Читать книгу Maximum Chaos - Don Pendleton - Страница 12

Chapter 5

New York

Dragomir Tsvetanov held his temper as his man recounted what had happened at the warehouse. Holding down his rage was a supreme effort—Tsvetanov had a reputation as a wild man when it came to controlling his moods. He admitted it was a failing, though sometimes anger had its uses. A raging tirade could help keep people in check.

Today he understood the need to remain placid. He was trying to understand why Marchinski had determined that now was the time to strike out at his rival in business. The animosity between the organizations was always close to the surface, and Tsvetanov understood that it would one day erupt into violence.

But why now?

He imagined Marchinski would have enough to keep him occupied. The man was behind bars, awaiting his upcoming trial. Why would he start a war?

Tsvetanov knew Leopold Marchinski still held the reins—he ran his organization from jail. His second in command—Leo’s younger brother, Gregor—would do exactly what he was told. Gregor Marchinski did not have the skill to take control of his brother’s affairs. Nor did he have the courage to attempt a coup.

Maybe Marchinski was simply flexing his muscles. Showing that even if he was out of the game for the moment, he could still manage a hostile takeover. He had the manpower. The Marchinski organization employed a ruthless and experienced team. He understood the concept of dominance through superior strength. And he was never afraid to take risks. Marchinski had ambition, but he could also be greedy. Tsvetanov knew this because he held the same views and was never afraid to show his own power.

He stopped pacing the length of his office, stood and looked out the window. The tended grounds, rain soaked and shrouded in the early-morning mist, helped calm him even more. Feeling settled, albeit briefly, Dragomir—how he hated his full name; he preferred to be called Drago—faced his assistant.

“Why has Marchinski chosen this time to hit us?” he asked. “Have I missed something significant? A special date? Something I should have been aware of?”

Lexi Bulin shook his head. “Marchinski decided this was the time, I guess.”

Tsvetanov stared at the man from beneath a frowning brow. Bulin was smart enough. He seldom made flippant remarks. Tsvetanov sighed.

“You really think it’s as simple as that?”

“Drago, I am as confused as you. We’ve enjoyed a fairly amicable relationship with Marchinski. We left each other alone, yet neither trusts the other. We circle like hungry wolves. Perhaps Marchinski saw something in our organization that made him decide to strike.”

“Or someone,” Tsvetanov suggested.

“You think one of our people sold out?”

Tsvetanov shrugged his broad shoulders. “Perhaps an offer was too good to refuse.”

Bulin waved a slim hand. He was of average height, whip-thin with a lean, almost gaunt face. He wore his dark hair down to his collar and always dressed sharply in handmade suits. His mind worked quickly.

“I would rather go with this being a preemptive strike by Marchinski. Not one of ours selling out.”

“You trust them that much?”

Bulin nodded. “Yes. I don’t believe they would betray you, Drago.”

“Comforting to know.” Tsvetanov was silent for a moment. “Is Sergei going to be all right?”

“Doctor Danton says he will live. He’s going to be indisposed for a few months.”

“Good. A pity about the others. Three dead. One badly injured. A full consignment destroyed. That was a great deal of money, Lexi. And we have no idea who this man was?”

“Sergei described him, but he doesn’t resemble anyone we know who works for Marchinski.”

“An outside triggerman? It has to be. The man knew what he was doing. He came equipped for the job and he did it. He knew the location—just walked in and took our people down. He must have been primed by Marchinski’s men.”

“Sergei said he was efficient. Didn’t miss a thing.”

Tsvetanov walked around his desk and sank into the leather swivel chair. It was a large item of furniture—the most expensive chair he’d been able to get—but Tsvetanov was not dwarfed by it. He topped the six-foot-three mark and was solidly muscular. While Bulin always dressed formally, Tsvetanov preferred expensive casual: a soft cotton, open-necked blue shirt and cream chinos, hand-worked leather loafers. Yet on his wrist a plain, fifty-dollar watch with a leather strap and a black face.

