Council of Kings (3 page)

Bolan found a phone and called the Portland Central Police Station. He reached Lieutenant Dunbar.

"Dunbar, I just drove past a whorehouse. It's still in operation. Why?"

"Hey, guy, we got other things to do besides bust hookers. Like a girl who took a leap out of a fourteenth-story window. Besides, we closed down three houses last night. Any idea what it does to booking when we bring in fifteen girls and about twenty johns? It raises hell with the whole operation."

"So you want me to raise hell in this town? Work on it, guy." Bolan hung up and drove away. As he neared the hotel, he wondered about the gun shipments. How could you fool the port customs officials that guns were really industrial machinery? They must have a system. Big bucks under the table? It would be interesting to find out.

A Cadillac limo swept uphill through Washington Park, curved along Southwest Fairview Boulevard and turned into a large estate overlooking the park and two-thirds of Portland.

Don Gino Canzonari's personal bulletproof crew wagon swung to the rear of the house and the four-car garage. The driver bailed out quickly and opened the rear door for a tall muscular man.

He was clean shaven, with dark, piercing eyes, and moved like an athlete.

He was a Black Ace, the only man Don Canzonari had ever known who carried a hit specialist from La Commissione's elite corps.

Vince Carboni stepped out of the Caddy and looked at the backyard of the Canzonari-family headquarters. Three acres of lawns and gardens trailed slightly upward toward a mass of evergreen trees. Carboni didn't care that he couldn't tell one tree from another. He was a city boy born and bred, and he was proud of it. He straightened the jacket of his seven-hundred-dollar suit and stepped along the sidewalk in his two-hundred-dollar Italian imported shoes.

Everything was so green he could not believe it.

Carboni ignored the beauty, the strangeness.

He was there on business.

"Where?" he asked curtly.

"Right this way, Mr. Carboni. Mr. Canzonari is waiting for you."

Carboni swept past the driver, who held the door, adjusting the Colt Commander under his jacket.

The house was palatial, even the rear entrance, but Carboni did not notice. He would not have appreciated the cherry-wood paneling in the vestibule as he marched along, a snarl slowly taking over his face. Gino Canzonari sat on a screened-in porch in the far wing, indulging in a breakfast of fresh orange juice and prunes.

It was a little after eight in the morning.

Canzonari rose from the chair, grunting as he hoisted the 250 pounds on his five foot five frame.

"Vince! Good to see you!"

Don Canzonari had met Carboni before, and knew his reputation for being disrespectful. But he was a good hit man, the best contract specialist the Commissione had. No one was better suited to take out the Executioner.

Canzonari responded to Vince Carboni's silence by saying, "The guy left a marksman's medal at the loan office where he gunned down three of my boys from a sniper spot."

"Must have used a high-powered rifle," muttered the visitor. "What else?"

"He whacked out Leo the Fish in a bar in Leo's home turf with fifty people around. Nobody knew anything had happened, thought old Fish was sleeping. Silencer, I'd guess. Took Leo's roll and his loan cards. My people are getting nervous."

"Tell them to relax. Vince Carboni is here and the Executioner has forty-eight hours to live."

"I've heard that before, Vince. Last night this madman pulls my loans director out of his own house, takes him to the company office, drills him twice, steals I don't know what and blasts the office into junk. He ruined every loan record on the premises. The bastard has cost me over a million already, and he ain't been in town for twenty-four hours."

Carboni removed his jacket, hung it over a chair and sat at the small table.

"Don Canzonari, I want a crew wagon with plenty of firepower inside. You have any automatic submachine guns?"

"One MP-40. I had it out once and it."

Carboni held up his hand and continued.

"I need five hundred rounds and two good men. A driver and one for backup. I want your best gunner. I want him here now."

The Don nodded, made a phone call. When he hung up he made an impatient gesture.

"His name is Rocco. Damn good man."

"I'll need three .45 autos and lots of magazines. After that I'll let you know what happens."

