Midmorning, Bolan left his Suburban streets away and walked to the area. He’d dressed down for the visit—dark pants and a faded gray shirt under a loose jacket. His only nod to his normal dress code was the 93R in its shoulder rig beneath the thick jacket. Bolan wasn’t going in loaded for bear, but he wasn’t going to step into unknown territory unarmed.
Hands in his jacket pockets, Bolan mingled with the locals. He kept his head down, never meeting anyone’s eye, and despite a few mumbled challenges, he met no hostility.
The apartment building was shabby and in need of a makeover. Bolan went up the worn stone steps and in through the front door. It took him into a dimly lit hallway, with uncarpeted stairs leading to the upper floors. The air was close and had a stale smell to it. Bolan made his way up to the third floor and followed the passage to Vorchek’s door.
At some time in the past, there might have been a coat of paint on the cracked wood. Now the only decoration was a badly drawn number indicating it was the correct apartment.
Bolan paused, leaning in close. He couldn’t hear any sound from inside the apartment. The brief rap sheet Kurtzman had downloaded told Bolan that Vorchek was a user as well as a dealer. If he was home, he might not even be fit to answer the door.
Bolan slipped his right hand under his jacket and gripped the butt of the Beretta. He decided to try the handle before knocking. The door gave freely. Bolan eased it open, surprised there was no creak from the dry hinges. He slipped inside and quietly closed the door behind him. There was a key in the lock, so Bolan turned it—it was safer than leaving the door open for anyone to come in behind him.
The apartment was sparsely furnished, and from a quick look, Bolan figured everything had come from junk stores; nothing matched and the furniture had the appearance of being well beyond new.
Bolan pulled the Beretta. He swept the room, stepping softly to minimize the creaking from the floorboards, then checked out the doors he could see. Two on his left. A single one on his right.
As Bolan looked around the room, he caught a fragment of movement from the partly open door on his right.
Someone was behind the door.
“That you, Vorchek? Get out here. I need to talk to you.”
The door moved a fraction. The fleeting figure stepped away from the frame.
“I know you’re in there. Better you come out. If you don’t, it isn’t going to be healthy for you.”
Bolan’s words had the desired effect. The door opened and the guy who came into view made Bolan imagine he was looking at his old informant Harry Jigs.
Danton Vorchek must have been in his late forties, though his drug habit made him look older. His skin was pale and blotchy, and graying hair barely covered his scalp. He stared at Bolan through watery eyes sunk in wrinkles. The shirt and pants he wore didn’t look as if they’d been removed for months.
Vorchek came into the room, staring at Bolan with unconcealed suspicion.
“Never seen you before,” he said. His Russian accent was pronounced.
“We’ve got that in common, then,” Bolan said.
Vorchek scratched at the loose flesh under his unshaven chin. He gazed around the room as if it was unknown to him.
“Have you come to steal from me? If you have, it is a wasted journey.”
“I’m here for information.”
Vorchek’s head dipped in a slightly mocking motion. He gave a dry chuckle.
“Do I look like an information bureau? You should go and buy a book.” He paused. “What kind of information?”
Without waiting for Bolan to answer, Vorchek shuffled across the room. He stopped at a battered table and picked up a bottle of vodka, holding it up for Bolan to see.
“This is real vodka,” he said. “All the way from Moskva. You want?”
“No.”
“You should be more friendly. If you want information you should be...” Vorchek’s head snapped around and he suddenly became very aware. “Are you cop? Politsiya?”
His left hand slid into his pocket, pulling out a switchblade knife. Bolan saw the slim, gleaming blade snap into position. Vorchek placed the bottle back on the table. He rounded on Bolan, the knife held in a threatening position as he moved across the room.
“I think you are a damn cop. Maybe I carve a badge for you on your face.”
The previously slow figure moved with deceptive ease. Even the weary eyes took on a brighter gleam. Vorchek’s act vanished, and Bolan was faced with a real threat.
