Rifle rounds followed Bolan

They kicked up dirt and grass all around him, lodging in the tree trunk as he popped back to his feet behind the pine tree.

Bolan stared in the moonlight, following the angle of the shots back to a man who stood partially out of the guard shack, wielding an M-16.

He aimed, pulled the trigger of his gun and sent two rounds into the guard’s shoulder, causing him to drop his weapon. A look of shock covered the man’s face for an instant before Bolan squeezed the trigger again, and the man fell out of the shack onto the pavement.

Bolan leaned out from around the tree trunk and sighted down the barrel. A lone round took out the second man at the gate. The third sentry was still hiding inside the small building, covered from the waist down by concrete but visible through the glass in the top of the window.

He aimed at the man’s head and pulled the trigger. His slug struck the glass then ricocheted off with a loud whine. The window was bullet resistant—but nothing was completely bullet proof.

Bolan left the cover of the tree and raced toward the open door of the shack. The final sentry was squatting with his gun in hand, looking straight at him as Bolan fired his weapon. In the end, all of the concrete and bullet-resistant glass in the world hadn’t helped him, and the guard fell on his face just as dead as the others.

The yard grew silent. Then, in the distance, Bolan heard sirens and he knew that the fighting had raised alarms.

The Executioner had to get away. Fast.

Damage Radius

The Executioner®

Don Pendleton

www.mirabooks.co.uk

The laws are silent in the midst of arms.

—Marcus Tullius Cicero

106 BC–43 BC

I will go around the law to catch the bad guys, if I have to. And I will break the law to stop them, if all else fails. I will do what needs to get done—whenever, wherever, however.

—Mack Bolan

THE MACK BOLAN LEGEND

Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.

But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.

Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.

He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.

So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.

But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.

Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

1

Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, lowered his left elbow slightly, stopping a right jab to the ribs from his left-handed opponent. He countered with a quick right cross which was also blocked. Slowly, the two men circled, sizing each other up and looking for weaknesses in the other’s defense. A fierce left hook came suddenly toward the Executioner’s face but he ducked under it, bobbing slightly to the side. In his mind, it registered that the southpaw he faced had dropped his left shoulder before delivering the blow. As well, Bolan realized the man had telegraphed the hook the same way each time he’d tried that punch.

The left hook was obviously the man’s favored attack, and the pressure Bolan had felt when it landed on his arms told him it was powerful. Full of strength, and speed, the man could easily knock out an opponent if it landed solidly.

So, the soldier decided, it was time to set the man up and take advantage of his “tell.”

Bolan backed away slightly, letting his opponent move closer. He ducked a wild right-handed “haymaker,” then bobbed under another jab that followed it. Then, intentionally raising his left, he opened up his rib cage for the hook he hoped to draw from the other man.

It worked as if by magic.

Sweat poured from the other man’s face as he dipped his shoulder in preparation to launch the hook.

Bolan didn’t give him the chance. Stepping in swiftly, he dealt his opponent a powerful overhand right, which nailed the man squarely in the middle of the forehead. The man stumbled backward. Bolan shuffled closer again, jabbing a left into the man’s midsection, which caused him to drop both of his hands.

It was time to end this fight.

Bolan put everything he had—arm, shoulder and a twist of the right hip—into the right cross.

His opponent was out before his face hit the canvas.

Quickly, Bolan stepped forward, saw that the man was breathing, then turned toward the ropes that encircled the boxing ring. Everyone else in the gym had halted their workouts in order to watch the match, and they stared up at Bolan with a mixture of surprise and newfound respect in their eyes. Bolan walked to the edge of the ring and rested his gloved hands on the top rope.

“Okay,” he said. “I know you guys liked the former manager of this gym. I did, too. But he’s dead, and there’s nothing any of us can do about that.” He paused, then motioned toward the unconscious man on the floor. “Jake, here, challenged me because all of you wanted to know if I knew what I was doing.” He turned his head to include more men who had come to the ring on the other sides of the canvas. “Is there anyone here still wondering?” When there was no response from the spectators, Bolan went on. “Come on. I’m just getting warmed up. If there’s anyone else who wants a piece of me, now’s your chance.”

The silence that had fallen over the gym didn’t change, and no one took the Executioner up on his offer.

It soon became obvious that there would be no more challengers. “Then get back to your training, all of you,” he said. Lifting the top rope, he stepped under it before dropping to the gym’s concrete floor. Using his teeth, he untied the lace on his right glove, then pulled it free and tucked it under his arm as he went to work on the left.

As he began unlacing the other glove, Bolan’s eyes skirted the gym, taking in the men of various ages, sizes and abilities who had returned to the speed bags, heavy bags, double ended striking balls, jump ropes and other equipment. Most of them were innocent, honest fighters who were doing nothing more than trying to achieve their own personal dreams of success in the ring. But, unknowingly, they were actually part of one of the most extensive criminal organizations operating in the United States.

The Executioner eyed them again as he wiped a single drop of sweat from his brow with his forearm. This was only the starting point for the mission he had undertaken. And he was certain to engage in many more fights as he worked his way toward the goal of taking down Tommy McFarley’s criminal organization.

But there was one point about the fight he had just won that stood out in the Executioner’s mind as unique.

It was likely to be the only skirmish with rules, without weapons and without blood.

The Executioner was going to war yet again.

2

As the rat-tat-tat of the speed bags filled his ears like machine-gun fire, Bolan walked from the ring to the glass wall of his new office. Tossing the gloves he had just removed to a man on his way to the water fountain, he pushed the door open and left the gym proper. Through the glass, he could still hear the speed bags, the crunching of the canvas bags and the tapping of jump ropes as the door swung closed behind him.

The Executioner looked at his desk as he moved toward it. It was cluttered with the personal effects of Sy Lennon, the former manager of McFarley’s New Orleans gym. But Lennon would not be back to collect them.

He, along with a middleweight named Bobby “the Killer” Kiethley, was dead. Their bodies had not yet been found, and Bolan suspected they never would be.

The rumor was that three of Tommy McFarley’s henchmen had dropped them out of one of McFarley’s private aircraft somewhere over the Gulf of Mexico. Their crime? Not throwing a fight that McFarley had “fixed,” and upon which he had consequently lost close to a million dollars in bets.

Bolan spied an empty cardboard box thrown carelessly into the corner of the office and quickly retrieved it. Without ceremony, he used his forearm to sweep the desktop clear. Papers, paperweights, a brass clip in the shape of a whale and a small plastic “Snoopy” wearing boxing gloves fell into the box. Returning the carton to the corner of the room, the Executioner dropped it and took a seat behind the desk.

For a moment, he stared out through the glass at the men still working out in the gym. New Orleans was the center of McFarley’s operations, but his chain of boxing and body-building/power-lifting gyms stretched from the Atlantic to the Pacific. They were the “front,” and the money-laundering operations, for his real businesses, which included international drug trafficking, arms dealing, gambling and white-slavery prostitution throughout the Western Hemisphere.

Bolan glanced at the scarred black rotary telephone that was now the sole object on his desk. It was a throwback to an earlier era, and the chances of it being tapped by McFarley were slim. Still, there was no sense in taking unnecessary risks, so the soldier leaned down to the gym bag he had dropped by the desk chair when he’d first arrived a few hours earlier. Fishing through the clothing and other contents, he found a smaller, zippered bag that contained both cell and satellite phones. Choosing the cell, he pulled it from the bag and tapped in the number to Stony Man Farm, the top-secret U.S. site that fielded counterterrorist teams and trained specially picked soldiers and police officers from America and its allied nations. The call was automatically routed through a number of cutout numbers on three continents on the offchance that someone—someone like McFarley—had stumbled onto the frequency.

