Damage Radius. Don Pendleton
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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