He let the Russian get close, watching the weaving blade. Vorchek came within a couple of feet before Bolan moved. His right hand emerged from his jacket, the Beretta 93R flashing in a powerful arc. The weapon chopped down across Vorchek’s arm above the wrist, delivered with all of Bolan’s strength. Vorchek gave a scream as the heavy metal crunched against his flesh. Bone cracked. The knife slipped from Vorchek’s grasp. Bolan kicked it across the room. He caught hold of Vorchek’s shirtfront and swung the man aside, hurling the Russian into the table. He sprawled across it, and the rickety legs gave way. Vorchek went to the floor, the uncorked bottle of liquor falling with him. The clear liquid began to pour from the neck of the bottle, spreading across the bare floorboards.
Bolan reached down and caught hold of Vorchek’s shirt collar. He dragged the moaning figure upright and deposited him in one of the mismatched armchairs. Vorchek hugged his fractured arm to his chest, gripping it with his free hand. A torrent of unchecked Russian poured from his lips and none of it came from Chekov’s written works.
Bolan picked up the switchblade and let Vorchek see it. Sweat beaded the man’s sallow face.
“Very handy piece of steel,” Bolan said. He holstered the Beretta. “Could save me some ammunition.”
“You cannot do that,” Vorchek said. “American cops are not allowed to do such things.”
“See, I thought you were a peaceful kind of guy,” Bolan said. “I was wrong. Now you’re making the same mistake. Who said I was a cop?”
“You said...”
“I said I wanted to ask questions is all.”
“What questions?”
“Where’s the drug house?”
Vorchek’s expression changed. It was obvious that was not the question he’d been expecting, and it threw him.
“You want to steal drugs? From Marchinski?” Vorchek smiled, showing his misshapen, stained teeth.
“Where is the drug house?”
“You must be stupid. Crazy. No one takes from Marchinski. You try and you will die, idiot.”
“I don’t want to steal,” Bolan said.
He leaned in close, the tip of the blade stroking Vorchek’s cheek, scraping the sweating flesh and leaving a faint, bloody line.
“Then what? You want to buy?”
“No. I want to destroy it. Wipe it out. Burn it if I have to.”
This time Vorchek’s laughter was long, loud and unchecked. He seemed to have forgotten his fractured wrist, finding Bolan’s statement highly amusing.
Bolan said nothing, simply allowing the man to finish.
When Vorchek returned to the Executioner’s fixed stare, he sobered as he realized Bolan was serious.
“This is madness. You think you can walk in and destroy a Marchinski organization?”
“It’s already happening.”
“You? You are the one who has been hitting Marchinski?”
“Let’s say I’ve been moving his organization along the road to redemption.”
“I cannot believe this. You expect me to give up my friends?”
“Tell me or die. Simple as that. Ending your life means nothing to me.”
“You will not kill me. You Americans are too soft.”
Bolan stared at the switchblade. He didn’t want to do it, but he needed answers fast.
The soldier closed the knife and dropped it into a side pocket, then reached under his jacket for the 93R, pointed it at Vorchek and pulled the trigger. The 9 mm Parabellum round sliced through the fleshy part of Vorchek’s right thigh in a neat through and through. The suppressed auto pistol made little more than a hard thwack.
The Russian drug dealer clutched his free hand to the wound, gasping in shock. His fingers were instantly soaked in bright blood.
“You bastard,” Vorchek squealed, his voice high and trembling.
Bolan moved the Beretta’s muzzle and targeted Vorchek’s other leg.
“Then your arms,” he deadpanned. “Then...”
Vorchek watched the patch of blood on his pants spreading, thickening.
“I’ll bleed to death if I do not get to a hospital.”
“Then you know what to do.”
“Send for an ambulance, then I’ll tell you.”
Bolan shook his head. “Talk first and make it the truth. Screw me, and I’ll be back for you.”
Bolan angled the Beretta, targeting Vorchek’s knee. He kept his finger on the trigger.
