Читать книгу Maximum Chaos - Don Pendleton - Страница 8
ОглавлениеThe man’s voice had been electronically altered, giving it a harsh metallic sound.
“Listen without interruption, Mr. Mason. By now you will realize your daughter has been taken. At this moment in time, she is unharmed. Whether she stays that way is entirely up to you. To ensure the safe return of young Abigail, you must negotiate the release of Leopold Marchinski. You have one week to carry out this request. If Marchinski is not a free man at midnight on the final day, your daughter will die. You may speak now. Do you have questions?”
Mason’s throat had all but seized up. He fought back the utter panic that threatened to render him dumb and forced himself to take control of his emotions and deal with the caller by asserting a degree of calm.
“You took my child, damn you. Wasn’t that enough? Why kill Nancy?”
“Yes, the fair Miss Cleland. She put up such a struggle defending your daughter. As to her death...it demonstrates that we are in earnest. If you fail to have Marchinski released on the due date, your daughter dies. Imagine little Abby being killed in a similar manner to Nancy Cleland. Our people, though crude, are effective. Bear that in mind.”
“Tell me my daughter is...”
“I hope you were not about to say safe. Abigail is not in a safe environment. That is the whole reason for this call.”
Mason gathered his thoughts before he spoke.
“For all I know, she may already be dead. Unless you prove she’s alive I have no reason to carry on this conversation. Show me proof before we go any further.”
“I can see why you are a successful negotiator, Mason.”
“Then negotiate this,” Mason snapped, feeling sweat pop out across his face as he pushed the boundaries. “Abby is all you have to bargain with. So prove to me she’s still alive or I put this phone down now. If you expect me to play your sick game I’ll need real-time proof, regularly, that she’s alive.”
“And if I refuse? What then?”
“Then Marchinski takes whatever comes to him and I lose my daughter. Simple enough for you to understand.”
“A bluff.”
“You think so? Try me. I’m in a corner. I have to do whatever it takes.”
The silence hurt. Mason wondered whether he had overplayed his hand. But he had no choice.
“Contact will be made, so keep your cell handy. Just remember we have the girl. Two hours from now, you’ll have your proof.”
“Wait,” Mason said, “how do you expect me to free Marchinski? He’s in confinement. On twenty-four-hour watch. I can’t simply walk in and lead him out by the hand.”
“You’re a man of great influence in the justice system. Make it happen.”
“It’s impossible.”
“Then your daughter will die in one week. The math is simple. No Marchinski—no Abigail.” A pause, then, “And please don’t involve the authorities. No police. No FBI. No one. Believe me when I say we have connections. Any attempt to involve assistance will mean Abigail suffers. If you don’t believe me, go ahead and make a call. Abigail will die before anyone gets near us. Please do not make the mistake of treating me like a fool. You saw what happened to Nancy. Keep that image in your mind. Think about your daughter.”
“How can I—”
“Make contact? You can’t, but I can call you at any time. Your cell. Your house phone. We can listen to any call you make.”
Mason wasn’t sure that was a genuine threat. On the other hand, he couldn’t afford to take the chance.
“I need time.”
“I can hear your mind working, Mason. How can I get around this? How do I beat it? A word of advice—do not even try. Concentrate on freeing Marchinski. That is the most important thing in your life right now. That and keeping your daughter alive. Seven days, Mason.”
The call ended.
A simple click, and Mason was left holding a silent phone.
* * *
HE SAT WITH the dead phone in his hand, staring out the living-room window, seeing nothing as he replayed the conversation over and over.
The man was not fooling. When Mason had driven to the lodge and walked inside, he’d found the butchered body of the young woman he employed to look after Abby.
Nancy Cleland had been 25 years old, a raven-haired British woman who’d worked for Mason for three years. Her body had been reduced to a bloody mass of torn and slashed flesh. Every finger on her hands had been broken and twisted out of shape. Someone had killed her in a terrible way—something Mason could never have imagined in his worst nightmare. The plastic sheet she lay on was pooled with blood.
Mason couldn’t remember how long he’d stood there—his back against the door, his gaze fixed on the dead woman. When the spell broke, he went from room to room, calling out Abby’s name. He searched the entire lodge. Abby was not there. Tears ran down his face as he went to call the police. That was when he saw an envelope taped to the phone.
Inside the envelope were two items.
The first was a Polaroid photo of his daughter, taken in the same room where Nancy’s body now lay. In the picture, Abby was sitting in one of the chairs, staring at the camera. Her face was pale and her eyes were wide with shock.
The second item was a folded sheet of paper. When Mason unfolded it, he read the handwritten note—
We have Abby. If you tell anyone, she will die. Secure the lodge, go home and wait for a call. Now.
Mason had never felt this helpless. He was a federal prosecutor with the power of the legal machine at his fingertips. Now he was on his own. As much as he needed his daughter back alive and well, he understood his responsibility to the law.
Leopold Marchinski was the head of a criminal organization. He sentenced men to death as easily as ordering a pizza. His criminal empire, spread across the eastern seaboard, was involved in countless illegal enterprises. Nothing was too depraved if it brought in money.
Marchinski had the best legal protection available. He was an old-time hoodlum writ large, reveling in his status as an untouchable. The man seemed to have everyone in his pocket—from lowly street cops to members of the judiciary.
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.
