Don Pendleton - Maximum Chaos

Names and faces changed. Mack Bolan’s ongoing war against evil never wavered.

Hal Brognola sat behind his desk at Stony Man, preparing for the havoc that would come now that the Executioner was once again on the offensive.

* * *

HARRY JIGS HAD provided Bolan with the location of one of Marchinski’s businesses. Stony Man had given Bolan more specifics and the soldier was ready to make his move.

The Shake A Leg club was a cover for one of Marchinski’s trafficking operations. Topless women and lap dancing, though legal, were the dubious attractions that brought in the customers. They gathered around the bar and paid for expensive drinks so they could watch the listless performances, while in the basement the club’s real business operated in squalid anonymity.

The victims of the trafficking trade were kept in guarded cells. Confused and disoriented, they had no idea where they were or what awaited them. Young women snatched from their home soil and transported to America, they were watched over and ill treated if they made any kind of protest. Eventually, they would be auctioned off, sometimes singly or sometimes in batches, dependent on what individual purchasers required. The only certainty was their fate, which would be light-years away from whatever they might have been promised—likely prostitution or forced labor. It might be the twenty-first century, but for these hapless individuals, it might as well have been the Victorian era. A number of these women would be given drugs to draw their minds from the pitiful conditions they were now experiencing; it was simply a way to draw them even deeper into the darkness of their new lives.

Harry Jigs had told Bolan about the club during their meet as an extra fillip of information. He’d made it obvious that Marchinski was covered by people on the take, which was why the frequent influx of covert trafficking was overlooked. Money, Jigs said, changed hands on a number of levels, covering the operation from interference.

The Shake A Leg club stood on a slice of open ground, a less-than-glamorous building with a gaudy frontage and bare brick and plaster walls on the other three sides. The front of the club was dark at this hour, the neon display switched off. Bolan had parked a couple of streets away and made his silent way through the rain to the rear of the club. At this hour, only a few vehicles were pulled up close to the back wall.

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