Barbara Price, the Farm’s mission controller, answered the phone. “Hello, Striker,” she said. “How’s training?”

Bolan chuckled softly. “Barely worked up a sweat yet,” he told the beautiful honey-blonde. He pictured her briefly in his mind. He and Price had a “special relationship” reserved for those rare occasions during which he was out of the field and spent the night at the Farm. But both were true professionals, and they never allowed that relationship to interfere with their work. “Had to prove myself a few minutes ago,” Bolan went on.

“I doubt it lasted a full round,” Price said.

“About a minute or so,” the soldier replied. “I didn’t see any reason to show off.” He paused, then got to the point of the call. “Can you buzz me through to Hal?”

“I could,” Price said. “But it wouldn’t do you much good. He’s at Justice today.”

Hal Brognola wore two hats. In one role, he was the director of the Sensitive Operations Group, based at Stony Man Farm. But in another, he was a high-ranking official within the U.S. Department of Justice. “I’ll call him there, then,” Bolan told Price.

“Good luck and be careful.”

“Always,” he said and ended the call.

A moment later he had dialed the numbers to the big Fed’s direct line at the Justice Department. A gruff voice answered. “Brognola.”

“Striker here.”

“Hello, big guy,” Hal Brognola said after turning on the scrambler. “How’s the new job?”

“Terrific,” Bolan answered. “If you like starting at the bottom. I’m in, but I’m still a long way from McFarley’s real action. Unless we can figure out a way to speed things up, it’s going to take me a lifetime to get next to the man.”

“You haven’t met McFarley, himself, yet, have you?” Brognola asked.

“No,” Bolan said. “I was interviewed and got hired by one of his goons. It seems the big man doesn’t dirty himself with small jobs like hiring gym managers.”

“Well,” Brognola said, “I’ve got something else working right now that ought to lead to a meeting. The same undercover DEA agent who’s managing McFarley’s gym in Cleveland—the guy I went through to get you in there in New Orleans—has let a few things ‘slip’ about your less-than-spotless past. It shouldn’t take long for loose lips to reach McFarley’s ears that you’ve run both guns and dope in the past, and that you’re just trying to keep a low profile by managing boxers for a while.”

“Your DEA man in Cleveland,” Bolan asked. “How much does he know?”

“Not much. He’s a good man. He understands the need-to-know concept and realizes he doesn’t need to know anything past recommending you, alias ‘Matt Cooper’ of course, for the New Orleans job.”

“You think this rumor-passing stunt is going to work?” Bolan asked.

“I think so,” Brognola said. “Guys like McFarley are always on the lookout for men with Matt Cooper’s experience.”

A tap on the glass door to his office caused Bolan to look up. When he did, he saw a man wearing striped overalls and a tool belt, with a paint can in his hand. Bolan knew what he was there to do, and he nodded.

The man in the overalls set the can down, pulled a razor-bladed paint scraper from his tool belt and began scraping Sy Lennon’s name off the glass door. In its place, he would paint Bolan’s undercover ID—Matt Cooper.

“Okay,” Bolan said, turning his attention back to the phone. “I guess all I can do right now is wait.”

“It shouldn’t take long,” Brognola came back.

Without further words, Bolan disconnected the line.

He looked up again just in time to see a blurry form through the glass. It shoved the man in the overalls aside and pushed through the door.

Jake Jackson, the fighter the Executioner had KO’d only a few minutes earlier, strode angrily into the office. A cotton ball was shoved into his left nostril and flecks of dried blood still stuck to the skin around his nose. A welt was forming on his forehead between his eyes, and while he’d lost the boxing gloves from his hands, dirty-white tape was still wrapped around his palm and wrists.

“Something more I can help you with, Jake?” Bolan said as he set down the cell phone.

“Yeah,” the man across the desk said. His lips were curved down in an angry frown, and his eyes shot daggers through Bolan. “I don’t like getting whipped by a trainer,” he growled.

Bolan glanced at the man’s midsection. He was a heavyweight, but there was a thin layer of fat covering his abdominal muscles. “I don’t blame you,” the soldier said. “So if I was you I’d train harder, drink less beer and get into fighting shape.”

The words only angered the man further. “I grew up here,” he said in a heavy Cajun accent. “In the back streets of the French Quarter.” He paused and eyed Bolan even harder. “And I can’t help but think there’d be a much different outcome if you and I were to fight without gloves and rules.” By this point Jackson had inched his way around the side of Bolan’s desk.

The soldier swiveled slowly in his chair to face him. “There’s only one way to find out, Jake,” he said with a pleasant smile on his face.

The heavyweight lunged suddenly with both hands aimed at Bolan’s throat. Still seated, the Executioner flicked his foot up and out, catching the other man squarely in the groin with the top of his flat-soled boxing shoes. The cup Jackson wore cushioned a lot of the blow, but not enough to keep him from grunting in surprise and pain.

As he rose from his chair, Bolan drove a forearm into the man’s face. Blood spurted from the heavyweight’s nose, shooting the cotton from his nostril like a tiny rocket and driving his head back upward. In his peripheral vision, Bolan saw that most of the other fighters had gathered around the glass front of the office to watch.

Jackson had obviously announced his intentions to “teach Matt Cooper a lesson” before he’d come into the office.

Bolan reached forward and clasped his hands together behind Jackson’s neck. As he bent the man forward again, he drove a knee upward into his belly in a classic Muay Thai movement. Dropping his foot to the ground, he lifted his other knee and struck the groin area again.

By now, Jackson’s plastic cup had cracked in two. And with the third knee strike, the fighter’s groan became a scream.

Bolan stepped back and drove the same right cross into the man’s chin that had knocked him out in the ring.

The effect was the same, and Jackson fell to the floor next to the desk.

Bolan didn’t hesitate. Grabbing a handful of the man’s sweaty hair with his left hand, he dragged him back around the desk and opened the door with his other hand. Then, pushing the unconscious man through the doorway, he let him fall on his face against the concrete.

The Executioner looked up. “I’m getting sick of this,” he told the stunned fighters who had watched the encounter. “How many times do I have to knock this guy out? Let’s get it all over with right now. I beat him in the ring, with rules. And I just beat him in a streetfight, without rules. Does anybody want to wrestle? Karate? Judo? Maybe do a little head-on tackling practice like in football?” He paused to let his words sink in. “Like I said, I’m through proving myself. If any of the rest of you want to fight, in any way you want, step up now.” He paused again because he knew his next words would fall on the ears of his audience as the most important. “But I’m warning you,” he finally said. “The next time, I’m going to kill my challenger.”

The gym grew even more silent than it had been earlier.

Finally, a man who looked to be around welterweight size stepped forward. He had the coffee-colored skin of the true Creole, and was wearing sweatpants and bag gloves. He smiled at Bolan, then turned to face the other men. “I think it’s high time we welcomed Mr. Cooper as our new manager,” he said.

The rest of the heads nodded. Some enthusiastically, others grudgingly. But one way or another, they all affirmed Bolan’s leadership.

The soldier nodded back to them also, then turned back into his office. A door at the rear of the room led to the small sleeping quarters that had served as Lennon’s home, and would temporarily house the Executioner—at least during the beginning of this mission.

Just before he stepped into the small bedroom, Bolan glanced back over his shoulder.