“Hell of an impact from one of these,” he said. “It’ll make mush out of your knee. You’ll be lucky if you ever walk on that leg again—muscle torn out, nerves shredded, bone in little fragments.”
“Enough,” Vorchek said, face ashen, skin wet with sweat. “You win. You win.”
He gave Bolan the location. Vorchek was close to passing out from blood loss by the end.
“Now you call for an ambulance.”
Bolan stepped back, eyes fixed on the dealer. There was a cold finality in his expression as he moved the 93R and lined it up on Vorchek’s head.
“You said you would send for help. For an ambulance.”
“No. I never actually said that. But I’m going to make sure you’re out of the picture.” The soldier rapped the butt of the Beretta against the Russian’s temple. He’d bind the man’s entry and exit wounds, tie him up and call Brognola, requesting that the big Fed have the local P.D. pick up Vorchek. The last thing he needed was to have the guy make a call.
* * *
THE DRUG HOUSE was no better than Vorchek’s apartment—a crumbling building that most wouldn’t give a second look. The late afternoon lent it an even drabber air. The building might have been fashionable in the decades before, but now trash strewed the sidewalk out front and it was surrounded by other derelict buildings.
Bolan parked the Suburban and sat studying the place. It had taken him no more than thirty minutes to find the address, located in an area on par with Vorchek’s.
Bolan found himself at odds with his feelings. Here he was, in America, driving through broken-down areas that might have been in some third-world slum. It angered him that such places could exist, that Americans were forced to live in deprived areas, fighting to survive and falling prey to the likes of Marchinski and Tsvetanov.
Blocks away from these dark and hopeless streets, the bright lights of the other America shone with relentless vigor. There money, prestige and the American dream could all be achieved with hard work and enterprise.
The Marchinski and Tsvetanov organizations stood in between. They profited from both ends of the spectrum. Regardless of status or wealth, the mobs reached out with greedy hands and took.
Bolan parked the Suburban. He checked the 93R under his jacket and the Cold Steel Tanto knife sheathed on his belt. The shabby street was deserted except for a few drifting figures. Down the side of the target building he saw a couple of SUVs. Bolan slipped out of the Suburban and keyed the lock before he headed for the drug house.
He pushed through the weathered boards of the fence and as he neared the entrance, he saw dark figures detach from the parked cars. They sauntered in his direction. Self-styled hardmen who imagined they owned the streets.
“What do you want, asshole?”
The accent was harsh. The tone guttural. The pair wore smart, casual clothes and their jackets did not hide the bulge of the handguns they carried.
“Asked you what you want,” the leader said again.
He was louder this time, and he thrust his face close to Bolan’s.
“I heard you the first time,” Bolan said.
“You messin’ with me?”
The man slid his hand under his jacket, fingers curling around the butt of his holstered gun.
“No,” Bolan said. “This is messing with you...”
He slammed his boot into the man’s testicles. Extremely hard. The leader gave a yell, clutching at his body and folding forward. Bolan had already pulled out the Beretta and fisted it into the face of the second man—a crippling blow that dropped him to the sidewalk, blood streaming from the deep gash in his forehead.
The lead man was still functioning, after a fashion. He clutched his groin with one hand and clawed his handgun out from under his coat. Bolan turned to face him, thrust the muzzle of the Beretta into his chest and pulled the trigger. The Parabellum slug cored in and ended the man’s actions. Bolan’s hand flicked the Beretta, and he put a slug in the second man’s skull.
The Executioner went into the building and started down a trash-strewn passage. At the far end, light showed from a partly open door. Bolan went directly to it.
He heard raised voices and someone shouting orders—something about an incoming delivery.
And then a man said clearly, “Go see what the hell is going on.”
The door swung open and light spilled out into the passage. A man came out the door, straight at Bolan. He had an auto pistol in one hand, and he tracked it in Bolan’s direction.
