Council of Kings te-79 Read online

  "They're all dead. The captain took care of the last two himself."

  The pilot was thoughtful for a moment.

  "Say I go along with this. What do I tell them when they find out I clammed up for three hours? They'll lift my ticket. I'll be out of a job."

  "No way. Show them this." Bolan handed him a marksman's badge. "Tell them I threatened you and your family."

  The pilot grinned as he steered the big ship through a narrow opening in the channel and continued up the Willamette toward Portland.

  "Man, you got it all figured out."

  "Now if I can convince Captain Ohura. He's the tough one."

  Bolan found the captain in his cabin and talked to him for an hour; talked until the interpreter's mouth was dry. He used every argument he could. At last the captain laughed.

  "Because you and I, we resisted those pirates, killed all five, I will do it. I will wait three hours before launching my protest about pirates. And I know nothing of smuggled arms."

  15

  Bolan checked his gear. He still had everything he needed. He returned to the hold where the illegal weapons were stashed and checked the destination labels. The boxes were going to Johnson Farm Equipment Corporation in Gresham.

  Back on deck, Bolan saw the towns become larger as the vessel approached the outskirts of Portland. Now all he had to do was find a safe hiding place until the customs men finished their work.

  He hoped the freighter captain had a fast turnaround so the cargo would be off-loaded at once. Longshoremen would tie up the big ship, then the customs inspector would check the goods against the manifest and give them authority to unload. That could take an hour or two. It would be a simple offload. There were fifteen large wooden crates. They would probably be hoisted from the hold right onto trucks on the dock.

  He hid in the most obvious place, the captain's cabin. He had taken off his combat harness and all his weapons and packed them in a gunnysack he found in one of the holds.

  The ship docked on schedule and everything followed the usual routine.

  Immigration approved all of the merchant seamen's papers; a customs official went into the hold and inspected the big boxes, counted them and gave the signal to unload. The hatch covers came off and big gantry cranes lifted the boxes from the hold and lowered them onto flatbed trailers behind highway diesel tractors that ground away from the dock.

  The immigration man spoke briefly with the captain, then left. The customs agent sat in a camper on the dock, counting the big boxes as they came down. He had his cooler open, and hoisted a cold beer as he listened to an afternoon baseball game on a radio.

  Bolan waved at the captain as he walked down the short gangway to the dock. No one stopped him. He saw that the last of the boxes were coming down. There were too many for the trucks. Some of the rigs would have to make two trips.

  The Executioner knew the address, but there was a chance they might not go to that location. He phoned a local rental-car agency. Yes, they could deliver a rental car to him at the Port of Portland Terminal One. The driver would be there in fifteen minutes.

  * * *

  Gresham is east of Portland, toward the mountains. Bolan drove the two-year-old Mercury west of the town to a big sign that read: JOHNSON FARMER EQUIPMENT. Several tractors, combines, mowers and plows were parked at one end of the big lot. The Executioner drove past and parked at the far side.

  In the rearview mirror he saw a big truck with large wooden boxes on its flatbed enter the main gate and circle behind a long warehouse. This would be a daylight operation.

  Bolan shrugged into his combat webbing, put four fraggers on the straps and set the Big Thunder holster on his belt. The 93-R dropped into shoulder leather, and he was ready. He drove down one block, took a right and found a road behind the farm-equipment dealership.

  About a block down the road were a half-dozen fir trees that had never been cleared. The Executioner parked his green Mercury under them and looked at the back of the dealership.

  The warehouse had no rear windows, and no activity was apparent at either end. He walked through the tall grass of the vacant field, hopped a four-foot chain-link fence and dodged behind a large combine that was too far gone to repair. It looked as though it had been cannibalized for parts.

  There was not much activity in that section of the back lot. Bolan watched the warehouse door. After a few minutes a big diesel engine strained as it pulled around the back, and a truck-sized door in the warehouse, the one nearest him, rolled upward.

  The vehicle backed in and several laborers began unloading the heavy boxes with an overhead crane.

  Other trucks arrived with three boxes on each.

  The last truck brought only two; the driver said, "That's the last of it." He pulled away and the large door rolled down. A man-size door opened and six laborers came out. Ten minutes later four crew wagons rolled into the yard and eight men emerged from each one. Bolan knew who they were. They were the visitors, was top weapons men from each of the families on the West Coast, there to pick up their consignment of weapons.