The men around the gym were working out even harder than before. And the painter in the striped overalls was just beginning the second T in the name “Matt Cooper.”

3

The call on the black rotary phone came just after the Executioner had ushered the last fighter out of the gym and locked the door behind him. Hearing it through the glass, he hustled around the ring in the center of the room, past a series of heavy bags and striking balls, and through the glass door into the office. “Cooper,” he said as he pressed the old-fashioned receiver to his ear.

“How am I supposed to book fighters if you keep beating them up?” a laughing voice on the other end of the line asked in a thick Irish brogue.

Bolan knew it had to be McFarley. The man had immigrated to America from Northern Ireland, and still had his accent. But since it had been one of his underlings who had actually hired “Matt Cooper” to manage the gym, the Executioner pretended not to recognize the voice. “Who is this?” he asked.

“Your boss,” McFarley said. “Your employer. Tommy McFarley, boyo.”

“Well,” Bolan said, “it’s nice to finally talk to you.”

“Did you have a specific conversational topic in mind, laddie?” McFarley said.

“Yeah,” Bolan said. “How about a raise?”

McFarley laughed again. “I think I’m going to like you, Matt Cooper,” he said. “You’ve got balls. But I hear you nearly left one of my heavyweights without his this afternoon.”

“He was asking for it,” Bolan replied.

“I know that particular fighter, and I have no doubt that was the case,” McFarley said. “But that’s not what I called about. A little bird told me there’s more to you than just being a cauliflower-eared pug. You seem to have quite a résumé which you didn’t mention to my man who hired you.”

“It didn’t seem relevant,” Bolan said. “Besides, I’m trying to fly under the radar for the time being.”

“When you’re with me there’s no radar problem,” McFarley said. “I’ve got more radar detectors than Radio Shack.”

“Great,” Bolan said. “So…did you just want to remind me of how wonderful I am? Or is there some other reason behind this call?’

Yet again, McFarley burst into laughter. “You’re a bold one, you are,” he said. “I like that in a man.” Then he stopped speaking, and when he started again his voice was far less jovial. “Up to a point.”

Bolan remained silent.

“I’d like you to come join me for a late dinner,” McFarley said.

“When?” the Executioner asked.

“Tonight,” McFarley said. “I’m about to send a limo to pick you up right now. Can you be ready in thirty minutes?”

“Give me forty-five,” Bolan said. “I’ve got to take a shower and change clothes.

“Forty-five it is then, laddie,” the New Orleans crime kingpin said. “I look forward to meeting you.”

Bolan heard the line click dead in his ear.

The Executioner looked at his watch as he walked back into his room. There was a small private bathroom attached, and he stepped into it, unlaced his high-topped boxing shoes, then stripped off the plain gray sweatshirt and gym shorts he’d been wearing with them. A moment later he had the shower running and warming up.

Bolan brushed his teeth, gargled, then glanced at his face. He had a five-o’clock shadow, but he decided to let it go. Tommy McFarley might be rich, but classy, he wasn’t. And besides, the unshaved look seemed to be in fashion among the fighters at the gym and other young men he’d seen around lately.

Bolan showered quickly, then went to the short clothes-bar that ran the length of one side of the small room. He had moved in just that morning, and from the hangers he’d hung below the bar he pulled a navy-blue polo shirt, a pair of light tan slacks and a light brown sport coat, placing them on the bed as he pulled on plain white underwear and dark blue socks. The shirt and slacks went on next, then he stepped into a well-worn pair of brown loafers.

Reaching under the bed, the Executioner slid out a black, hard plastic case. A combination lock secured the case, and he dialed in the combination before opening the lid. Lifting the Beretta 93-R with the attached sound suppressor and the.44 Magnum Desert Eagle, he stared at the two weapons.

They had killed more men than he could remember. But all who had fallen to their rounds had deserved death, and more. A shoulder holster for the Beretta with two extra magazines on the other end of the straps, and a Concealex plastic hip holster that fit the Desert Eagle rested just under the guns. Bolan placed both weapons and their carriers to the side.

There would be a time for them, and the even heavier armament he had brought with him on this mission, later.

Lifting the bumpy foam rubber padding on which the guns had rested, Bolan dug through a variety of smaller pistols and knives on the layer below. His eyebrows lowered as he made his decisions, finally pulling out the stubby North American Arms Pug and a Cold Steel Espada folding knife. The minute single-action Pug revolver brought a faint smile to the Executioner’s lips. The name seemed ironically appropriate for a man managing a boxing club. It held five rounds of .22 Magnum ammunition and was the best last-ditch backup he had ever found. It was smaller, and packed a better punch than the larger .22 LR or .25-caliber automatic guns on the market. Especially loaded as it was with hollowpoint bullets.

The Espada folding knife was a true blend of ancient Spanish tradition and modern technology. Patterned after the huge folding navajas that had been used in Spain for centuries—the newer Cold Steel version featured a “hook” opener at the base of the blade that allowed it to be drawn and opened on a pocket or waistband. It could be put into use faster than any switchblade, and when a natural front grip was taken, the nearly eight-inch blade had the reach of an eleven-inch bowie knife.

It was, quite simply, the finest folding fighting knife available.

Bolan clipped the Espada inside his waistband, against his kidney, then stared at the little .22 Magnum revolver in the palm of his left hand. He suspected that he’d be frisked before being allowed into this first meeting with McFarley, and he had no intention of disappointing whoever drew the job. He expected the Espada to be found, and was willing to sacrifice it as a diversion from the small firearm. But he also wanted to impress McFarley with his ability to move clandestinely through the search, and so he shoved the Pug down the front of his pants and placed it just under his groin between his underwear and slacks.

It would be painfully slow to retrieve from that position, but Bolan didn’t expect any gunplay during this initial meeting with his target.

On this night, the NAA Pug .22 Magnum revolver would be more for show than fighting.

The Executioner shrugged into his sport coat, grabbed his key ring from the top of the shabby wooden dresser in the tiny sleeping room, then moved back through the gym toward the front door.

The long black limousine pulled up to the curb as he locked the gym from the outside. The chauffer hurried out and opened the back door for him.

Without a word, Bolan slid inside.

MCFARLEY HAD GROWN UP ON a small farm near Bushmill, Northern Ireland, which was the home of the world’s oldest whiskey distillery—Old Bushmills. As a boy, he had worked the farm, sowing and reaping many of the grains that went into the whiskey being fermented only a few miles away. If he had learned one thing during that time, it was that the Bible was correct when it said, “That which you sow, so shall ye reap.”

And as far as McFarley was concerned, that meant you reaped very little for the amount of backbreaking sowing that went into farming.

The Irishman sat back against his desk chair and glanced around the walls of his office. The wooden paneling was of the finest smooth cedar, and sent a soothing fragrance into the air of the room. The photographs and other documents that spotted the walls were framed in solid gold and silver. His desk was of the purest mahogany and teak. The fact was, everything in the room was the best money could buy.

But that money sure hadn’t come from farming.

McFarley chuckled to himself as he dropped his desk phone back into its cradle. It would be a good hour still before Matt Cooper arrived for dinner, and he had only one other duty on his agenda that needed to be taken care of before the man arrived. The men with whom he needed to meet were already waiting for him in the outer office with his secretary, but the Irishman decided to let them wait a bit longer. They all needed to sweat a little, wondering exactly why they’d been called in to see him. So, while he let their anxiety rise, McFarley decided to take a few minutes to reminisce.