“This doesn’t go unpunished, Lexi,” he said, calm now. His anger had burned off and a cold, calculating mood sat in its place. “We’ll get our revenge, but we’ll take our time. If we go after Marchinski like a street gang, this will turn into a bloodbath. I don’t want that. If it’s forced on us we won’t turn away, but until then, let’s consider.”

Bulin nodded. “What’re your thoughts? Start with some short, sharp hits just to let Marchinski know we’re still on the ball?”

“Exactly. But first get some of our boys on the streets. Check things out. See if there are more of Marchinski’s people around than normal. Let’s put our ears to the ground and listen. Someone has to know something.”

“I’ll get some of the guys to spread some cash around. See what the snitches have picked up.”

Tsvetanov nodded. “I’ll leave that in your hands, Lexi. In the meantime, I need to talk to Dushka. Have a replacement consignment organized and find a new place to store it.”

Bulin made for the door.

“Have the kitchen send in some breakfast,” Tsvetanov called.

The door closed behind Bulin, leaving Tsvetanov alone in the silent office. He sat for a moment, considering. It had been a bad start to the day, but he needed to look ahead. In the long run, Marchinski may have done him a favor. The confrontation that had been simmering in the background looked as if it was about to erupt. That would mean a busy time ahead. Leopold Marchinski, lounging in his jail cell while his mob ran around doing his bidding, was about to have another problem heaped on his shoulders.

Drago Tsvetanov had built up his organization from nothing. In Moscow he’d worked for his Uncle Vassily, eventually taking over the family business. But Tsvetanov had always wanted to go to America, and ten years ago he had achieved that ambition.

Once he’d arrived, Tsvetanov organized his own team, surrounding himself with loyal and smart people. Tsvetanov expanded whenever an opening occurred—there was nothing he would not handle if it promised financial rewards. His childhood in Russia had been deprived, with little money and poor living conditions; he vowed never to let himself suffer those things again. Already wealthy when he moved to the U.S., Tsvetanov’s fortunes expanded greatly. Moving into drugs and prostitution helped. And when he eased into human trafficking, he realized he’d found his place in the sun.

He surrounded himself with the best lawyers money could buy, and they worked unceasingly on his behalf. An oft-quoted saying had proved true—in America, money could buy anything.

Tsvetanov was aware his business required a ruthless attitude. There was no avoiding the fact that violence was an integral part of his life. It was needed to keep unruly people in line, and that applied to his own men as well as rivals or clients who stepped over the line. He’d never been repelled by violence. Tsvetanov himself had used force when necessary. It gave him a feeling of power...close to pleasure. That feeling of dominance over another human being was as exciting as a drug rush.

But for all his brutality, Tsvetanov had never allowed himself to be compromised...which brought his thoughts back to Leopold Marchinski. The man had slipped badly by letting himself be caught on camera as he handed out a savage beating. True, the man had attempted a clumsy robbery. Stealing from his employer and getting caught had been inexcusable. Marchinski’s own mistake had been beating the man to death with a baseball bat in full view of security cameras. It had landed Marchinski in a cell, awaiting trial, and it was a given he would be convicted.

Tsvetanov was pleased to have Marchinski locked away. They were rivals. Marchinski even had a similar history to Tsvetanov; he was as close to being a clone as was possible without genetic connections. His organization operated in the same businesses, and while there were ample opportunities, the two men resented each other strongly.

It had been a shock when Bulin had informed him that the man behind the attack on the warehouse appeared to be working on behalf of Marchinski. It was a slap in the face. One he could not—would not—ignore.

With his main rival behind bars, Tsvetanov had the best chance to make a decisive strike. It needed some thought. Once started, gang war was likely to be bloody and savage.

* * *

LEOPOLD MARCHINSKI SAT patiently waiting for his lawyer to arrive. He was seated at the steel table in an interview room, his cuffed hands attached to a short chain manacle fixed to the top of the table. He wore prison garb—a bright orange jumpsuit that had the penitentiary logo printed across the back and his inmate number on the front. Marchinski hated the prison uniform. It was baggy, made of coarse material and had that institutional smell he despised. Even though he’d been in jail for almost five months, he still couldn’t get used to it.