  Greed and a hunger for murder had brought these men here. Their eyes would be glazed with a fever for the guns. The hollow men from the Mob would be careless of anything else that went on in the industrial wasteland of which the Johnson Farm Equipment site was a part. To them, the only things truly visible were the two facts uppermost in their minds: get the deal over with; and get it over with fast.

  Three minutes after they filed through the door, Bolan stepped from behind the combine and walked to the door as if he belonged there. No one challenged him. He entered swiftly, took in the setup at a glance, and disappeared behind an assortment of farm machinery that had evidently been displaced by the weapons shipment.

  The men who had just arrived were clustered around one of the wooden crates. Its sides had been ripped off, revealing parts of farm machinery, and also cases of arms and ammunition, rockets, rifles and MP-40 submachine guns. A light shone above them.

  Bolan moved through the semidarkness to get closer to the assembly.

  A voice rose above the general hubbub. "He told us not to open any of the boxes until he got here!"

  "So what? He ain't capo. So we open a few. What's to hurt?"

  Boards were pried away with crowbars, and one Mafia hit man held up an MP-40.

  "Wow! What I woulda given to have this baby last night!"

  A dozen of the Mafia hoodlums echoed his wish.

  Bolan knew he couldn't wait for Joey Canzonari. He moved closer, lifted the four grenades from his webbing and picked his targets.

  He threw the explosives, two on the side where most of the men stood, one in the middle, a fourth on the far side. The first two exploded with a shattering roar. Men screamed. Small arms fire sounded.

  The last pair of fraggers caught the men rushing away from the first explosions.

  In all, more than half the men were goners, and many of the rest screeched in pain and agony.

  The Executioner settled behind a bulldozer and fired over it. Every man who held a gun became a target.

  Nobody knew where the silenced shots came from. Six men hid behind the big box. Bolan picked off three of them with two bursts from the silenced Beretta.

  "I'm getting the hell outa here!" a voice screamed.

  "Yeah? Where you going, dumb ass? Get on the floor and find out who's shooting." A man rose and ran for the far door. Bolan brought him down with two slugs of a 3-round burst.

  More random firing sounded. Then a commanding voice rang out, "Cease fire, dammit! Don't shoot unless you got a good target. Look for the bastard!"

  Bolan spotted the man who had spoken.

  The man continued, "Hold your fire until we get a fix on the..." His final words were cut off as one carefully aimed round jolted through his forehead, spilling his brains.

  Bolan worked quietly toward the door. The explosions might bring the police, or might not, this place being some distance out of town.

>   He took a smoke bomb from his webbing and pulled the pin. He threw it as far as he could into the warehouse. It went off with a pop, and heavy, thick smoke rolled out.

  "Fire!" somebody screamed.

  Bolan found the way to the door was blocked by a heavyset Mafia soldier looking the other way and waving a .45. He turned when Bolan coughed, and swung his gun around. The Beretta sneezed twice and the hulk died where he stood, his finger too slack to pull the trigger.

  The Executioner jumped for the door, exited and darted behind the big combine outside.

  A sleek black Cadillac wheeled up, and its driver jumped out and ran for the warehouse, his weapon ready. A younger man stepped from the back seat, noticing the smoke pouring from the structure.

  "Joey?" Bolan called.

  The young man spun around, stared at the combine. The Executioner revealed himself, and Joey Canzonari jumped behind the wheel of his Caddy and skidded away.

  Bolan ran toward one of the four crew wagons.

  The keys were still in it, as per Mafia practice whenever a fast getaway is anticipated. He leaped in, started it, and gunned after the gangster. Joey was a quarter of a mile ahead, speeding through a red light.

  Bolan was not sure where the guy was going, but he chased loyally. They turned onto the broad highway to Sandy. The only place to go from there was south over secondary roads toward Salem or around the Mount Hood Loop highway.

  The cars slashed through the early-afternoon traffic at seventy-five miles an hour. Then the road narrowed and signs promised Alder Creek and Brightwood. They were on the quiet Mount Hood tourist highway. Bolan wondered when and where the Mafia Don's son would stop and fight.

