"Holy shit! We got a ghost!"
The second man stared at the black woman without reaction. "No ghost. Her cousin or sister, maybe." He took a step toward her. "What do you want?"
"I want to see both of you frying in hell!" She darted forward, a switchblade snapping open in her hand as she lunged the last few feet.
The shorter man swept his arm out, took a cut on it, then slapped the weapon from her hand.
The taller man grabbed her and held on.
"Hell, Harry, what we going to do now?" he asked.
"You're going to let go of the lady," the Executioner said as he stepped into the room, the silenced 93-R tracking them.
"Who are you, asshole?" the shorter one asked, reaching below the counter.
Bolan only had time to see the twin snouts of a 12-gauge shotgun before he fired. The slug tore into the man's chest, slamming him lifeless against the wall.
The Executioner saw more movement. Another 9mm stinger from the Beretta cored the taller guy's brain, punching him backward and leaving his body draped over the count rather.
The Executioner looked at the two corpses, then motioned Johnny and the woman to follow him. They left the way they came in, then got into Charleen's car and drove out to the street.
Behind them in the alley a black man with a full beard looked up from a blanket of newspaper and yawned. He locked his eyes on the license plate, memorized it and shuffled into the back door of the loan office. What were two honkies doing with that cote black chick?
That license-plate number should be worth at least two bottles of wine.
He went inside and placed a call to Jody Warren.
Half a mile from the loan office, Charleen Granger pulled the car over, leaned out the window and vomited, retching again and again until her stomach was empty. She transferred to the back seat and curled herself into a ball.
Bolan drove downtown to the hotel and parked outside.
"Can I drive you home, Mrs. Granger?" Johnny asked. "I'll be glad to take you there and get a taxi back."
She nodded. "If you would. I haven't ever seen anything like what I saw today."
Bolan left the car. "I'll call your room when I'm clear. There's a big loan setup I need to check out. In fact I want to double-check this one." The Executioner looked in the side window. "Charleen, I hope you won't be talking to anyone concerning my work here."
She half smiled. "Don't worry. Anything you can do to those loan sharks has my blessing, the police be damned."
She waved, and Bolan walked quickly into the hotel, his raincoat covering the hardware. He went directly to the garage and found his Thunderbird.
9
Johnny drove Charleen Granger home in her car. At her insistence, he got out on a highly traveled street, where he could easily hail a cab. She waited until he had done so, then drove the few blocks home.
Johnny rode back to the hotel, went to his room and studied the computer printouts.
The more he thought about the gun store, the more it seemed there should be some tie-in. There should be somebody there who would know how to get his hands on an illegal weapon.
Johnny went downstairs, caught a cab, rode to Northwest Guns, Inc. and walked inside.
He wandered around the store for a few minutes, then approached a clerk.
"You've got a lot of fine equipment here, but I'm looking for something a little more automatic. Can you help me?"
The clerk was in his midtwenties, with hair almost to his shoulders and tied in a ponytail.
The guy squinted and rubbed his nose. "We got semiauto weapons, like the Uzi and the M-16. You planning on starting a war?" He grinned.
Johnny grinned back. "Exactly. What I'd like to get some fully auto M-16's like the Army uses."
"Illegal as hell," the clerk said.
"Illegal doesn't bother me. And I'm not from the feds. Look, some of you guys must have a contact who knows where I can find some."
The salesman looked around; no one else was near. "Hold it down, guy. Just look around for a clerk named Emmett. He's here somewhere."
Johnny found Emmett at the back of the store, polishing a glass counter containing the most expensive guns. There were Uzis and some HandKs and even a Weatherby Mark V rifle. Johnny explained to Emmett what he was after.
Emmett, who was about thirty and had a trim beard and flattop haircut, took a semiauto Uzi out of the display rack.
"You ain't asking for much, buddy, you know that? What you need them for?"
"That's my business. I need a lot, say a sample order of a hundred M-16's fully auto, including ammo."
"You're talking big money, man, at least sixty to seventy thousand dollars!"
"You've got to spend money to make money. You have a contact I can talk to? I'm in a hurry."
Emmett scratched his head, stroked his beard and developed a small tic under his left eye. He inhaled deeply and nodded. "Hell, why not. Just don't say who told you. See a guy named Joey down at Portland General Accounting. Tell him what you need. If anybody can supply it, he can."
Johnny slid the man a twenty-dollar bill and left. Portland General Accounting — the name was fuzzily familiar. From a pocket, he took a list of Oregon firms thought by one LEA report to be associated with or owned by the Gino Canzonari family. Portland General Accounting was one of them.
Johnny caught a cab to a plush high rise downtown. Portland General Accounting took up half the seventh floor. A reception desk in the lobby led into their end of the hall. Johnny spoke briefly to the receptionist, and a tall, heavy-set man came out who looked one hundred percent gorilla.
They went down a hall and into a bare room.
"Got to frisk you," the beast said. "Boss's rules."
Johnny lifted his arms to let the man pat him down.
Satisfied, the beast grunted and waved Johnny on to the next room. Within the fancy office with modern decor and rock-band posters on the wall stood a man about Johnny's age. He was five foot ten, slight, with auburn hair that looked dyed and a clean-shaven baby face.
Johnny stared, perplexed. "I'm looking for someone who can tell me about the availability of fully automatic weapons."
"You have the right man." Joey completed a computer operation on a terminal behind him, removed a diskette from the drive and put it in his desk drawer. "What do I call you?"
"Today I'm Jim Smith. My needs are simple — one hundred M-16 fully automatic rifles. The same ones the GI's use."
Joey sat in his executive-type leather chair and leaned back.
"You're serious. Who told you I could help?"
"He said not to tell you. And yes, I'm serious. I need these weapons quickly. I understand the going price is about six hundred each."
"Could be. I'm just an accountant."
"Sure, and my real name is Jim Smith. Can we talk business, or do I find someone else?"
The lighting seemed unusually bright, Johnny noticed.
"If you can deliver the one hundred," he continued, "I'll pay you half in advance for five hundred more, along with five hundred thousand rounds of ammunition and support magazines."
"Would a foreign delivery be satisfactory?"
"Of course. I just need to be sure of the quality of the product."
Joey pushed a button on the side of the desk, then stood and paced around the room.
"Let's leave it this way," he said at last. "If I can help you, I'll know within forty-eight hours. Where do I contact you?"
"You don't," Johnny said. "I'll phone you here, and we'll meet again."