Bolan flicked the selector, and the 93R burned a triple 9 mm package that caught the gunman in the chest and bounced him off the wall, then pitched him facedown on the floor. Bolan went in through the open door, swerving to one side as a figure came at him, swinging a baseball bat. The bat missed, slamming against the door frame with a metallic sound. An aluminum bat, Bolan thought. Light but deadly if it struck human flesh.
Bolan continued to move forward, driving his right foot in a solid blow to the bat-wielding man’s groin. Before the man could recover, Bolan turned about. He snatched the bat from the man’s hands, reversed it and delivered his own strike. Bolan laid the bat alongside the man’s jaw, dislocating the joint and opening a bloody gash in the yielding flesh. As the man fell back, Bolan swung again, the aluminum weapon crunching down across the guy’s skull. The dealer went to his knees, then fell onto his face.
Bolan, the bat in his left hand, flicked the Beretta’s selector to single-shot again to conserve ammunition. He tracked the pistol across the room. On the far side of the long table dominating the space, a man in a flowered shirt was racking the slide of a 9 mm Uzi. That was his first and last mistake of the day. Bolan sent a direct message from the 93R—a 9 mm slug that plowed a hole between the man’s eyes and took him out of the game.
As the gunman fell out of sight, Bolan sensed a rush of movement to his left. He dropped to a crouch as a well-suited man came into view, burning a clip of bullets from an SMG. Bolan heard the slugs hammer the wall behind him. Down low he could see the shooter’s trousered legs. He angled the Beretta and triggered a volley of shots that punched through the guy’s pants and into his shins. The man dropped, and Bolan hit him with a second pair of slugs that jolted his head back.
A skinny man in black ran for the far exit, his long hair streaming behind him. Bolan followed and caught him before he reached the door. The baseball bat swung in a looping arc and cracked across the guy’s right side, over his ribs. The man squealed and clapped his hands to his injured side, sucking air into his lungs. Bolan dropped the bat and caught hold of the long hair. He yanked back and the skinny man backpedaled. Bolan swung him round, released him and the man reeled out of control. He collided with the edge of the long table,
scattering hundreds of dollars worth of cocaine to the floor.
Stepping up behind him, Bolan placed a big hand against the back of the man’s skull and slammed him facedown on the table. There was a crunch as his nose was broken and twin streams of bright blood spurted from his nostrils.
“I have your attention now?” Bolan asked.
The skinny man, clutching blood-streaked hands to his nose, turned around and stared at the Executioner. Despite the blinding pain, he took note of the Beretta in Bolan’s hand.
“Attention?” Bolan repeated.
Skinny nodded. He wasn’t going to do anything that might increase the guy’s anger.
“Yeah.”
“Marchinski is in big trouble,” Bolan said. “He’s going to lose all this. And you’re going to be his fall guy.”
“I only work here,” Skinny moaned.
The big pistol rose until it filled Skinny’s eye line.
“Do the crime. Do the time.”
“You shot Dom and Klein. You cracked Cook’s skull.” Skinny remembered his own hurt. “And you busted my damn nose.”
“The point being?”
“I can have you up on assault charges.”
“I like a guy with a sense of irony,” Bolan said. “You sell drugs, deal in misery, but you figure you’ve been hard done by.”
“I want my lawyer.”
Bolan shook his head. “It doesn’t work that way with me. I’m not a cop. Not any kind of law.”
Skinny spat blood and blinked tears of pain from his eyes.
“So who are you?”
“Right now I’m the guy asking questions you’d better have some answers to.”
“Or what? You’re going to shoot me, too?”
“A distinct possibility. I don’t like leaving talking witnesses around.”
Skinny glanced down at the blood soaking his shirtfront.
“You could have asked without smashing my damn nose.”
“It’s a failing I have. Direct action always draws someone’s attention.”
“Do I get any second chances?”
“Give me answers, and it could be considered,” Bolan said.
Maximum Chaos Page 9