Damage Radius

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.