The Irishman let his mind drift back to his teenage days in Northern Ireland, when his only interests were boxing and women—not necessarily in that order. He had won Ireland’s golden gloves heavyweight division four years running, then opened his own gym. But it had been around that time when he’d also gotten involved with the then very active PIRA— Provisional Irish Republican Army—the last faction of the IRA to quit bombing and shooting the British invaders. His interest in the organization, however, had not been political. He had found that more money could be made in one evening of smuggling guns, dynamite and C-4 or Semtax plastic explosives than he made in a year at his gym. Drug smuggling had come as a natural extension to his business, which meant even more money. And more money meant more women, so soon he had established a successful “call girl” service to supplement both his own seemingly insatiable urge for sex and his overall income.

It was about that time that Tommy McFarley realized just how small Northern Ireland really was. And that realization spawned his interest in immigrating to the U.S.

A frown crossed McFarley’s face as he remembered his first attempts to gain his green card. It had not been as easy as he would have expected, since Great Britain was not considered to be a repressive nation—even to the Northern Irish. But a few clandestinely taken photos of a U.S. congressman visiting London—engaging in some rather unusual sex acts with two of McFarley’s women—had convinced the man to push the Irishman’s immigration papers through personally. And he had passed his citizenship test five years later with flying colors.

“Hurray for the red, white and blue.” McFarley laughed out loud as the memory crossed his mind.

McFarley leaned back farther and clasped his hands behind his head, staring at the various boxing trophies and other awards around the room. He had found, just like the Mafia and South American drug cartels before him, that energetic civic work was not only a good cover for his real pursuits, it endeared him to the people. And public opinion had a huge influence on politicians, be they senators, congressmen or district attorneys. The Irishman caught himself grinning again at a “Citizen of the Year” award on his wall from the New Orleans Chamber of Commerce.

There was not another city in the U.S. known for as much corruption and graft as the Big Easy. And Hurricane Katrina had disrupted things to an extent where bribes and leverage worked on the politicians and police even better than before the storm.

McFarley leaned back against his desk chair and chuckled aloud. What more could you ask for than television news footage that showed uniformed police officers pushing shopping carts through stores and looting them just like the rest of the citizenry? The Big Easy had become a Disneyland for criminals, so New Orleans had been the natural site for McFarley to base his operations.

Over the past few years those operations had been both legal and illegal. His string of weight-lifting gyms now rivaled both Gold’s and World’s, and each rep the “muscle heads” performed on the bench press or preacher curl stand put more money in his pocket. He also had boxing operations in most major cities across the country, and every punch that struck a bag or chin made him money as well. But these were fronts for his true revenue operations. His real money still came the “old-fashioned” way—he stole it. Although he, himself, was thoroughly insulated by several layers of employees, his illegal activities included gunrunning to the Shining Path in Peru and the FARCs in Colombia, call girl services and massage parlors in most major cities, and some blatantly outright brothels. Like the one he was presently sitting atop.

The penthouse of the old antebellum mansion, which faced Lake Pontchartrain, had been turned into McFarley’s offices. There was little secrecy about what happened on the four floors below. Police and other cleanup workers—still trying after all these years to get the Big Easy up and running once more—had more pressing business than pursuing misdemeanor prostitution arrests.

The Irishman chuckled again. Besides, he thought, the top brass of the New Orleans PD and the district attorney’s office were some of his best customers.

McFarley leaned forward, crossed his arms on the desktop and thought briefly about the one last thing he had to do before Matt Cooper arrived for dinner. Even thinking about performing such a task would have sent many men running to the restroom to throw up, but to McFarley, it seemed to come naturally. He had done similar things many times in the past, and he felt no emotion about them one way or another. It was all business, he thought, as his mind returned to his overall empire of crime once again.

In addition to the weaponry he sent south, he brought cocaine and heroin north into the U.S. for the Mexican and South American cartels. Of course, his favorite activity was still fixing boxing matches in the smoky clubs where his fighters fought. Although the gambling money he made from these fights was small compared to his profits in the other areas, he hung on to it as a nostalgic link to his past.

McFarley’s smile turned suddenly downward. Once in a while, a fighter or his manager didn’t go along with his wishes to take a dive. That had happened less than a week ago.

Which was why that fighter and his manager were no longer around. And never would be again. And why Cooper had been hired to take the manager’s place, and was consequently on his way to the brothel to meet McFarley.

Slowly, and somewhat reluctantly—because part of him rebelled against the racing technology taking over the world— McFarley twisted his chair to the left and faced his computer. He knew very little about the machines, but he had found email to be an effective addition to his business. So, calling up a message he had already read through once, he hit the properties icon, set the computer to print in fast draft mode, then hit Print.

A moment later, the printer sputtered to life and a single sheet of paper came sliding out of the machine.

The Irishman looked up and down the page. He had used one of his New Orleans PD contacts to have a background check run on Matt Cooper. And as he stared at the page, he saw that the man had been arrested for some of the very crimes that were nothing more than a day’s work for McFarley Enterprises. And these arrests had been effected all over the world.

But there was one thing that impressed the Irishman far more than the arrests. Matt Cooper had absolutely zero convictions. In fact, none of the crimes had even gone to trial. All of which meant Cooper knew how to play the law, much as McFarley did.

His reminiscing had come full circle, and McFarley decided it was time to finish the last item of business for the day. Lifting the telephone again, he tapped on the intercom and said, “Grace, send the men in, please. And you can go home.”

A moment later, the door opened and a square-shouldered man lumbered in. His suit coat was too small, and it gaped at the back of the neck. His crooked nose leaned to the left, which tended to make him look cross-eyed. He had once been a light heavyweight with over a hundred wins in the clubs. But he had never come close to the big time. So when he’d finally grown too old to fight, McFarley had given him a job as one of his personal bodyguards. Looking back, McFarley realized that had been a mistake.

Jo-Jo Gau was the man’s name, and while he didn’t know it yet, he was about to hit the canvas for the last time.

Gau was followed by two other men. Razor Westbrook and Felix O’Banion. O’Banion was a fellow Irishman who McFarley had brought to the U.S. when he was first establishing his operation. He had been a mediocre middleweight in Ireland but was smarter than the average fighter. Most of all, McFarley knew he was loyal and could be trusted.

The smaller Westbrook had fought a few fights in the featherweight division in the U.S. But like O’Banion and McFarley, he’d realized he would never be a champion on the professional level, and been smart enough to get out of the game before he’d damaged his brain.

The Irishman behind the desk felt his jaw tighten. O’Banion and Westbrook might not have been particularly good boxers, but they had proved they could pull the trigger of a gun with the best of them.

As the three men took seats on a couch across from McFarley’s desk, the Irishman studied their faces. Westbrook and O’Banion looked slightly puzzled.

Gau was outright scared. And had every reason to be.

McFarley broke the silence. “You did a good job of getting rid of our two troublemakers,” he said after the door had swung closed. His gaze moved to Gau. “But the problem goes deeper than those two men.”

The three men on the couch shifted uncomfortably. Still staring at Gau, McFarley opened the desk drawer in front of him. He glanced down to see the pearl-handled Webley .455 revolver that he had brought with him from Ireland. It was still hidden from the men on the other side of the desk.

“The New Orleans gym falls under your care, Jo-Jo,” McFarley said as he casually wrapped his fingers around the pearl grips of the wheel gun. “It was your responsibility to see that Kiethley took a dive.”

Gau covered his mouth with a big fist and coughed nervously. “Boss,” he said, “I did my best. They told me they were both cool with it.”

