more familiar phrases.
“Twenty-one, a winner!”
“Craps, sir, you lose.”
“New player!”
“Fresh deck!”
“Next!”
An endless parade of feathered showgirls in outrageous outfits strolled along, offering free drinks to everybody. Lubricant for the opening of hesitant wallets. Along one wall were several small auditoriums with glass windows in front, soundproof, of course. Customers could see the show, but not hear what was being said, which lured them inside like sheep to the shearing. On one stage, a magician was sawing a topless woman in two, while in the next, fifty topless women were dancing in some bizarre version of the French cancan, and a third stage held a stand-up comic talking into a mike, the audience silently throwing back their heads with laughter.
Just then, a casino guard started to walk his way. The man held a radio in his hand to call for help in case of trouble, but his belt held a stun gun, pepper spray, handcuffs and a police baton. All of which weren’t necessary, since he looked more than capable of benchpressing a fully loaded Cadillac Eldorado.
“I’m sorry, sir, but weapons are not permitted on the casino floor,” the guard said in perfect English.
“Good to know,” Bolan replied, impressed that the guard could tell he was armed. Most guards wouldn’t have been able to do that. Clearly, he had been trained by an expert. “Now, please call the Gorgon, and tell him to haul ass down here, pronto.”
The guard scowled. “Who was that again, sir?”
“Just ask Security, and tell them somebody has a message for the Gorgon.”
“We have nobody here by that name, sir,” the guard said, as four more guards come out of the crowd. Their faces were smiling, but their body language told an entirely different story.
“Just do it. Bill Kirkland and I are old friends,” Bolan said calmly, keeping his hands by his side. A gunfight with unarmed men in the middle of a crowd was absolutely the very last thing he wanted here.
As the guards formed a tight wall around Bolan, the first one made the call. Almost instantly, there was a response.
“The Gorgon?” a voice crackled over the radio. “Nobody has ever had the balls to call me that except for… Mack, is that you?”
“None other, Bill,” Bolan said toward the radio. “Nice to see you’re doing so well.”
“What was that?” William Kirkland crackled over the radio. “Sergeant Padestro! Please give Mr… .Smith the radio and return to your usual duties.”
The cadre of guards visibly relaxed as the first passed over the radio. Then they departed without a backward glance.
“Your staff is well-trained,” Bolan said, thumbing the transmit button, while turning toward the video camera in the ceiling.
“Damn well should be. Did it myself,” Kirkland told him. “Man, I never thought to see you again, old buddy. Head for the private elevator near that statue of Pegasus and come on up! I’ll have the chef slap a couple of T-bones on the grill, and we’ll start toasting the fact that we’re not dead yet.”
“Sounds good, but I’m here to collect on a debt.”
There was a brief silence.
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely.”
“Be right down.” Kirkland sighed, and the radio went dead.
Going over to the marble statue of the famous winged horse, Bolan gave the radio to a passing security guard. He had to wait only a few minutes before the gold-tinted doors to a private elevator opened and a large man walked out wearing an expensive three-piece suit.
Born and raised in the Scottish Highlands, former NATO Special Agent William “The Gorgon” Kirkland stood over six feet tall and appeared more than ready to repel Roman legionaries from his beloved homeland.
Painfully clean-shaven, with a dimple in his lantern jaw, Kirkland had a suit of military body armor slung over a shoulder and was carrying a black nylon equipment bag that clanked with every step.
“Bill,” Bolan said in greeting.
“Prick,” Kirkland muttered in reply, then broke into a broad smile. “Damn, it’s good to you again. Even under these circumstances.”
“Same here.” Bolan chuckled. This close, he could catch glimpses of military tattoos under the other man’s silk collar, and hidden up both sleeves. Having patched bulletholes in his friend, Bolan knew that Kirkland was covered with enough tattoos, some of them extremely unsuitable for public display, that he could have been an exhibit in one of his casino’s sideshows.
“Okay, who do we kill?” Kirkland asked, shifting the body armor to a more comfortable position.
“As ever, the soul of tact.” Bolan laughed, offering a hand.
“Why change perfection?” Kirkland grinned as they shook.
A passing waitress paused for a moment to smile openly at the two huge men, then sighed and walked away, but put a little more motion into her hind quarters than was normal.
“I think she likes you,” Kirkland noted.
“I think she knows you own the place.”
“Cynic.”
“Dreamer.”
“But hey, it came true!” Kirkland gestured grandly with his free arm. “I own a casino! Welcome to Wild Bill’s Old West Palladium of Honest Cards, Easy Women and Cold Beer!”
“Now called the Grand Imperial.”
“A minor name change, I assure you.”
“Love to hear the story,” Bolan said, checking his watch, “but we’re short on time. Are you ready to travel?”
“Money, guns and passports, right here,” Kirkland said, jiggling the equipment bag.
“Now why would a respectable citizen like yourself have need of more than one passport?” Bolan asked, suppressing a grin.
“Believe it or not, there are a couple of countries where William ‘The Gorgon’ Kirkland wouldn’t be greeted with open arms.”
“More like ‘open fire’?”
“It has been known to happen,” Kirkland said with a shrug. “Okay, where to first, Sarge?”
Bolan noted the change in address. “I have some supplies stored just outside of town, then I’ve arranged a very expensive off-the-grid flight to Miami,” Bolan said as he began walking around the statue. “We need to pick up an expert in advanced electronics.”
“Sure, not a problem. I know a guy… Wait, did you say Miami?” Kirkland