Marchinski, though, was a man blessed with great patience. He’d known from day one that he wasn’t about to get out of this easily, so he’d sucked it up and become a model prisoner. He had planned to stay that way until it suited him to change.

And now he wanted change.

He wanted out of jail.

Marchinski was no caged animal. He needed his freedom, but he understood the position he was in. The authorities had shown him the video of him slaughtering Jake Bixby, and there was no denying he’d done it. The image on the recording was clear and sharp. No doubts. The camera had faithfully taped the brutal crime—every terrible, final, bloody minute of Bixby’s life. Even his high-priced lawyer, Jason Keppler, had told him his position was dicey. The evidence could not be argued against. Marchinski was a career criminal who had escaped justice for a long time. This was the prosecution’s chance to lock him up for the maximum term, and they were not about to pass on the opportunity. Marchinski was theirs.

In retrospect, Marchinski knew he’d been foolish. Bixby needed to be punished, to be made into an example. The mistake had been acting on a wild impulse. Marchinski should have dealt with Bixby quietly, under controlled circumstances, rather than attacking hog wild. Pent-up fury had led Marchinski straight to a jail cell.

Marchinski understood that. He was looking at a lot of jail time—too much for someone like himself. If he survived he’d be an old man when he came out.

He had two ways to go.

Kill himself—an option he’d seriously considered for five full seconds.

Or manipulate his way out of jail.

Getting out wouldn’t be easy and once he did, he’d have to leave the U.S. and move somewhere where the authorities couldn’t touch him. He could live with that. There were countries with no extradition treaties, and with his money he could live high wherever he chose.

The first step was getting out from behind the prison walls. It would have to be a well-orchestrated escape. So Marchinski had spent his empty days working on various schemes and rejecting them all until he came up with the one that had been put into action.

The kidnapping of Larry Mason’s young daughter.

Mason, the man directly responsible for Marchinski’s incarceration. The state’s prosecutor who seemed to have made it his personal crusade to lock Marchinski away for the rest of his natural life.

Marchinski had discussed the idea with his brother over a number of visits. Gregor had gone for the idea the moment it had been explained to him. He might have blurted it out loud if Marchinski had not calmed him down, making him realize the serious nature of the discussion.

Over a couple more visits, Marchinski had detailed what the scheme would involve. Gregor had added embellishments of his own and after almost a month, they were ready to make their move.

Simple enough in theory.

Marchinski’s people would kidnap Mason’s daughter from the man’s isolated weekend lodge and kill the child’s nanny as an indication of intent. Mason would be told and given a deadline. Free Marchinski, or lose his daughter. It was a bold move, with no guarantee of success. Mason loved his child—his only link with his dead wife—but Marchinski was taking a gamble.

The first part of the plan went off without a hitch. But just as the scheme got underway, Marchinski had heard from one of his lawyers that a hard strike had taken place on Tsvetanov’s turf. Three of Tsvetanov’s men had been killed and one of his stash houses burned to the ground with expensive cargo inside.

For a brief time, Marchinski’s attention was drawn to the incident. He couldn’t figure out who had carried out the hit. There was no other crew large enough to take on Tsvetanov, and he didn’t believe it was the work of any law force. That wasn’t the way they operated, although it was something they dreamed about. The matter gave Marchinski something to think about when he returned to his cell; he’d ordered his lawyer to instruct his crew to check the incident out.

Later, as he slumped on his bunk, staring at the ceiling, his mind refused to move on from what had happened to Tsvetanov. Any pleasure he had initially experienced faded quickly. It was replaced with a faint but growing concern over the matter. He found he was unable to dismiss it completely. It skittered around the fringes of his thoughts—in the background but never far away. If Tsvetanov had been targeted, what had it got to do with him?

He remembered a line from an old musical show. The one they made into a movie with that bald actor—Yul Brynner.

It’s a puzzlement.