Maximum Chaos

by Don Pendleton

  “Jesus, you make a guy work hard.”

  “I heard you talking about a delivery going down soon. Where and when?”

  “What? You come in here and smash the place up, and now you want me to give you information for free?”

  “There’s a price,” Bolan said. “Tell me what I need to know and I’ll let you stay alive. One-time offer.”

  “I give you anything and my life won’t be worth squat. The people I work for don’t appreciate getting sold out.”

  “Your choice. Look at it this way. If you’re dead, it won’t matter at all. You have to weigh up the odds.”

  Skinny managed a wheezy laugh. He put his head back to help stop the flow of blood from his broken nose.

  “Anyone ever tell you what a cold bastard you are?”

  “Lots of people. All the time.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Skinny said. “You would shoot me if I didn’t play along. Right?”

  “Another failing. I have this compulsion to get rid of people like you and your drug buddies. I don’t see what use you are in the world. If you need to confirm that, ask your late buddy, Vorchek. I just left him back at his place.”

  The sentiment stopped Skinny cold. He realized the man wasn’t playing games. All it took was a glance into those ice-chipped blue eyes to know he was in earnest. For the first time in his life, Skinny was aware of being in the presence of death. The notion scared him more than anything had ever done before.

  “What do I tell you?”

  “When and where.”

  Skinny furnished the details and Bolan committed them to memory. A glance at his watch told him he still had time to make the rendezvous.

  “Drugs have been transported up from the border. It’s a regular run—twice a month. They come from a Mexican outfit we’ve been dealing with for a couple of years. The Campos syndicate out of Sinaloa. Drugs come across the border and they’re sent up here through a number of contacts.”

  “This gas station?”

  “It’s been shut down a long time, so now it’s kind of a halfway house. It’s off the main highway—got bypassed when the new interstate was built.”

  Bolan evaluated the information. If he could make an intercept and deal out the players, both the Marchinski mob and the Mexican syndicate would suffer. He knew it wouldn’t put a permanent end to their dealing, but at least both sides would suffer the indignity of having a deal interrupted and cash lost.

  Skinny wiped the drying blood from his face.

  “That pay my tab?”

  Bolan holstered the Beretta. He saw relief wash over Skinny’s face. Bolan allowed him a moment before he moved in. His clenched fists landed powerful blows to the man’s face. Skinny slumped to the floor unconscious. Bolan reached into his pocket and withdrew plastic ties. He secured the man’s ankles and wrists, then used more ties to fasten him to the steel leg of a desk, which was heavy and bolted to the concrete floor. It would keep the man in place until someone came for him.

  As he left the building, Bolan made another call to Stony Man and gave them the details on the drug house. Brognola could inform the local P.D. and get them to drop by.

  Skinny would be angry when he was placed under arrest, but at least he would still be alive. Bolan had given his word on that.

  * * *

  FOLLOWING SKINNY’S INSTRUCTIONS, Bolan left the interstate, taking the slip road that would deliver him to the derelict gas station. After twenty miles, Bolan pulled off the single-lane road. He parked and turned off the engine. When he glanced at his watch, he saw he was well ahead of the prearranged meet. It would be dark in a couple of hours.

  Bolan concealed the Suburban off the road, then donned his gear and made his way to the gas station, hiding in the collection of scavenged vehicles and rusting auto parts.

  The first vehicle showed up on time, turning off the road to park on the empty forecourt of the gas station. It was a well-used 4x4 pickup. The open rear held an assortment of salvaged auto parts. The vehicle itself was dirty and streaked with rust, but the engine sounded smooth and healthy. There were three men in the vehicle. Two up front, the third in the crew seat behind them. They were all clad in scruffy work clothes, with oily ball caps on their heads. Once the vehicle stopped, the third man slipped out of the cab and made his way out of sight down the far side of the station building. The pair stayed put.

  A quarter of an hour later, a second vehicle rolled into sight. It slowed as it passed the gas station, continued on for a couple of hundred yards, then made a leisurely turnabout and approached again. This time it made a right into the station and swung to a stop after angling to face the exit.

