drugs, and Bolan was a realist. He couldn’t disarm a square block in New York or Los Angeles, much less a city the size of Glasgow. Cleaning up a state or country? It wasn’t realistic.
But he could stop one specific trafficker, and thereby slow the flood of killing hardware for a day or two, until the top man was replaced and pipelines were reopened. Bolan could take out selected buyers and make sure that they never pulled another trigger.
If his targets didn’t kill him first.
Boyle’s street was nice, its houses big and old enough to rate respect. Not mansions, in the sense you might expect for Texas oil tycoons or dot-com billionaires in Silicone Valley, but cruising past them in a humble rented car, you knew the wealth was there.
No walled estates or obvious security devices here. Bolan drove slowly, as if looking for an address—which he was, in fact—and saw no lookouts posted on the street near number 82. No curtains flickered as he passed; why would they? he thought. Boyle would take the usual precautions: sweep the place for bugs, use prepaid cell phones for his business calls and speak in code, stash any serious incriminating items well away from his home, and pay off whichever cops would take your money and agree to drop a dime before a raid went down. Or fudge an address on a warrant, so the search was bad and anything collected would be inadmissible in court.
Friends taking care of friends.
Greed was another problem Bolan couldn’t fix, and he had sworn a private vow to keep his gunsights well away from law-enforcement officers. He’d helped to put a few in prison, but if push came down to shove, there was a line he’d rather not cross.
So Glasgow’s Finest, even those who weren’t so very fine, had nothing to fear from Bolan. Racketeers like Frankie Boyle, however, were another story altogether.
If he’d known what was about to happen to him, to his little urban empire, Boyle would likely have been quaking in his boots. Or, maybe he was too far gone for that, a stoned psycho who never gave a second thought to fear.
Suits me, Bolan thought. Crazies died like anybody else.
He scoped the house and then drove on. Still daylight.
And the Executioner had time to kill.
Chapter 2
Glasgow: 3:35 a.m.
Frankie Boyle wasn’t drunk, but he was working on it. He’d been up and out since early afternoon, showing himself and being seen at the familiar haunts, checking accounts at different operations on a random basis, so the boys he’d left in charge would never know whose books might be examined next.
This night, he had surprised Joe Murray at Night Moves, one of the five strip clubs Boyle owned through paper fronts in Glasgow. One of Murray’s girls—Boyle’s girls, in fact—had beefed that Murray helped himself to tips beyond the standard fifty-fifty split Boyle had imposed on dancers in his joints.
That was a minor problem, which could have been resolved with just a quiet word, but Murray had been rolling certain customers, as well. Just two or three so far, but Boyle knew it would be bad for business if the word got out and customers stayed away. Worse yet, if it brought the police sniffing after Boyle.
And adding insult to the injury, Murray hadn’t shared the loot he’d stolen with his boss.
Major mistake in Boyle’s book.
Boyle had strolled into Night Moves at a quarter past eleven, with a couple of his boys, and put the smile on everyone in sight. He bought a round for the house and accepted the grateful applause in return, then took Murray to the soundproof office for a private chat. Murray reckoned everything was fine until he saw the ball-peen hammer, then he started bawling like a baby, blubbering and pleading innocence while Boyle got down to work.
Knuckles and walnuts sounded the same when they were crushed.
Boyle had considered smashing Murray’s feet as well, but changed his mind and took the greedy bastard’s shoes instead, along with keys to his brand-new Mercedes-Benz, and tossed him out the back.
Adding, “Oh, by the way, you’re fecking fired,” before he slammed the door.
The dancer who had tipped him off received a healthy tip and was invited to see Boyle at home after she got off work. When she’d arrived, a little after two o’clock, he’d thanked her properly. And twice more in the time since then, leaving her limp and snoring softly on his king-size bed.
No worries there, Boyle thought. He had no wife to scold him, and no kids to barge in without knocking first. After he’d satisfied his thirst, he might go back and thank the lady one more time. It would be fine if she woke up; if not, so be it.
Boyle was all about the gratitude.
Pouring his third straight double shot of Glenmorangie whisky, he thought about Murray again. In the old days, say ten years ago, he’d have likely killed the man for the money he’d stolen. Things had been tight back then, relatively, but now Boyle could dabble in mercy.
Unless Murray was stupid and tried to make trouble.
Boyle didn’t mind if he stayed in Glasgow. Murray could serve as a living example of what befell those who screwed with the boss. Telling the story to selected listeners was also fine, as long as Murray was straight about it, laying out his sins. But if he started agitating, or considered talking to the filth…
Boyle sipped his whisky, savored it, deciding he could always have the boys drop Murray in the Clyde or take him for a ride onto the moors if there were indications of his acting up. Until then, there was no point second-guessing his original decision.
One more shot before he went back to the dancer?
Boyle considered it, weighing the pleasure against any possible decline in his performance, and decided it was worth the risk. These days, it took a fair amount of booze to get him blootered, and in his opinion, he still bounced back in good time for a man his age.
Forty and counting. Who in hell would’ve believed that Frankie Boyle would last so long? he wondered.
Smiling, he took the shot glass with him. Back to thank his friend once more, before he sent her home.
BOLAN HAD USED the day to get his bearings, gather information and to follow Frankie Boyle at a discreet distance. He’d noted the addresses that, given the length of time Boyle spent at them, he had to have an interest in beyond having a drink or watching strippers work a pole.
Mapping the darker side of Glasgow, one stop at a time.
He had been parked a block away from Night Moves, south of Bath Street, when a weeping man had lurched out of a nearby alley, cradling hands that looked like shattered bird’s nests. Bolan let him go and wished him well if he deserved it.
Either way the man turned on Pitt Street, he would find help waiting for him. Go south for police headquarters, north to reach the nearest hospital ER. Both stood within a quarter mile of where Bolan had parked his rented car to wait for Boyle’s next move.
As it turned out, that was the highlight of his evening, until he followed Boyle home and started getting ready for his unexpected meet with Glasgow’s unofficial boss. The city council and police would angrily dispute that title, naturally, but the fact remained that Boyle controlled a major portion of the city’s underground economy.
This night, that would be coming to an end.
Bolan was dressed in black street clothes with sturdy boots, and he wore a light raincoat to hide the Spectre SMG slung underneath his right arm, muzzle-heavy with its sound suppressor in place. He always came prepared for trouble. Bolan didn’t know how many men Boyle had inside his great pile of a house, or how they would be armed.
Ideally, he would have a private moment with the boss and persuade Boyle to give up his terrorist contacts. But that was looking on the rosy side. Things rarely went that way for Bolan, and he guessed that Boyle would be the usual tough