McFarley stared at the man. Gau. Was it a French name? It sounded like it. Not that it mattered.

When he didn’t answer, Gau began talking nervously again. “I was in the dressing room with them right before the fight,” he said in a slightly trembling voice. “They both swore Kiethley would go down in the third round.” He coughed again. “Kiethley was going to wait on that jab-uppercut combination the other guy liked to use, let it land, then fall.”

“But that’s not what happened, was it?” McFarley said.

Gau’s coughing became almost spasmodic. “No, sir,” he managed to get out between the roars from his throat. “They lied. I don’t know why. Maybe the other side paid them more than we were going to.”

“That’s really no excuse, Jo-Jo,” McFarley said. “It’s your responsibility to see that things like that don’t happen.”

“I know, boss.” Gau coughed out once more. “And it won’t happen again. I swear it won’t.”

“There’s no need to swear to it,” McFarley said. “I’m going to personally make sure it doesn’t ever happen again.” He paused as his fingers tightened around the pearl grips of the Webley. “At least not on your watch.”

Without another word, McFarley lifted the big revolver, aimed it at Gau’s crooked nose and pulled the trigger.

The blast sounded like a nuclear bomb going off in the closed office. The .455-caliber lead bullet struck Gau between the eyes and he fell back against the couch, his arms dropping to his sides. The man’s eyes stared wide-open at McFarley.

The nervous coughing stopped, but Gau’s eyes still looked scared, even in death.

The sudden explosion had gotten Westbrook’s and O’Banion’s attention, too. They looked at McFarley, then Gau’s corpse, then back to McFarley again. McFarley wouldn’t have called their expressions shocked by any means; they had seen him perform violent acts before with guns, baseball bats and other items. But neither had been expecting to witness a cold-blooded murder at this time.

McFarley dropped the Webley back into the drawer and shoved it closed. “Get rid of the body the same way you did the others,” he said simply. “Drop him out of the plane somewhere between here and Cuba. The sharks need to eat just like every other animal on the planet.”

Westbrook and O’Banion nodded and stood up. O’Banion grabbed Gau under the arms, and Westbrook took the dead man’s ankles as they maneuvered him off the couch toward the door.

The telephone on the desk rang. McFarley answered it as the two men opened the door and began clumsily carting the former fighter out into the hall. “Yeah?” the Irishman said into the receiver.

“Tommy,” a soft voice purred.

McFarley recognized the voice immediately. It belonged to Sugar, the madam who managed the brothel on the lower floors of the building. She was no longer a working girl herself—McFarley kept her for his own private use. Of course he didn’t limit himself in that way, and in addition to her he had one or more of the other prostitutes several times a day. Sometimes with Sugar. Other times, alone.

“What is it, sweetheart?” McFarley said into the phone.

“Is everything all right?” Sugar asked. “We thought we heard a shot.?…” Her voice trailed off.

“Everything’s fine, Sugar. Thanks for checking. Now, keep it warm for me and get the other girls back to work.”

“All right, lover,” Sugar purred and hung up.

By the time McFarley had replaced the receiver, Westbrook and O’Banion had toted the dead body from the room. The Irishman looked toward the couch and the wall behind it.

Blood and brain matter covered the expensive upholstery, and he started to call down to the janitor—a man who was vastly overpaid to keep the brothel clean and his mouth shut—to come up and clean the mess but then thought better of it. He doubted the stains would all come out even with the industrial strength cleaner the custodian used. So he made a mental note to send O’Banion out in the morning to buy a new couch.

McFarley looked down at his watch. Matt Cooper would be here soon, and an idea suddenly struck him. He could use the gory mess on the couch and wall as an object lesson to this potential replacement for Gau. He could bring the new gym manager up here to his office after dinner. Let him see for himself what happened to McFarley’s employees when they screwed up.

The Irishman stood up and found himself nodding. An excellent idea, he decided, as he rounded his desk and left his office. He walked down another hall to his private living quarters. As he opened the door, the faint-but-familiar odor of perfume filled his nostrils. McFarley smiled as he walked through the living room to the bedroom.

Sugar had known he’d be wanting her as soon as she had heard the shot. She was a smart woman—especially for a whore—and she knew the types of activities that made men’s testosterone levels rise.

So there she was, already lying back on the bed, wearing a smile.

And nothing else but a red garter belt, matching fishnet hose and five-inch heels.

4

It was half-past-eight when the limo driver pulled through the iron gates and halted in front of the mansion. He hurried around the automobile to open Bolan’s door. As he stepped out of the vehicle, the smell of salt water hit him in the face and the soldier remembered that Lake Pontchartrain was second only to the Great Salt Lake as America’s largest inland body of salt water.

The driver escorted him up the steps, through two rows of chiseled marble statues in the forms of Greek gods, to the front door. The man pressed a button, and the melodious sound of two bars of music came from somewhere inside the huge mansion.

A moment later, a braless woman wearing a light, see-through shift through which a red garter belt and fishnet stockings were visible, opened the door. “Good evening, Mr. Cooper,” she said in her best sultry tone. “Mr. McFarley is expecting you.” She paused and stepped back to allow Bolan to enter. “My name is Sugar. It’s because I’m so sweet.”

“I don’t doubt it a bit,” Bolan said, smiling. He looked her up and down from head to toe, like he knew any hedonistic criminal such as the one he was portraying would do. “I hope I get a taste before the night’s over.”

A huge smile spread across Sugar’s face. She was undoubtedly pleased by the compliment, but her words told Bolan it wasn’t going to happen. “Sorry, honey,” the scantily-clad woman purred. “But I’m Tommy’s private stock.”

Bolan effected a laugh. “Well, if you’re not selling,” he said, “you shouldn’t advertise so well.”

This comment seemed to please Sugar even more. But a moment later, she became more businesslike—at least as businesslike as possible being dressed as she was. “Please come with me, Mr. Cooper,” she said. “Mr. McFarley is anxious to meet you.” With that, she turned her back to Bolan and began an exaggerated wiggle-walk down a hallway to an elevator. Bolan glanced at her hips as she strutted on. She wore no underwear beneath the garter belt, and she swayed back and forth provocatively with every step.

When the elevator doors opened, Sugar stepped back and motioned Bolan to enter. “Just push P for penthouse, Mr. Cooper,” she said, her words still dripping with sexuality. “A couple of Mr. McFarley’s associates will be waiting for you.”

Bolan did as instructed and watched the elevator doors roll closed again. As he rose in the car, he wondered when the device had been installed. The house itself looked to have been built long before the advent of elevators. At one time, it had probably been the main house that oversaw a large plantation near New Orleans.

The doors rolled open again and, just as Sugar had promised, there stood two men wearing dark suits and ties. A slight frown showed on both faces, and the mood suddenly shifted from Sugar’s friendliness to a slightly dangerous feel.

Both of the men had scars at the corners or their eyebrows, a dead giveaway that they were former fighters. The smaller of the two stepped forward and said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Cooper, but we’ve got to frisk you before we let you go any farther.”

Bolan had expected this, and as he stepped off of the elevator he extended both hands to his sides.

The man who had spoken started at Bolan’s ankles and began running his hands up the outside of his legs, looking for weapons. When he reached the waistband of Bolan’s slacks, his hand stopped on the Cold Steel Espada clipped inside. Pulling it from the Executioner’s belt, his eyes widened when he saw the size of the knife. Using both hands, he opened the blade, then said, “What had you planned on doing with this monster, Mr. Cooper?”