  This one was a large SUV—a top-line model with gleaming silver paintwork and big wheels. The powerful engine under the hood barely broke the silence.

  Three men climbed out of the vehicle. One immediately broke away from the group and headed across the forecourt. He carried a stubby SMG in his hands. The gunman walked out of sight down the same side of the building the first man had gone.

  Both groups met, exchanging greetings and shaking hands. One of the newcomers opened the tailgate of the silver SUV. He pulled out metal toolboxes and placed them on the ground, then reached in deeper to slide out sealed, solid blocks of what Bolan assumed was the drug consignment. There was a brief delay while one of the receiving team dug the tip of a lock knife into one of the packs, drew out a small sample and checked it. The quick taste test satisfied him and he gave a nod.

  Bolan watched as six packs were transferred from the truck to the SUV. The operation was repeated, with another half-dozen packages taken from the opposite side of the pickup truck.

  He had just witnessed a fortune in illicit drugs being handed over, and by the time the Marchinskis had cut and packaged the drugs, their value would be tripled. More profit for them as they supplied their customers, regardless of the end results.

  Not this time.

  Bolan eased the 93R from the shoulder holster and stepped out from cover.

  His attention was attracted by a flicker of movement on his right. Bolan showed no outward sign that he’d seen anything, but he could distinguish the shape of a man coming toward his rear. Sunlight stroked the metal of the SMG the man carried. One of the two spotters who’d stationed themselves down the side of the building. The man had been doing his job—circling the building to check the area—and he’d spotted Bolan as he cleared the junk pile. The man had slipped into view as he’d stepped out from behind the building, moving slow and steady as he eased himself into position behind Bolan, his SMG rising.

  Bolan dropped to a crouch.

  He turned about to face the gunman.

  The 93R came online, Bolan’s finger stroking the light trigger, and the Beretta sent out its triple burst. The three 9 mm slugs hit the guy in the chest, over the heart. He stepped back, left hand slapping against the wounds. His knees buckled and he dropped, then fell facedown.

  Bolan jammed the 93R into its holster and cradled the Uzi in his hands, turning it in the direction of the crew from the pickup. They had been replacing the toolboxes, and by the time they reached for their guns Bolan was taking them down by sweeping the weapon across their crouching bodies. Nine millimeter slugs punched home and dropped the pair in bloody sprawls.

  The crackle of an SMG drew Bolan’s attention to the second concealed shooter as he emerged from the cover of the building, firing on the move and sending a vicious spray of shots in Bolan’s general direction.

  Bolan felt a hot slice of pain across his right hip as one of the shots reached him. The Executioner took long strides, and he dove forward, skidding across the concrete and rolling under the high chassis of the pickup truck.

  The shooter had already moved alongside the truck. Bolan saw his pounding boots as he came into sight. The Executioner hauled th
e Uzi into position and raked the shooter’s lower legs with a sustained burst from the SMG. The man’s scream was high and loud as the 9 mm slug ripped into his calves, shredding his pants and savaging flesh and bone. He dropped to his knees, clutching at his damaged limbs, and for a second he stared into the muzzle of Bolan’s Uzi. Then Bolan fired and the volley blew the man’s face and skull apart.

  Bolan rolled clear of the pickup truck, pushing to his feet and turning to face the team from the SUV.

  They had reacted to Bolan’s assault by pushing the last of the packages into the SUV’s trunk and slamming the tailgate door shut.

  One headed for the driver’s door.

  The other turned about to confront Bolan, yanking a handgun from under his jacket.

  It was too little, too late.

  Bolan fired a hard burst and saw the man jerk as the 9 mms hit him high in the torso. They were likely not killing shots, but the man was hit hard enough to stumble back, his shoulder scraping the side of the SUV. He threw out one hand to steady himself, and that was when Bolan fired again. He had taken a couple of seconds to steady his aim, and this time he acquired his target fully. The slugs cored into the man’s heart and he went down in a flurry of arms and legs, facedown, the handgun slipping free and clattering across the ground.

