Council of Kings te-79 Read online

The Executioner drove three miles to Northeast Sandy, along it for a few blocks, then down an alley. He parked at the rear of the Eagleton Loan Company.

  "Into the office, Also."

  Capezio shook his head. "We never keep much cash here. Two or three thousand, tops."

  "Every little bit helps, Also. Now open up."

  They entered an office divided into a dozen cubicles, with a desk and a chair in each.

  "So what games do we play now?" asked Capezio.

  "I want names and addresses for all your loansharking offices like this one, and I want names and hangouts for each of your street sharks — like Leo the Fish used to be."

  "Whaddya mean, 'used to be"?"

  "Leo and I had a meeting tonight in his favorite bar."

  "You snuffed Leo?"

  "A case of lead poisoning. Now get the records for me fast, or you join him."

  The mafioso dug through a desk drawer until he found what he was looking for. He handed it to Bolan. It was a computer printout. Bolan examined it and put it in his pocket. Then he demanded a list of all the cathouses Capezio operated for the Canzonaris.

  Another neat computer printout went into the Executioner's pocket. Suddenly Capezio made a rash move. He whirled, grabbed a weapon from the desk and lifted it to fire. Two rounds whispered from the Beretta, pulping Capezio's heart and snuffing out his life.

  A locked file cabinet was marked Loan Records. Bolan put half a cube of C-4 plastic explosive on the front of it and another on a locked file labeled diskettes. He inserted timer detonators into the soft explosive and set them for three minutes.

  He was a block away when the bombs went off.

  So much for the loan and call-girl headquarters.

  Heading downtown, Bolan stopped at a drugstore and made two photocopies of the loan-shark and whorehouse lists and put them in an envelope he bought and wrote a name on the outside.

  He drove across the Morrison Street Bridge and stopped at the Portland Central Police Station. He handed the envelope to the first uniformed cop he saw.

  "Could you see that Lieutenant Dunbar gets this right away? He's waiting for it."

  The cop nodded and continued into the building.

  Bolan stopped at a restaurant and ordered coffee. Lists of targets to be eliminated were now a standard practice in Bolan's flaming war against injustice and terror.

  His actions against the KGB, murderers of his lover, April Rose, had been guided by a list he had seized of enemy agents working in America and the free world. Bolan made the KGB pay by working his way down that list. Now he had other kill lists to join the one that was central to the thrust of the Executioner's fight. Now he brooded on the escalation of his war, and on those who would be immediately affected by it.

  Fred Dunbar. Sergeant Fred Dunbar. They had worked together in Nam for almost a year. Dunbar had been strong on the search-and-destroy missions.

  He tried line crossing once and almost got himself killed. Bolan and his penetration team Able found the remains of Dunbar's squad and carried them out of there.

  Now Dunbar was a lieutenant in Vice in Portland, and a fine cop. Bolan checked his watch and saw that it had been a half hour since Lieutenant Dunbar should have received the goods. He went in a phone booth and called his old friend.

  "Lieutenant Dunbar, Vice," the voice answered.

  "I hear you do good work, Dunbar. Did you get my envelope?"

  "Yes. Who is this?"

  "Think you can do any good with those names and addresses? One sheet shows the Mafia-run loansharking operations. The other contains all of the Mob's cathouses. You probably know about most of them, but I thought I'd bring your records up to date."

  "Who is this? The voice sounds familiar."

  "Put it together, soldier. I'll be in contact. Stay hard." Bolan hung up.

  4

  Charleen sat in her comfortable living room in an east-side condo.

  She was an exact copy of her sister, Charlotte Albers. She was watching a show on television, but every minute or two she glanced at the telephone on an end table. Her husband, Ed, sat across the room, reading a paperback and watching the good bits on the tube.

  "Charlotte's in some kind of big money trouble," she had told her husband when he got home. They'd decided they had to let Lot try to work it out.

  If everything else failed they would take a signature loan at the bank to save her from the loan sharks.