"Right. I've got a room for you here and a hotel room downtown. You can use either or both."

An hour later Carboni had settled into his room in the Canzonari mansion.

He watched a Mexican maid unpack his bags. When she was done he field-stripped and offed the MP-40, a weapon he had not seen for a while.

This one was in good shape; like most of them it probably fired high and to the left. But he would not need to sight it in. He would just spray the target. Once he'd checked out the weapons, had met his wheelman and inspected the car, he returned to the Portland Don.

"Where's Rocco?"

"He got hung up, but he'll be here in half an hour. Now what is the procedure?"

"The Executioner is my job. The minute he shows his nose, I want your people to call you before they take a breath. I want to know where he is. He's slippery, but with a fast-working crew we can track him down. Then he's my meat."

"I've offered five thousand dollars for the man who first spots him and reports in. What about the head money, the million the Commission put up?"

"It's still waiting to, be collected," Carboni said.

"You eligible?"

"Damn right." He shrugged. "And now I find myself waiting for this great gunman, Rocco. When he gets here, keep both him and the driver in the limo. If we get a call, I want them there and the damn engine warmed up."

Canzonari returned to his desk and called his loan operators, commanding them once again to contact him immediately if they even suspected the Executioner was around.

He called in his consigliere, and they discussed the problem of who to put in charge of the loan and prostitution operations.

It was hard to believe that Also Capezio was gone. He'd been slow to develop, but he had a good future. Now they must pick a new lieutenant.

The Don stared beyond his screened porch at the pool and acres of carefully tended lawns. He tried to enjoy the sun while he could. His was a high-risk occupation. He ought to live the good moments for all they were worth. He had lost five good men in the past few hours.

Vince Carboni must be an expert. Anybody the Commissione sent would be top drawer. But was he good enough to take out Mack Bolan? Five men whacked out and not a clue for the cops or his "rectifiers." He phoned Joey to meet them in the study with the computer evaluations on the top men.

Don Canzonari lumbered to his feet and waddled up to his office.

Joey was there when he arrived. The consigliere, Joseph Morello, went to his own office for some files and returned a few minutes later.

Joey grinned at his father and slapped down computer printouts. Joey was twenty-six, a graduate of the University of Oregon at Eugene and a bona-fide computer whiz. He had set up the programs and the hardware for the entire system. Now he could call up facts and figures on any of the family businesses, legitimate or otherwise. He'd even rigged his office so that anyone sitting in a certain chair could be videotaped from one of three cameras.

"Okay, business. Who do we have with leadership qualities who isn't already assigned?" the elder Canzonari asked.

""Leadership"? We aren't exactly overwhelmed with top candidates." Joey picked up a printout and flipped through the pages. "Best man for the job is Frank Genaro. He's been with the family for seven years. Has served well in half a dozen shoot-outs. Wounded once. Called to testify in a court case and said all the right things for the family."

Gino looked at his lawyer, who nodded. "I didn't think of Frank, but he could do well. How much education?"

"He graduated from high school," Joey said, reading from the printout.

"Morello, you talk to him. Tell him he's got to get the whole thing together again quick. We're losing too much in interest payments. And warn him that the Executioner probably knows about every one of our outlets."

The consigliere nodded and left.

Gino Canzonari turned to his son. "Now what about Jupiter? Is everything on schedule?"

Joey examined another printout and smiled. "Looks like it. My latest data show that the ship should be here the morning of the thirteenth, less than three days from now. The night before, we're having a little gathering of about thirty family people from up and down the coast and as far inland as the plains states. They all want to see what we have for sale."

"I don't want that hardware around any longer than necessary."

"Don't worry, dad. I figure none of the illegal stuff will be in our warehouse for more than twenty-four hours. We'll have twenty delivery trucks standing by for loading and immediate dispatch."

"And the Japanese crewmen and officers are all getting double pay for this run?"

"All taken care of. Envelopes with their cash will be in my briefcase, along with a million in cash for the man from Rome who put the shipment together. The balance we pay through our bank by computer, sending the cash to their account in Rome."