  The sound of a powerful motor reached Bolan’s ears. He cleared the 4x4 and moved forward as the silver SUV surged ahead, tires squealing for purchase as the driver slammed the pedal to the boards.

  Bolan raised the Uzi as he ran toward the vehicle, lining up on the SUV’s left front wheel. He triggered a pair of short bursts and saw fragments of black rubber erupt from the spinning tire. It blew with a soft sound, the wheel dropping onto the alloy rim. Still moving, Bolan fired into the rear tire and saw it deflate. The driver kept his foot on the gas pedal and the heavy vehicle sped across the concrete forecourt. He wrenched the steering wheel to the right as the SUV hit the road. It lurched to one side, wheels digging into the road surface. The powerful engine pushed the vehicle forward as the man kept his foot on the gas pedal, but the SUV was swerving from side to side.

  Bolan never knew what caused the driver to suddenly slam on his brakes, trying to haul the heavy steering around. The result was the SUV dipping to the left, the weight transferring to the tireless wheels. The sheer bulk of the vehicle added to the effect, and Bolan saw the SUV lean sideways, reach the critical angle and tip over, crashing down hard onto its roof, the wheels still spinning. The motor roared until it choked and fell silent. Window glass was sprayed across the road surface.

  Bolan circled around and approached the driver’s door. The impact had sprung it open, the driver hanging partway out. He stared up at Bolan as the tall figure stepped into view. Blood was streaked across his face from a deep scalp wound.

  “I think I broke my legs,” the guy moaned. “And my arm.”

  Bolan let the Uzi hang by its strap and pulled out the 93R again.

  “You going to help me out?”

  “Give me a good reason why I should.”

  “I’m hurt, you son of a bitch.”

  “Aggressive language isn’t about to help your case.”

  “You know who you’re messing with? Sabaroff will rip out your heart.”

  “That’s the man standing in for Leo Marchinski. Am I right?”

  “So?”

  “Not making much of an impression,” Bolan said.

  “Sabaroff is...”

  Bolan allowed a thin smile to show. “Sabaroff’s not here,” he said. “You are. He can yell and stamp and throw his toys all he wants. It isn’t going to prevent what’ll happen to you.”

  The guy stared at Bolan, his face paling as he picked up a familiar smell.

  Bolan had noticed, as well.

  Gasoline.

  Fuel was creeping out from beneath the SUV’s crumpled hood, turning to vapor as it ran over hot engine components.

  “I can’t stay in here,” the man said. “This thing could burn.”

  Bolan holstered the Beretta again, realizing he was in no danger from the driver. He made no move to help the man.

  “My legs,” the guy moaned. “My arm. They’re broken. I can’t move them.”

  “You told me that already.”

  The man was silent for a moment. He tried to move and groaned.

  “Hurts, huh?”

  “Damn right it does.”

  “You guys are all the same,” Bolan said. “You play tough when it’s time to terrorize your victims. But when it’s your turn, you start sniveling.”

  “You’d stand there and let me burn?”

  “Easily.”

  The odor of leaking gasoline increased and the man gave a half sob, his head drooping.

  “Get me out,” he whimpered. “Jesus, it hurts bad.”

  “It’s time to pay.”

  “What?”

  “My help. It’s going to cost you.”

  “You miserable bastard. You think I carry a roll of bills in my pocket?”

  “Information. Give me something useful.”

  “So you can carry it back to Tsvetanov? Sabaroff doesn’t like snitches. If I do that, I’m toast.”

  “Not your best choice of words right now.”

  “Just help me.”

  “I heard the Marchinskis have gone into kidnapping. Tsvetanov would be interested in what that’s all about.”

  “It’s— Jesus, there’s fire in here.”

