16
He drove to the Portland International Airport and parked outside the chopper service.
"Coming up in the world," Scooter Roick commented, eyeing the Caddy.
"Belongs to a friend of mine."
The pilot chuckled.
"Hey, looks like your little boat ride turned out fine."
"Fair. You have any problems?"
"Not yet." Bolan tossed him a stack of hundreds from the attache case. "Here's a little bonus for you."
"Must be at least five thousand dollars here! Anytime you need a jockey, call me!"
Bolan waved, got in the rented Thunderbird he had parked there that morning and put the attache case and his weapons on the seat beside him.
Heading downtown, the Executioner considered his enemy: the Mafia, an international organization of the lowest and most cold-bloodedly violent criminals in the world. Many lives before, he had vowed to wipe them out, or at least thin their ranks.
The Executioner knew that a well-placed bullet, indeed, a stray, could finish his own life anytime. He was flesh and blood, and one faltered step would spell the end.
But until then he would never waver in his mission, launched in anger as a vendetta to avenge his family. But Bolan had long ago understood that personal hatred had no place in his quest, and that his fight had become a commitment to duty and justice.
For Mack Bolan, other people's fear of death was a weapon in itself.
Unleashed against the Mafia organization, the fear could tear it apart, create gaps large enough for The Executioner to move in and wipe out the Mob.
The warrior's conflict had taken to many states of the Union, and also to diverse foreign shores. During the terrorist wars he had even struck at the heart of the hydra, Moscow.
Now here he was, in a place where the land was truly bigger than man; where the majestic beauty of the Northwest seemed to humble ordinary mortals.
Bolan's rental neared the hotel, and as he entered the ramp of the underground parking garage, the Executioner put his past behind him and thought no more about it.
The present required all of his attention.
For the sake of any future at all.
Bolan took the elevator to his room. He had no sooner kicked off his shoes when there was a knock on the door. Bolan snared the 93-R and moved against the wall next to the door.
"Who is it?" he asked.
"Johnny."
Bolan relaxed a fraction, slipped the chain off the catch and turned the knob to let his brother in.
Johnny was waving a newspaper.
"Look at this, guy."
"Read it to me," Bolan said, relocking the door and unfastening his weapons gear. Then he moved to the bed.
"The FBI has discovered a big cache of smuggled guns, worth over three million dollars, in a shipment of industrial machinery at a Gresham farm equipment dealership," Johnny read. "The military-type automatic weapons, rockets and launchers have been turned over to the Forty-first Division of the Oregon National Guard, and the rest is being held by the FBI.
Gresham police are unable to account for the small-scale war that took place in the farm-equipment firm warehouse where the guns were found. By the time firemen and police reached the scene the exchange was over. Automatic weapons and hand grenades had been used, and police report men killed and wounded.
Survivors claimed that some of the munitions in the shipment blew up.
However, police pointed out that most of the wounded were hit by bullets, not shrapnel. A large number of shell casings were also found in the warehouse, many of the 9mm parabellum size, as well as .45 and .38 caliber."
Johnny read another story about a Japanese ship captain reporting a hijack attempt on his ship when a group of men overpowered the river pilot and boarded along with him at Astoria. The captain reported he and his crew had killed or pushed overboard all five invaders. Neither the police nor the captain could explain the attack.
Johnny smiled grimly and turned to the Executioner.
Mack Bolan was fast asleep.
Johnny Bolan let the newspaper drop to the floor as he studied his big brother. Sadness assailed him as he reflected on the tribulations of this brave warrior. The younger Bolan wondered what path Mack's life, indeed, the lives of the entire Bolan clan, would have taken had circumstances not been as they were.
Bolan awoke with a start, muttering April Rose's name. He took in his surroundings, then looked at his watch.
"Damn," he said, strapping on his weapons.
He had unfinished business in Portland.
Downstairs in the rented Thunderbird he checked over his equipment. A plan for dealing with Gino Canzonari, the Portland Godfather, had been forming in his mind.
He drove to a convenient phone booth and called Canzonari's private line, an unlisted number that changed every thirty days.
The Godfather himself answered.
"Joey, is that you?" the father asked, obviously worried.
"No, this isn't Joey, but I know where he is. Interested, Canzonari?" Bolan held the phone away from his ear when a roaring scream blasted through the receiver.
"Bolan, you bastard! Where is my son?"
"How much is he worth to you?"
"Half a million! I'll get you half a million in cash, no traces."
"Joey offered me one million."
"Okay, okay. That's the most I can get on short notice."
"Deal. In an attache case. Come alone. Anyone with you or following you, and Joey is turkey meat."
"Yes, yes. Don't get excited. This is just a business deal. Money for the boy."
"My terms. Go to Killingsworth and Thirty-third. Be there at exactly 2:00 P.M. From there you'll get new instructions."
"Whaddya mean, "new instructions"? Joey better be with you."
"He won't be. I've got to make sure nobody is following you and you don't have the place staked out. Take it or leave it."
"I'll be there. I'll drive myself. Satisfied?"
"At two." Bolan hung up.
The Executioner recognized the man walking along the sidewalk from pictures he had seen. He was about five-five and 250 pounds, and carried an attache case.
Gino Canzonari was doing as he was told.
Bolan moved his car slowly behind the Mafia chieftain. He could spot no suspicious cars trailing the Don. He might have kept his word — doubtful, but possible.
The Executioner pulled half a car-length ahead of the man and motioned him to get in. The Beretta was trained on the Mob chieftain all the way.
"Canzonari, take off your suit coat," Bolan commanded.
Canzonari hesitated, then stripped it off.
"Now take off your shirt." As soon as the mobster opened it, Bolan saw the wires and the small radio transmitter. He jerked the apparatus off Canzonari, threw it out the window and hit the gas.
Bolan noticed the unmarked police car behind him, and another on Killingsworth. He flattened the Thunderbird's gas pedal and the big car surged on. He slid through a stoplight, wound north to Lombard and Union and was soon on the 99 freeway heading across the Columbia into Washington State, toward Seattle. His gun was trained on Canzonari all the time.
He exited on the Washington side, powered around two interchanges and finally parked below an overpass.
Canzonari scowled. "Cops made me wear the wire. They heard about you and about Joey missing. They made me do it!"
"Sure they did." Bolan frisked him quickly, found a .38 in an ankle holster and threw it out the window. "They made you wear that, too? Where are the rest of your boys? How many cars did you have following us?"