“Anything I needed to,” Bolan came back.

“You’re a knife fighter, are you?” the slightly larger goon standing behind the man holding the knife asked. His voice was slightly sarcastic.

“I’m a fighter, period,” Bolan said calmly.

The smaller man returned to Bolan’s ankles. This time he began feeling through his slacks on the inside of his legs. Just before he got to the groin area, Bolan said, “You seem like a guy who really gets off on this kind of thing. You planning to think about me later tonight, when you’re all alone in bed?”

The comment generated an instant homophobia in the searcher, and he barely tapped the Executioner’s groin area before moving on up to check his chest, arms and shoulder. Satisfied, he said, “Looks like you’re clean except for the pig-sticker.” He paused, staring self-consciously up into Bolan’s eyes. “You’ll get it back when you leave.” Those words ended in another short pause, until finally he said, “And no, I don’t plan to think of you when I go to bed tonight. You’re not my type.”

“That’s encouraging,” Bolan answered.

Without further ado the two men turned and led Bolan down a somewhat confusing set of intertwining hallways until they came to an elaborately furnished dining room.

Tommy McFarley was on his feet, waiting, just outside the room.

The man who had taken Bolan’s Espada whispered something into McFarley’s ear, then he and his partner disappeared back down the hallway.

Bolan studied McFarley’s face for a moment. The man looked slightly older than the pictures in the Stony Man file Bolan had reviewed during his flight to New Orleans. A little white had begun to creep into his hair, and the short, well-trimmed mustache and goatee showed lighter hues as well.

Bolan knew that the pressure of running any huge business—legal or otherwise—got to a man.

McFarley extended his hand and Bolan shook it. “I’ve been wanting to meet you, boyo,” the Irishman told Bolan with a big smile. “Ever since you started beating up my heavyweights.”

It was a statement rather than a question, so Bolan remained silent.

“I’m hungry,” McFarley said. “Let’s eat.” He turned and led Bolan to a long banquet table, much as Sugar had done earlier on the way to the elevator. But, Bolan noted, the view following McFarley wasn’t nearly as interesting as it had been when he’d trailed the woman in the see-through shift.

Places had been set at the head of the table, and just to the left-hand side. Bolan couldn’t help but wonder if McFarley was trying to send him a message by the seating arrangement. If so, that message had to be I’m about to offer you an important opportunity. But you aren’t my right-hand man. At least not yet.

Bolan took his seat as a woman dressed in a low-cut French maid’s outfit—nearly as sexy as Sugar’s shift—brought out a bottle of white wine and two glasses. The soldier held up his hand when she started to fill his glass. “No, thanks,” he said. “Just some water or iced tea, if you would.”

“You don’t drink?” McFarley said in a surprised tone.

“Gave it up years ago,” Bolan said. “Impaired my judgment. Almost got me killed a time or two.”

“Smart, boyo,” the Irishman said. “I drink. But lightly.” He chuckled as he turned toward the French maid. “Too much alcohol interferes with my true pleasures in life. Just half a glass, Maria,” he said, running his hand up under the back of the woman’s short skirt as she poured his wine.

A moment later, the woman he had called Maria left the room and returned with salads for the two men. Another quick trip through a swing door brought a variety of salad dressings in silver bowls. Both times, she gave Bolan a lewd smile like the one he’d gotten from Sugar downstairs. She also exaggerated her bend when she set the bowls on the table, allowing her already short black skirt to ride up over her bare buttocks.

There were a lot of different crimes that were coordinated in this house, the soldier realized. But if there was one theme that ran through all of the operations it was sex. Bolan was a warrior, not a psychologist. But it didn’t take a Freud or Jung to see that McFarley had an enormous appetite—or more likely an addiction—to amorous adventures with the opposite gender.

McFarley began to eat and Bolan followed suit. The kitchen was obviously on the other side of the swing door—unusual here on the fifth story of the mansion. It appeared that, like the installation of the elevator, McFarley had done some extensive remodeling within the old house.

When the salads were finished, Maria appeared holding a silver tray. The smell of roast duck wafted through the room as she set it down, this time doing so on the other side of the table from Bolan to allow him a view of the cleavage barely hidden by her low-scooped, laced neckline. Several more trips brought out bowls of potatoes and vegetables. As well as more exposures of female flesh.

“Not a bad spread,” Bolan said, breaking the silence.

“You talking about the food or the waitress, Mr. Cooper?” McFarley laughed.

“I meant the food,” Bolan said. “But the scenery isn’t bad, either.”

“Nothing but the best around here,” McFarley replied. “Sure beats a po’boy on Bourbon Street. Or the disease-ridden hookers who work the jazz clubs.”

“It does indeed,” Bolan said.

McFarley laughed out loud. “Our waitress also works downstairs,” he said. “She’s yours later, Mr. Cooper, if you’d like. And it’s on the house. Any of the girls you want. And however many you can handle—if you’re into that sort of thing.”

Bolan nodded. “If you’re giving me gifts like that, you’d better start calling me Matt. Mr. Cooper just doesn’t quite have the right ring for an orgy.”

“All right then, Matt, me boyo,” McFarley said in a thick brogue. “And while I don’t extend this to many of my other employees, I think you should call me Tommy.”

“You sure you want to do that?” Bolan asked as Maria sliced a large piece of duck breast and set it on his plate. “I’m just a gym manager.”

McFarley laughed again. “Not after tonight,” he said. “I’ve got a feeling about you, Matt Cooper.” He paused for a second then went on. “Plus, I know far more about your past than you think I do,” he said in a slightly lower voice.

I doubt that, Bolan thought. The fact was he knew exactly what the man knew about him. Aware that McFarley had connections high within the New Orleans Police Department, Bolan had seen to it that Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman, Stony Man Farm’s wheelchair-bound computer expert, had hacked into police files the world over and set up dummy files for Matt Cooper. They included arrests in many of the same criminal activities McFarley engaged in.

But no convictions.

The types, and vast number of arrests, had told McFarley that Matt Cooper was a player.

The lack of convictions told him that Cooper was smart.

“My question is,” McFarley asked after swallowing a mouthful of roast duck, “why did you want a job as a gym manager in the first place? It’s like a neurosurgeon working in a car wash.”

“Without boring you with the details,” Bolan said, “I presently find it advantageous to keep a low profile. There’s been a misunderstanding between two parties I worked with. It’ll blow over with time, but right now, I need something that keeps me out of the limelight within our own peculiar little loops.”

The Irishman scooped up a forkful of green peas and stuck the utensil in his mouth as he nodded. When he had swallowed again, he said, “I understand.” He started to cut another piece of duck with his knife and fork, then stopped. “You know, Matt,” he said, “with your experience you might be more valuable to me in other areas besides managing my gym.”

Bolan reached for a bowl of applesauce and spooned some onto his plate. “I’ve already told you, Tommy,” he said, finally using the man’s first name. “I’m laying low for a while.”

“When you’re with me,” McFarley said, “you’ve got nothing to worry about. We can change your name if it’d make you feel better. Even change your face if you’d like. I’ve got a cosmetic surgeon who—”

“That’s okay,” Bolan interrupted. “I’ve had my face changed a couple of times in the past. That’s enough.”

The statement was not an idle comment. It was the truth.

“Good enough, then, laddie,” McFarley said. “I don’t think you’ll be running across any of the people you’ve worked with in the past anyway. I’ve got my own pipelines, and like you said, we’ve got ‘loops’ not just one ‘loop.’ We may know what the other folk who do our kind of business are doing, but we aren’t in league with them all.”