  Charleen could never recall Lot being so frightened as when they had talked. Lot did not cry much; she was tough, assertive and independent. But lately she had a string of bad luck.

  Charleen walked to the kitchen, then wandered into the bedroom, where she hung up some clothes. She returned to the living room and dropped into a chair.

  The chiming mantel clock struck eleven.

  They watched the local news, then Johnny Carson.

  "Lot should have called by now," Charleen said.

  Ed looked up. "We'll hear. We can't live her life for her."

  "I know, that's what scares me." Charleen saw Carson doing his monologue, but didn't hear the words.

  * * *

  First policeman on the scene had to push people back from the grisly mess on top of the Datsun in the parking lot.

  "Keep back, move it back, all the way now. This isn't a sideshow."

  Another squad car pulled in, and then two more, and the police used tape to mark off the area.

  Officer Quincy Smith lifted the tape for the coroner to pass. He walked with the small man in the black suit up to the bloodstained white Datsun.

  The roof of the car had caved in. The black girl had been beautiful, still was. She was naked. The back of her head was crushed, but her face was perfect. He looked up and saw a dozen small balconies she could have come from. Detectives would be working those dozen rooms as quickly as they could.

  It did not take the coroner long. Preliminary judgment on the cause of death: broken spinal cord and massive brain damage. Officer Smith placed a sheet over the body and motioned to the men with a stretcher.

  Two ambulance attendants were bloody before they got the broken body off the Datsun and onto the stretcher.

  "You were the first on the scene?" asked a plainclothesman whom Smith recognized as a detective from homicide.

  "Right. I got here and waited. There were some people up on those balconies looking out, but they were just curious about the sirens, the activity."

  "Any guess, Officer Smith?"

  "Jumped or was pushed."

  The detective grunted and marched off toward the hotel.

  Detective Ormsby went directly to the sixth floor. The first five floors were too low a launching point to reach the Datsun.

  Room 606 was vacant. The hotel manager met him there and they went to 706. A couple from California had occupied the room for three days. They had not noticed the disturbance.

  On the next three floors they found nothing. A man in 1106 had tried to hide a small quantity of marijuana when Ormsby came to the door, but the detective told him to forget it and they moved on. A call came for Detective Sergeant Ormsby to go up to the fourteenth. He and the hotel manager went together. A uniformed cop showed them a woman's clothes and a purse. He had not opened it.

  Sergeant Ormsby did, and found a picture of a black girl about the right age and height. He looked at the face, and was sure. The girl, Charlotte Albers, had fallen or been pushed from 1406. No one was in the room. A call showed it had been rented to John Smith.

  "Hooker," the hotel manager said.

  "Probably," Ormsby said.

  Downstairs, he found out that "John Smith" was white, about forty and had arrived alone. There was nothing left in the room to suggest he had been there. They would dust for prints, just in case.

  "Any next-of-kin card?" the manager asked.

  "Yes. You want to make the call?"

  The manager shook his head, retreating.

  "Figures," Ormsby said. "We'll let our police psychologist do
that. He's going to earn his money tonight."

  5

  Mack Bolan left the restaurant, drove to his hotel, and took the elevator directly from the underground garage to the lobby. No one would leave a message at the desk for him: no one knew he was there.

  He went to the bank of phones, slid into a booth, spread ten quarters in front of him, then dialed a ten-digit number.

  The operator asked him to deposit the toll, and he did. Then a phone in Denver rang three times.

  There were three clicks as his call was mechanically forwarded to another number, which rang four times and he got a local dial tone.

  The dial tone came from a third number in Denver. Bolan punched in a long-distance number for Del Mar, California, and a moment later someone answered the phone.

  "Yes?"

  "Sentinel here, Strongbase. This phone-number latch-up you developed — you're sure there's no way it can be traced?"

  "Absolutely none, guy," the younger voice said.

  "How are the installations going?" asked the Executioner.