"Not a check?"

"No. Electronic banking will make the flow of money impossible to trace."

Joey left his father's office and went to the second floor, where he opened a double-locked door. He entered his computer room and settled behind his favorite machine. Then he punched up a category he had not used since creating it a year earlier.

"Mack Bolan," he requested. The screen filled with references to items in the computer's memory. He inspected the material. It all had come from a central computer in New York on a series of eight-inch disks.

Joey kept reading, astonished at what this man now threatening the Canzonaris had done in the past.

Mack Bolan pulled the Thunderbird to the curb.

He wanted to return to the gun store and look inside, but that was nighttime work.

He made a U-turn and drove back toward the store, circled the block and looked for an alley. There was none, but he found a vacant lot that gave him a distant but good view of the back of the store.

From his vantage point he could see the loading dock and the wide roll-up door. Then he slid down in the seat, stretched out his legs and played a waiting game. A pickup pulled up to the dock, loaded with two crates. Bolan figured they could be legitimate goods bound for a gun club or a shooting range. The driver did not enter the building.

There was a small hut attached to the warehouse, where a man filled out papers and serviced clients.

One more truck used the dock in the next hour.

Bolan drove to a nearby phone booth and tried Johnny's room at the hotel. There was no answer. He did not leave a message, but returned to the vacant lot.

Big signs at the retail gun store listed its hours as eight to five, and Bolan hoped that covered the warehouse section. At 5:15 P.M., he locked the Thunderbird and walked through the deserted lot, across a dirt track and toward the rear of Northwest Guns, Inc.

Fifty feet from the back door he paused behind some brush. A blacktop circled the building and became a parking lot, probably for employees and delivery trucks. No rigs were in the lot.

Clouds had been darkening overhead all day, and as he moved forward again, rain came down in a steady drizzle. Bolan ran for the small shed by the loading dock and checked the hut. Empty.

He tried the small door beside the roll-up: locked. There were no windows.

He dug out his lock picks and worked over the tumblers for a minute. Then he tried it and the latch slipped free. The Executioner eased the door open slowly. It was dark inside. He slid in, turning the knob on the night latch so the lock engaged as he closed the door.

He took out his pencil flash and flicked it on.

He was in a warehouse with twelve-foot shelves only partly filled.

He checked the first series of shelves and found a box with four Uzi submachine guns. They were fully automatic, with overhung bolts and 32-round magazines.

The next rack showed a pair of familiar M-16 rifles. They were fully automatic, not the semiautos civilians can legally own.

So the store was a front; the big money was in the back shop, where the Mafia stored illegal arms it could sell to whoever had cash to buy them.

Bolan heard a door creak open, and he dodged behind a stack of crates just as a pair of overhead floodlights came on. It was not the full set of lights, for which Bolan was thankful. Crouching low, he saw a night watchman with a key box in his belt. Bolan relaxed. The guard was making his rounds.

The watchman strolled to both sides of the dimly lit warehouse and evidently used keys there, then returned to the door through which he had entered. He extinguished the fights and continued into another section of the building.

The Executioner had seen what he wanted to.

He picked up one of the Uzis, put four loaded 32-round magazines inside his shirt and headed for the back door. He might as well restock his own arsenal while he was there. The nightstalker slid out the rear door, heard the lock snap into place and walked in the rain to his Thunderbird. There was no one around to observe the drenched figure in the twilight.

It was time to chat with Lieutenant Dunbar about the arms shipment. As one of the Law Enforcement Agencies that received briefings, the PPD might have some late information to share. Bolan stopped at a phone booth in a filling station and called Dunbar.

The detective answered.

Bolan did not identify himself, just asked a question.

"What do you know about a large shipment of illegal weapons headed for the West Coast right now?"

Dunbar knew the voice. "Nothing. Are the arms coming in here?"

"What I heard. Don't your people read their LEA notices?"

"I never see them."