Maria returned, clearing the table of dishes and bowls, and making sure Bolan got a good look at her again, both top and bottom.

“Are you up for dessert?” McFarley asked.

“I’m already stuffed,” Bolan said. “Better skip it. Besides, who knows which of your boxers I’m going to have to beat up tomorrow?”

McFarley stood up. “Like I told you,” he said. “Your days at the gym are over. I can hire any number of punch-drunk old fighters to hold the heavy bag and mop the floor of that place. The only time you need to go back there is to get whatever clothes and other things you moved into that pathetic little bedroom behind the office.” He stopped talking for a moment, then said, “Let’s adjourn to my office.”

Bolan followed the Irishman out of the room, down another hallway in what he had already seen was a labyrinth—almost a maze—of short halls and rooms. The entire top floor of the mansion had obviously been gutted, then redesigned to fit McFarley’s tastes. It was nothing if not confusing, and Bolan couldn’t help but suspect the man had set it up that way in case the unlikely police raid ever occurred. Without a map of the floor, it would take officers looking for drugs, illegal weapons, or any other evidence of crime extra seconds, if not minutes, to search the entire floor.

Seconds and minutes in which evidence could be destroyed. Or be used to effect an escape.

The Executioner reminded himself to spend as much time up here as he could in order to get the layout into his head. The time would come when he, probably alone, would have to search the penthouse for McFarley.

The Irishman led Bolan through a reception area, then past a desk on which several green potted plants sat. The desk also had several framed photos of what looked like family members. Bolan guessed that the older woman in some of the pictures had to be McFarley’s secretary, and that the Irishman had hired her in at least some effort to separate business from pleasure. All in all, however, the reception area looked vastly out of place in what was basically a whorehouse.

Reaching into his pocket, McFarley pulled out a key and unlocked the door to his office, ushering Bolan in before flipping the light switch. The Executioner stood to the side to allow McFarley to enter, and waited while the man circled the desk to his chair.

“Have a seat wherever you’d like, Matt,” the Irishman said before sitting down himself.

Bolan turned. The first thing his eyes fell upon were the wet blood stains and caking brain matter on the couch and wall behind it. “Looks like you had a hard day,” he said casually, then turned toward a stuffed armchair against the side wall. “Think I’ll sit over here.” He walked to the chair and dropped into it. “I have this policy against intentionally sitting in freshly spilled brain matter.”

Bolan had been watching McFarley out of the corner of his eye, and the expression on the man’s face told him the criminal kingpin had purposely brought Matt Cooper to this office so he’d see the bloody mess. The Irishman wanted to see how he reacted. And he wanted to know if Cooper would ask about it.

Bolan didn’t give him the pleasure. As soon as he’d finished his last comment, he remained silent.

Finally, McFarley broke the silence himself. “It wasn’t me who had the hard day,” he said. “Just one of my employees. I’m afraid he’ll no longer be able to carry out his duties, Matt, and it’s his job that I’m thinking about giving you.” He paused to draw in a breath, his eyes still studying Bolan but getting nothing but a poker face in return. “But I want to shift the responsibilities around a little first,” he finally said. “You’re far more capable, I think, than he was. So you’re going to have more responsibilities.”

Bolan finally let his eyes return to the gore across the room. “Well,” he said, chuckling, “let’s just hope I carry them out better than my predecessor.”

McFarley, obviously disappointed that he hadn’t gotten a reaction of fear from his new employee, became more direct. “He didn’t take care of business,” he said. “And he paid the price.”

“Don’t worry,” Bolan said. “I’ve faced danger before a time or two.”

“According to what I learned about you, it was more than a time or two.”

Bolan nodded. “That was an understatement,” he said. “But as I said, don’t worry. Whatever the job entails, I’ll get it done for you.”

“Then let’s quit playing footsies and get down to business,” McFarley said. “As of now, you’re no longer managing the gym. Let’s talk about what I want you to do first. What I want you to do tomorrow, in fact.”

McFarley then laid out, in detail, what Cooper would be doing the next day.

And while it hardly shocked the Executioner, he was slightly surprised. He had expected to be assigned to some form of smuggling operation—guns, drugs, or other contraband. But the act McFarley gave him was different, and Bolan recognized it for just what it was.

A test. McFarley had opened his home, his office and the girls of his brothel to the Executioner, and the Irishman had smiled and laughed throughout the entire evening as if he and Bolan had been lifelong friends. But as the criminal kingpin spoke the final few words of their multifaceted conversation that evening, Bolan could see in the man’s emerald-green eyes that McFarley still didn’t fully trust him.

And he’d go no farther with him until he did.

“Do you have your own weapons or do I need to furnish them for you?” McFarley asked.

“I’ll be fine on my own,” Bolan said.

“I understand my men took an enormous folding knife from you before.”

“They did,” he said. “And I’d like it back before I leave.” He stood up, then suddenly reached down the front of his slacks and brought out the North American Arms Pug. Setting it silently on McFarley’s desk, he said, “But they completely missed this.”

The Executioner sat back down in the stuffed armchair.

McFarley’s bright green eyes stared furiously at the tiny handgun on his desk. It was a good minute before he finally spoke again. When he did, he said, “I’d say you are to be congratulated on breaching my security, Matt. Very skillfully done. And it took balls.” The laugh he gave out now was forced. “No pun intended.” Reaching out, he lifted the NAA in his hand, looked at it, then tossed it back over his desk.

Bolan caught the little gun in midair.

“Take it,” McFarley said. “If you’d planned on using it on me, you’d have already done it.”

The Executioner nodded and dropped the Pug into the side pocket of his sport coat.

“But while you’re to be congratulated, my men are going to have to be disciplined,” McFarley said.

“I wouldn’t be too hard on them,” Bolan said. “It’s not fair to compare them to me.”

Then McFarley returned to his genuine laughter. “You don’t lack confidence, do you, boyo?”

“If you don’t believe in yourself,” Bolan said, “how can you expect anyone else to believe in you?”

“I can’t argue with that logic,” McFarley said. He stood up behind his desk, indicating that the meeting was over. “My chauffeur will take you back to the gym to get your things. I own an apartment and condominium development a few miles from here, and he’ll help you get settled into one of the units.

“What I told you I wanted done, I want done tomorrow. But I’m not much of a morning person. Shall we meet here for lunch before you go off to complete your work?”

“Lunch sounds fine,” Bolan said, standing up and shaking McFarley’s hand.

“But wait, I almost forgot,” the criminal kingpin said. “I offered you the ladies. Want a few hours down below with Maria or some of the other girls?”

“Sometime, but not tonight. I’ve got a move to make and a plan to develop so I can get your job done tomorrow and stay out of jail after I’ve done it.”

McFarley nodded. “You’re a man of great self-control,” he said. “I like that.”

“I like it, too,” Bolan said.

A moment later he was being led through the hallways by O’Banion and Westbrook, descending in the elevator and being walked to the front door of the brothel. When the shorter of the men opened the door for him, Bolan stopped and held out his hand.

“What is it you want?” the short man asked.

“My knife,” Bolan said.

The shorter man smiled. “I was thinking I’d just keep it myself,” he said. “Got to playing with it when you were having dinner. I like it.”

“I like it, too,” Bolan said as he reached into the side pocket of his sport coat, brought out the NAA .22 Magnum revolver and shoved it under the goon’s nose. “That’s why I want it back.”