  "On schedule. Today we hooked up the second online computer. We should be fully operational soon. I have something you may be interested in. There's talk about a big gunrunning operation going down within the week. Either in Portland or San Francisco, with the betting leaning toward the Northwest. I have a batch of printouts from Law Enforcement Agencies' headquarters and a special briefing to all like from Justice. Maybe I should run it up there for you to check out."

  "I want to know about it."

  "I can get a 7 A.M. flight to Portland."

  "I'll meet you at the airport. As a test, bring me ten loaded magazines for the 93-R in your checked luggage. You might as well stay a couple of days. Perhaps you can do some research for me up here."

  "I'll be there."

  "Remember, you'll be strictly backup."

  "Suits me fine."

  "See you tomorrow."

  * * *

  Mack Bolan awoke at 5:30 the next morning, donned tan slacks and a light-tan sport coat that covered the 93-R and went downstairs. At the newsstand he bought The Oregonian. On the front page was an old picture of him, as well as a sketch of him in his blacksuit with a submachine gun and combat harness. It was a good likeness.

  He returned to his room and ordered breakfast.

  Then he attached a thick black mustache to his upper lip with spirit gum, donned a pair of reflective sunglasses and a tan beret.

  He completed the disguise as room service arrived.

  The waiter noticed nothing unusual. Bolan consumed the toast, orange juice and coffee.

  The morning paper featured a long story about Mack Bolan and described The Executioner as "a vigilante figure fighting the KGB and the Mafia, or a cold-blooded killer, was depending on your point of view". It even revealed that he had apparently been dead for a year, then had turned up not dead at all but working for the government.

  The story detailed that he was wanted by the FBI and the CIA as well as half a dozen foreign intelligence agencies, including the KGB.

  The story concluded: Portland Police refuse to discuss the possibility that the Executioner is in town, but the presence of marksman's medals at the triple killing yesterday and the second loan-operation blast seem to indicate that the Executioner is indeed here.

  Organized Crime specialists say that both loan firms hit yesterday are known to be closely tied to the Portland Mafia.

  Police say they have no warrants naming the Executioner. The FBI would not comment when asked if they have such warrants or if they are actively searching for the vigilante.

  * * *

  The mention of his name in me newspaper sent a chill down Mack Bolan's spine. Obviously it was his contact with Dunbar, the vice cop from Portland whom he'd known in Nam, that had instigated the report, and Bolan had no regrets that his message had gotten through loud and clear. But he knew that any newspaper report would be a distortion, inevitably a falsehood, just another source of future misconceptions.

  The true story of Mack Bolan was too searing, too raw, too personal, for the pages of a newspaper. The truth of his own story continued to trouble Mack Bolan himself.

  When April Rose was killed, he found himself shifting his entire psyche onto automatic pilot. And in that mode he undertook the Russian hit, the killing of a Soviet test pilot in Afghanistan after the enemy raid on Stony Man Farm in which April was shot dead. The killing of the young pilot was a decisive act for Bolan, because the man's father, Greb Strakhov, became the Executioner's sworn enemy.

  The Strakhov war continued through many missions, and was still fiercely unresolved. But immediately following the tragedy at Stony Man — a complicated time for Mack Bolan — some of those missions were more harrowing, more bizarre, than others.

  For a start, the Bolan invasion of Russia by way of Afghanistan necessitated the killing of a Canadian journalist, Robert Hutton, who had betrayed Bolan and who ended up as a halo of pink mist when the Executioner helped the guy drop from a helicopter onto the spinning rotors of another chopper below.

  It was not a deed to endear him to the journalistic world, and indeed Bolan found himself strictly persona non grata in the America to which he returned following his covert, deadly blitz on Moscow.

  U.S. politicians, agency chiefs, bureaucrats and law-enforcement officers all suddenly found an excuse to be down on Bolan.

  The get-Bolan response was undoubtedly a reaction to their own fears of the big guy, a certain unease they experienced with the legend of the Executioner, a guilt over what Mack Bolan really represented.