Mack hung up, suddenly tired. He drove to his hotel on the west side, flopped on the bed and did not hear the phone when it rang four times about midnight.

At six A.M. Mack Bolan was sitting in his rented Thunderbird across from Northwest Guns, Inc., watching the parking spot labeled Reserved-Manager.

It had stopped raining. Gray clouds still moved overhead on their way to eastern Oregon and Idaho.

Bolan left his car and jogged to the Cadillac that was pulling into the reserved spot. He leaned both hands against the door and stared at the small man behind the wheel. He was about forty, and a touch of fear flamed in his eyes as he looked up.

"You the manager?"

"Yes. Nate Enright. May I get out?"

"Yeah, sure." Bolan backed up, playing the country bumpkin.

"What can I do for you?"

"Fire-insurance investigator. Need to look around. See if you sell black powder, how you handle it, the usual."

"We just sent our policy payment in."

"Right, but our new corporate owner has made some changes. I'm sure you know how that is."

"No, I don't know how it is. The insurance agent is my brother. His company has not changed hands. You're lying about this whole insurance scam."

"Who owns the gun shop?"

"I do."

"You run the warehouse in back of your store?"

"No, I rent the front half of the building."

"Who do you rent from?"

"Northwest Warehouses, Incorporated, a local outfit."

"Which is owned by Gino Canzonari. You don't know who he is?"

"Never met him. I hear he's associated with organized crime. But that doesn't paint me with the same stripes. Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."

"I'm sorry for any inconvenience. My mistake."

"No problem." Enright marched off to the front door, where two employees were waiting.

No wonder the front part of the store looked so damn legal. It was! Bolan checked the time. A little after six. At the phone booth down the block he called Johnny.

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

Mack hung up and wheeled the Thunderbird downtown.

The Executioner did not intend to make mistakes. In his occupation, they meant death. Bolan had learned this early in Vietnam.

It was in Nam that he was nicknamed "Executioner," and the name clung to him as his kill total mounted and he became known and respected from the Mekong Delta to Hanoi.

The other side of the Executioner was not so well-known. The common people of Vietnam, caught between a grinding war machine and the desire to live at peace, often found this Executioner to be a merciful friend.

He put his own life in danger time after time to rescue children and women in the line of fire. To these people he became known as Sergeant Mercy.

Bolan found no contradictions in the two labels. He did each part of his job with equal determination.

He performed his duty as he saw it, and was proud of the job he did.

Until that terrible tragedy that yanked him from the jungle and thrust him on a plane with an emergency leave in his pocket, to return home to find the members of his family either dead or hospitalized.

Bolan discovered the reason behind his family's tragedy and at once began to set the matter right. His first engagement was the Mafia loan sharks in his hometown, Pittsfield. Soon Mob families all over the country were feeling the Executioner's wrath as he utilized all his skill from the Southeast Asian hellground.

Bolan had fought thirty-eight campaigns against the Mafia when, to the consternation and embarrassment of the U.S. at not being able to control this rampaging tiger, the President issued a pardon. After Bolan's war wagon flamed out in Central Park, Bolan was presumed "dead." Secretly he rose again from the ashes as Colonel John Phoenix, working under government sanction.

This time the new enemy was terrorism.

Eventually he was framed by the KGB for a political murder in Europe, then hounded by his own government, which had fallen for the frame. A mole in the U.S. intelligence operation facilitated a KGB-sponsored attack on Bolan's command center, Stony Man Farm. The assault led to the death of April Rose, Bolan's true love.

Bolan struck at the heart of Mother Russia even as the United States and friendly nations searched for him. In one climactic showdown, he fingered and executed the mole in front of the U.S. President.

By his action, he had broken sanction. He was alone again.

Now the KGB, the CIA and police everywhere searched for the Executioner, hoping to haul him in because of the outrageous success of his vigilante actions.

Now another force was looking for him as well: the Mafia, and they put cash behind their search.

One million dollars for Bolan's head.

The vigilante was scaring the hell out of evil once again!