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