.

  Harry Jigs was not answering.

  Bolan contacted Stony Man and asked for Kurtzman. He didn’t waste time on formalities.

  “I’m sending you a cell number. Can you tell me where that phone is located right now?”

  “Give me the data, Striker.”

  Bolan transmitted the information.

  “I’ll call you back,” Kurtzman said when he received the transfer.

  Bolan exited his motel room and sat behind the Suburban’s wheel, motor running.

  He was plagued by the feeling something was not right. Jigs had sent a message. Now he wasn’t responding.

  What the hell was Harry doing?

  Bolan had told him not to do anything risky, to stay safe.

  The cell rang. It was Kurtzman.

  “Got you a fix,” Kurtzman said. “The cell is on and stationary. I’m downloading the location and I’ll tap the coordinates into your sat nav.”

  Bolan watched the route emerge and settle on the screen. He swept the lever into drive and felt the big vehicle start to move.

  * * *

  IT TOOK BOLAN just over forty minutes to reach the sat nav’s designated location—an industrial area containing warehouses and clusters of storage units. Many of the units looked unused, dark and just this side of derelict. The complex itself stood way back from any main route.

  Bolan left his SUV on the perimeter and made his way along the wide alleyways between the buildings.

  This spot was a long way from the city address Jigs had texted to Bolan. Jigs didn’t drive, so how had he ended up here? Bolan gripped his Desert Eagle. This was not about to end pleasantly.

  The Executioner sensed something off-kilter about this place—the stillness and the sense of foreboding that often preceded an ambush. The feeling was palpable, and it made Bolan step carefully, heading toward the closed doors of the large unit in front of him.

  Bo
lan placed a hand against one of the doors and pushed. The door swung open and allowed daylight to penetrate the interior.

  The expansive room was empty, the floor scattered with debris and dust.

  Bolan stepped inside.

  No, he realized, it wasn’t quite empty.

  A slumped human form, sagging against the rope holding him to one of the warehouse’s support pillars, broke up the emptiness.

  Bolan didn’t need to move closer. He recognized Harry Jigs before he’d taken a half-dozen steps inside.

  He saw the blood that soaked the figure and pooled on the floor. He saw the savage, cruel slashes in Jigs’s flesh. Someone had killed Jigs in a cruel way. When Bolan reached Jigs, he saw the swollen features where the man had been brutally beaten.

  Jigs had died because he was trying to help Bolan. He’d been slaughtered. There was no other way to describe what had happened.

  Harry Jigs might not have been a model citizen. He may not have been an example of honesty and integrity. He had, though, been straight with Bolan.

  Now Jigs was dead.

  Murdered simply because of his association with Mack Bolan. Tortured for any possible information he might have carried. It was a needless death carried out by someone harboring psychotic tendencies.

  “Sorry, Harry,” Bolan said quietly. “It won’t go unpunished.”

  Bolan methodically checked Jigs’s pockets. He found Jigs’s cell in one of the deep pockets of the dead man’s blood-soaked pants. The killer had obviously overlooked the cell.

  Or had he?

  Bolan considered the question. Would the killer have neglected to search Jigs? Or did he locate the cell, check its call list and consider there might be a follow-up? Had the cell been left in the hopes that the message might be traced?

  In death had Harry Jigs become a lure? Left where he’d died to draw in another victim for the killer?

  Bolan turned and made his way across the unit to the exit. He held the Desert Eagle down at his side, slightly concealed by his leg as he stepped outside. The concrete apron between the warehouses maintained a silence that might have been unnerving to others. Bolan eased away from the building.