  So Bolan was very much on his own, and the difficulties mounted immediately. From the extreme and unsanctioned vengeance he wreaked in the sewer city called Washington to his twisting adventures in Kampuchea when representing the League of Families in search of American POW's lost in the blood-soaked world of the Khmer Rouge, Mack Bolan prevailed without ever knowing who his allies were-who would let him live or try to make him die.

  Of course, Bolan knew who his real friends were, his true allies.

  Aaron Kurtzman, the computer scientist paralyzed in the KGB smash on Stony Man Farm, who now gave secret support to Bolan with all the data resources and computing capacity it was possible to conceive of in the mid-1980's; Jack Grimaldi, the pluckiest pilot in modern history; Leo Turrin, a brilliant guy riding a desk in the Justice Department who showed up to fight alongside Bolan in the most unlikely places; Hal Brognola, the senior warrior of Stony Man along with Yakov Katzenelenbogen, and a national-security diplomat of outstanding powers who could always be relied on to get Bolan in or out of his latest fix; David McCarter, the British hero of Phoenix Force, who regularly became so transformed in the company of Mack Bolan that he achieved heights of reckless daring too hair-raising for dispatches and newspaper reports; Carl Lyons, Mr. Ironman himself, who admitted to only one equal in the world, and that was Mack Bolan. And, of course, the ghost of April Rose, because a phantom of incomparable beauty and courage was as much a friend as he could hope for in a time and a world of irreparable bereavement.

  And so many others... Able Team, Phoenix Force, Nile Barrabas of the Soldiers of Barrabas, many extraordinary and powerful men and equally magnificent women, who transformed his recent life from one of shadows to a career of flaming glory once again.

  His revival owed everything to the sweetness and the rock hardness of real people who knew him well and would serve him until death; it was that kind of loyalty. He was proud to fight with such allies.

  And now, on top of all else, his own resurrection was shared by that of his kid brother, Johnny, survivor of the holocaust that had once struck Bolan's family. Johnny was a young man in his early twenties, raised by adoptive parents, who today lived and breathed Mack Bolan as if his elder brother were himself.

  Bolan had a message for Johnny: no buddies.

  One day Mack Bolan would explain to Johnny Bolan Gray why it was that he believed that.

  On such a day h
e would explain why something called the Council of Kings had everything to do with that belief.

  He would reveal who actually sat on the Council of Kings, and would demonstrate how a thing that sounded so Mob-like, so criminal in the parochial world of Portland, did in fact have its origins in Vietnam.

  Unforgettably, Bolan had a buddy called Buddy back in Nam... Hell yes, he knew about the buddy system. And what destroyed it. He knew all about the goddamned bloodsuckers, the destroyers of humanity called the Council of Kings.

  One day he would tell Johnny what possessed him about that group of evil power-mongers. One day he would tell his young brother about Buddy. To Bolan's mind the Council, back in those Vietnam days, was more evil than all the Mafia families currently being rounded up in New York City by Justice and the NYPD. No recent mob council could be as vile as the original one that lorded over a jungle land ravaged by a thousand years of foreign kings, and Bolan would eventually get even with everyone who was part of it. That was what motivated him this very day: to strike at those who perverted the word "family".

  But first Mack Bolan had business to conduct.

  Mob business. Only execution could await the bodycocks who cut into Sergeant Mercy's path even as he tried to cope with the unjust deaths of all his lovers and friends and as he imperiled his own sanity with grief-stricken visions of April Rose, lost forever. But he would not ever imperil the fight itself.

  Vietnam... the Mafia miles... the terrorist wars... now back to mopping up the Mob — the same goddamned everlasting war, and it throbbed through Bolan's being like the living, palpitating memory of all the dead whom he loved.

  Ah, death, it was indeed the Executioner's very life itself.

  One day he'd explain to Johnny how it had all come to this, and he hoped to heaven the young guy would understand.

  For the kid's sake.

  Johnny's survival would depend on it.

  * * *

  Disguised, the Executioner left the hotel and toured two more possible loansharking hits, then drove to the north side of Portland, to Portland International Airport.