Maximum Chaos

For once, Marchinski had stepped over the line. He’d been caught on camera personally eliminating an employee. It was an error brought on by the man’s arrogance—his contempt for the law—and it had marked him down for retribution through due process.

Larry Mason had inherited the case, and he was determined to see Marchinski sentenced and imprisoned. Mason had been after the mobster for a long time. He’d weathered the threats and the intimidation up to this moment.

Now he faced the one thing he couldn’t accept—the death of his daughter. Abigail, the bright star in his life. Mason’s wife had died of cancer two years after the child was born. Abby was all he had left. She was nine years old, a beautiful girl who’d inherited her mother’s looks and intelligence. Everything Mason did was for his daughter.

He was trapped in an impossible position.

Did he sacrifice his child by refusing to bend to Marchinski’s demands?

Or go against everything he stood for and use his position and power to attempt the release of a vicious, unrepentant killer?

Mason had always prided himself on being able to master any situation. But he had no idea how to deal with this nightmare.

He left the house, climbed into his car and drove. The use of his landline and even his cell phone was out of the question. So he headed to the closest shopping center. Mason parked and walked into the mall, taking an escalator to the uppermost floor, where a bank of pay phones was adjacent to the food court. He dialed a number he hadn’t called for some time and waited.

“Hal, it’s Larry. I need your help. Can we meet? The place where we told you Heather was pregnant. That’s right. An hour? See you then.”

* * *

Washington, D.C.

THE PARK WAS nearly deserted. A sudden rainstorm had cleared the wide swathes of grass and trees. Mason slipped on a long waterproof coat and jammed an old ball cap over his hair. As he crossed the lot, he picked out his friend’s broad-shouldered form waiting under the branches of the massive oak. Mason crossed the grass and came face-to-face with his old friend.

“Larry, what’s this all about?” Hal Brognola asked.

Struggling to keep his emotions under control, Mason explained what had happened. Brognola listened, his face betraying his own shock at hearing that Abby—his goddaughter—had been kidnapped. When Mason finished, Brognola was silent for long moments.

Mason’s cell rang. He glanced at his watch and saw the two hours were up. His tormentors were nothing if not punctual.

“Hal, don’t speak. We need to keep this silent.”

Brognola nodded. Mason pressed a key and took the call.

The screen brightened into a video of Mason’s daughter, holding up a newspaper. The print was clear, and Mason could read the current date beside the paper’s headline. Abigail’s eyes were wide in agitation as she stared directly at the camera. Behind the child was a blank wall.

The electronic voice said, “Tomorrow morning, you’ll get the same proof. Just remember, time is running out.”

The image jerked briefly and the screen went blank. Mason stared at it for a while, saying nothing.

“Okay,” Brognola said. “We keep this between ourselves. No agency involvement. Marchinski might have contacts within the law community.”

“How do we handle it, Hal? I have seven days to turn Marchinski loose. If I don’t, Abby dies. I know the man. He’ll do it just to prove a point, even if he doesn’t get out. I want her back, but how can I justify freeing an animal like Marchinski?”

Brognola cleared his throat. “Larry, do you trust me?”

“Hell, yes. There’s no question. Why do you think I came to you, Hal?”

“Then turn around and go home. Go to work in the morning as you normally do. For now, we play Marchinski’s game. Let them believe you’re working on his release. Lie through your teeth if you have to. Just keep him dangling.”

* * *

MASON FELT THE hours slipping away. The days counting down to the death of his daughter.

He didn’t regret contacting Hal Brognola. The man was more than just a friend. They had known each other for over fifteen years. Brognola breathed the concepts of law and justice. He was a dependable, smart man, whom Mason trusted without a shadow of a doubt.

Even so, Mason couldn’t help wondering if this was out of Hal Brognola’s scope.

He returned to his house and switched on his laptop, bringing up the extensive file on Marchinski. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, whether any of the pages of information could suggest some way he could outmaneuver the man.

After an hour, he pushed to his feet and went to the kitchen. He forced himself to prepare a pot of coffee, the smell of freshly ground beans failing to work their usual magic. Mason waited while the coffee percolated, and when it was ready he filled a mug and stood over it, distracted by the thoughts churning through his mind.

Who was he kidding?

This wasn’t going to work. Not even Hal Brognola could return Abby unhurt.

“Is there enough in that pot for one more mug?”

The voice, coming from behind him, was strong and firm, and it had a quality Mason found uplifting.

He turned and saw the man standing a few feet behind him. Relaxed. Confident.

Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, had just joined the fight.

Chapter 2 (#ulink_6f2fab72-71d6-530d-9f30-37c0e6340c64)

“Hal told me about your problem,” the stranger said. “Let’s see if we can figure out a solution.”

Mason found himself filling a second mug and sliding it across the kitchen counter.

“Matt Cooper,” the man said by way of introduction.

He was tall, Mason saw. Over six feet and dark-haired. Cooper’s eyes were an intense shade of blue, and he studied Mason with an unflinching gaze. He was well built, but there was a relaxed grace to his movements. Dressed in black, Cooper wore a thin leather jacket, unzipped, so that when he turned Mason spotted the shoulder-holstered auto pistol.

“I was told not to involve any...”

“You asked Hal for help. You told him not to bring in any official agencies.”

“You’re not a cop? FBI?”

Bolan smiled. “Only three people are in on this. You, Hal and me.”

“You work for Hal?” Mason asked.

“I work with Hal, but you won’t find my name on any official databases, and I don’t carry a badge.”

Mason sat back on one of the kitchen stools.

“You must figure I’m ungrateful. Suspicious.”