  Bolan saw flames creeping along the exposed underside of the SUV from the exterior fuel line. Fingers of fire were trailing across the interior floor. Gasoline seeped through the fractured metal shell, and burning fuel dripped onto the injured man. He let out a terrified scream.

  “Get me out!”

  “Let’s trade. A name first. A contact. Now.”

  “Damn it! Keppler—Jason Keppler... The lawyer... Get me...”

  As Bolan breathed in, he noticed a higher concentration of gasoline coming from the rear of the SUV—where the fuel tank was located. He turned and saw the wet shine of gas running from under the rear seat...spilling down and spreading.

  The man became hysterical, his voice rising in a high, shivering scream. He thrust his uninjured arm at Bolan.

  “Get me out!”

  Bolan caught hold of his wrist. He gripped with both hands and started to drag the screaming man from the overturned car.

  Above the yells, Bolan heard a rising, sucking swell of sound. The pooling gasoline had ignited, flames racing across the interior...

  Bolan knew how fast ignited gasoline could gather momentum. He knew his own life was in jeopardy. He maintained his grip and felt the injured man sliding out from the car.

  The fire blew without warning. It filled the interior, heat radiating from the open door and hitting Bolan. He made a final effort to drag the screaming man clear.

  Bolan felt his grip slide on the man’s sweaty wrist and he turned his body to the side—away from the open door—as flames burst from the gap. In a moment, he was caught by the blast. He threw up his arms to cover his head as the surge of energy created by the fireball threw him aside. Bolan hit the ground on his left shoulder, letting his own momentum carry him away from the center of the burst. The hungry roar of the fireball filled his ears. Bolan kept moving in the fragment of time allowed, rolling his curled body away from the flames. The solid bulk of the SUV’s body shielded him from the full surge.

  The open driver’s door had allowed the fireball an escape. That simple fact had prevented a full-on explosion that might have increased the overall strength of the blast.

  Bolan ended up sprawled on the tarmac, facedown and breathing in smoke. He had the presence of mind to drag himself farther away, eyes streaming and lungs coughing up the acrid fumes.
As soon as he was able, Bolan pushed to his feet, moving clear until he was able to turn and take in the scene.

  He saw the body first—stretched out only a couple of feet from the SUV. Bolan didn’t need to move any closer to know there was nothing he could do for the man. The surge of flame from the inside of the vehicle had engulfed the man’s body and turned it into a charred corpse. His clothing had been partially burned away, the flesh beneath shriveled and blistered. The man’s fractured legs were visible, and the splintered bones lay exposed where the ends had burst through the charred flesh. There was little left resembling a human face where it lay turned in Bolan’s direction. Bolan walked slowly back to his SUV. He took out his cell and punched in the Stony Man number.

  Brognola answered, his voice expressing his concern.

  “Hey, Striker. We were worried when you hadn’t called.”

  “It’s been one of those days,” Bolan said.

  “You follow that lead?”

  “Strike more of the Marchinski crew off the list.”

  “Did any useful information come out?” Brognola asked.

  “Have Aaron check a name for me. Jason Keppler. I need to know where he stands on the Marchinski ladder. Might be a lead to where Abby Mason is. No guarantees, but I need to follow it through.”

  “I’ll have the cyber team track him down. You sure you’re okay? You sound hoarse.”

  “Things got a little hot here,” Bolan said. “I’m fine.”

  “You wouldn’t tell me if things weren’t fine,” Brognola pointed out.

  “How’s Mason doing?” Bolan asked, changing the subject.

  “Working on his bluff. He’s doing pretty good, too. Aaron has a tap on his phone so any calls he receives are monitored.”

  “I’ll come back to you if anything develops.”

  “You watch yourself,” Brognola said. “People here are concerned.”

  “I know. And thanks,” Bolan said as he shut the call down.

  Bolan slid behind the wheel, started his SUV and drove away from the area. He was able to see the smoke rising from the smoldering vehicle in his rearview mirror for some time. The fire would do no good to the drugs stored in the blazing SUV. A plus as far as Bolan was concerned.