“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 round
s.
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.
Damage Radius Page 4