“Where’d that come from?” the short man asked, looking cross-eyed down at the barrel.

“I brought it in with me,” Bolan said as he cocked the tiny firearm. “You missed it. Now give me the knife.”

Slowly, the man with the gun in his face reached into his own jacket and pulled out the Cold Steel folding knife.

Bolan clipped the weapon to his belt over his right hip, then pocketed the Pug again.

He waited while the chauffeur opened the limo door for him, then slid into the backseat of the vehicle.

5

Whenever a police officer was murdered, all cops around the world, both the dirty and the clean, took it personally. And they dropped whatever else they were doing to find the killer responsible.

Unless, of course, they were in on the murder themselves.

Bolan knew that while New Orleans had a reputation for police and politicians “on the take,” there were still far more honest cops in the Big Easy than crooked men and women in blue.

But what McFarley wanted him to do was a little more complicated. The big boss of the Big Easy wanted him to kill a cop who had been on the take, then had a sudden change of heart and had become irritatingly honest.

McFarley’s closing words of the night before still hung in the Executioner’s ears: “This SOB—Greg Kunkle’s his name—went to some church revival or something and got reborn. Now he not only won’t take the payoffs I was getting to him, he’s busted one of my smaller brothels and popped two of my crack dealers down in the French Quarter. I want him dead.”

Bolan had placed his suitcases and equipment bags on the bed in the luxury one-bedroom apartment to which McFarley’s chauffeur had driven him after a quick stop at the gym. In the wee small hours of the dark New Orleans night, he unzipped a short nylon case and opened the same locked hard plastic box he’d looked at earlier in the evening when deciding on what weaponry to take to the meeting with McFarley.

He was no longer posing as a boxing gym manager. The fake police records Kurtzman had set up for him had obviously made McFarley trust him enough to talk more openly. But this hit on NOPD Detective Greg Kunkle was a clear test of loyalty, as well as a way for McFarley to get leverage over Cooper.

Knowledge of a professional execution would be a big hammer that McFarley could hold over his head from then on. A few hints to the right ears, done the right way, could point the finger at Bolan as triggerman without involving McFarley himself.

But Bolan had different plans, and as he looked inside his pistol case, he realized there was no longer any reason not to go fully armed from here on.

The soldier removed his sport coat and slid into the black leather and nylon shoulder rig that housed the Beretta 93-R under his left arm. The rig was custom built to accommodate the sound suppressor threaded onto the extended barrel, and while the term “silencer” was one most often used by the combat noninitiated, the device did keep the noise down to a bare minimum and changed the sound to one less like a gunshot.

Bolan attached the retainer strap beneath the holster to his belt, securing it into place. Then his hands moved to his other side. Held in place by a pair of Concealex plastic magazine carriers were two extra 9 mm mags. While the Beretta itself was filled with RBCD total fragmentation rounds, one of the magazines in the front had been loaded with Hornady hollowpoints. They would pierce slightly deeper than the RBCDs, but still mushroom into an impressive mushroom-head-looking missile that rivaled a .45 in size.

The third magazine in the Concealex holder was filled with needle-pointed armor-piercing rounds. They were made for penetration in case the target took refuge behind metal or some other hard object, or was wearing a bullet-resistant vest.

Bolan double-checked to make sure the Cold Steel Espada was clipped to the back of his belt. Satisfied that the gigantic folding knife was in place, he unbuckled his belt and slid the Concealex holster onto the rear slot, stopping it just in front of the second belt loop of his pants. Then, threading it on through the second slot, he slipped it through the last belt loop and buckled it again. A second later, the Desert Eagle had been pushed down inside the plastic holder, making a clicking sound. A clip-on double magazine carrier, which was big enough to accommodate two more of the Israeli-made.44 Magnum box-magazines came next, and Bolan clipped it just behind his left kidney.

The Espada was flanked by the Desert Eagle and its spare rounds.

But there was one extremely important weapon that Bolan wanted with him again, and he reached into the side pocket of his jacket where he’d placed it while still at McFarley’s. The .22 Magnum Pug had passed through McFarley’s security earlier. But this time he wanted it as a backup piece for his .44 Magnum and 9 mm Parabellum rounds. Inserting it into a tiny leather inside-the-waistband holster, he clipped it over his belt, positioning it against his back and using the spare magazine holder that sported his extra Desert Eagle ammo to wedge it into place. When he was searched again—and he suspected he would be—McFarley’s man would take the Desert Eagle but likely leave the magazines in place.

At least the Executioner hoped he would. After all, the magazines would be no good without the pistol to go with them.

There was only one problem with the Pug as he saw it; he had not had time to test fire it. And Bolan never trusted any weapon he hadn’t personally fired.

The soldier sat down on the edge of the bed. An hour ago, had someone asked him if there was any sort of combat or criminal problem he’d never faced before, his answer would have been none that he could think of.

But finally he had thought of one. Or, rather, McFarley had thought one up for him.

Bolan lay back on the bed and rested on his elbow. His policy was to never kill cops—clean or dirty. He had in the past made an occasional exception.

And to make matters more complicated in this case, according to McFarley, Kunkle had repented of his past sins and was doing his best to make amends. He was no longer even dirty. He was a new man, different from the one who’d worked both sides of the law in the past.

So Bolan was going to have to fake the hit, convince McFarley that he’d killed Kunkle without actually doing so.

The Executioner had faked similar hits in the past, with the intended victims’ willing to help—and they were almost always willing because they knew if they didn’t help put their enemy in jail he’d just hire someone else to kill them. Bolan had taken photos of ketchup-covered bodies and used other props to make the death look real.

But this job was to be different. McFarley was familiar with the way cops posing undercover as hit men faked murders, and he wanted more solid proof.

McFarley wanted Greg Kunkle’s hands. With his police connections, McFarley could get the fingerprints run through AFIS—the nation-wide Advanced Fingerprint Identification System—and since all law-enforcement personnel were printed when hired, he could see if the prints on file matched the prints on the severed hands.

Which made the operation a hundred times more complicated.

An idea had been floating around in the back of Bolan’s mind for some time, and suddenly it crystallized. Pulling the cell phone from his shirt pocket, he tapped in Barbara Price’s number at Stony Man Farm.

As he’d known she would, Price answered.

“I need some help,” Bolan said without preamble. “Can you transfer me to the Bear?”

“You’re on your way now. I’ll scramble the call,” Price said.

A moment later, Kurtzman answered with, “Hello, Striker. Always nice to hear your voice and know you’re still alive.”

“You pays your money and you takes your chances.” Bolan quoted an old saying. “But since you brought up the subject of death, let me tell you what I need from you.” He began running down the elements of the McFarley-Kunkle situation to the computer expert.

“This sounds fairly simple,” Kurtzman said. “Hal can ask his contacts to get hands from a donated corpse at George-town’s medical school. Enough people owe the guy favors.” He paused. “I realize the body was donated to science, surely the hands can be sacrificed to a greater good.”

“As soon as you get the hands,” Bolan went on, “make a set of prints and substitute them for Kunkle’s on AFIS. But first, run them for real to make sure they don’t pop up on their own. If the hands’ former owner was ever printed—criminal record, armed forces, or for any other reason—they’ll pop up double when McFarley has whatever dirty cops he uses check them. And we don’t need that complicating this mess.”

“Already thought of that,” Kurtzman said. “If the new prints are already on file, I can delete them. Or get another pair of hands on the job . Sorry. Really bad pun, there, I realize.”

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