Damage Radius. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