Damage Radius. Don Pendleton

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