  The two vehicles wound upward into the Mount Hood National Forest. Bolan decided to put the other car off the road for a final confrontation. He raced alongside and nudged the other rig, hearing sheet metal scrape. But the other Cadillac was as heavy as his and could not be budged. Joey raised a pistol, but before he fired, Bolan hit the brakes and eased back.

  Next he crept up on the bumper of the Caddy, nosed against it and tromped on the gas. The car shot ahead faster. Bolan pulled back from the swerving rig and took out Big Thunder. It was time for a sure thing.

  He aimed at the left rear tire, waited for a straight stretch of road and fired. The heavy slug blew a four-inch gash in the tire.

  Joey's Cadillac swerved to the left, bolted across the oncoming traffic lanes, nosed through a ditch, climbed six feet up a stand of Douglas firs and rolled over into the ditch.

  The Executioner parked on the shoulder and ran toward the overturned car.

  Twenty feet away, he stopped and readied the Beretta 93-R.

  Water hissed from the crumpled radiator.

  Bolan approached the rig and looked in the upside-down rear window. He could not see a body inside. He looked on the passenger's side.

  No one there.

  A twig snapped in the brush above him. Bolan jerked up and saw the flash of a yellow shirt as someone darted into the undergrowth.

  The jungle fighter dropped to the ground, crawled through the fern and light brush to a two-foot-thick fir and stood behind it. Now he was in his element. Now he was in Vietnam.

  Faint footsteps sounded ahead. The Executioner lifted the Beretta and advanced to the next thick tree. Again he held his breath and listened.

  The footsteps were clearer now and came from straight ahead. Bolan tried to visualize the map. They had not yet come to the little town of Rhododendron, so they were several miles west of the peak of Mount Hood, which rose to over eleven thousand feet and carried a snowcap year round.

  But they were high enough on the slopes that there were ten miles of untracked wilderness ahead of them. Going north the way Joey was heading, they could hike all the way to the Columbia River highway before they found a road. The guy must be planning to circle back.

  Twice more Bolan charged ahead, following a faint trail of crushed ferns and the sounds of flight. Then he saw Canzonari cross a small clearing.

  The Mafia specialist turned, snapped off a quick shot and disappeared into the woods.

  His young prey was moving slower now, the Executioner could tell. He was a city boy, getting tired. Whereas the trail had been through the thick brush of the rain forest, now it met a game trail where deer moved for water and forage.

  Bolan was sure that Joey would use the trail as the path of least resistance.

  He charged along a small stream, around a bend, down a six-foot embankment, then stopped. Ahead, Canzonari lay flat on a rock to drink from the stream. Seeing Bolan, he rolled away, fired once and ran.

  The Beretta spat out a 3-shot volley, and Bolan saw one bullet hit the hood's left arm.

  Joey screamed. The sound faded as he vanished into a clump of maples.

  Bolan jumped over a fallen log, and dropped to a crouch behind a young cedar. Joey was circling now. Bolan pursued the sounds, stopping every few feet to listen.

  For ten minutes Bolan tracked his quarry deeper into the woods, finally spotting him briefly as he worked across a bald area of shale along a small ridge. Except to get over ravines and ridges, the young creep was doing as little climbing or descending as possible.

  Twenty minutes later Bolan spotted him sitting against a fir. The guy was panting, near exhaustion. He sat with his handgun up, watching his backtrack.

  Bolan worked around him, then aimed and fired the Beretta at the guy's weapon hand. The slug slammed into the slide just over Joey's trigger finger, ripping the .32 from his hand.

  He roared in pain, then jumped up and stumbled toward the downed weapon, looking for his attacker.

  He tripped and almost fell. He did not recover the small gun in the leaves and ferns. He bellowed in anger and plunged forward into brush and out of Bolan's sight.

  Then he screamed.

  The Executioner rushed over and looked. He saw only Oregon sky and a cliff. Twenty feet below Joey had landed in soft dirt and brush. He staggered to his feet and ran into deep cover.

  But he was making no attempt to hide his trail, which swung around and headed back toward the highway. Bolan figured that hadn't been planned.

  He realized that the younger Canzonari was injured and lost.

  The terrain became a rocky and barren slope again, and Bolan saw signs of recent lightning fire. He was halfway across the slope when a rock rolled down ahead of him. Then came another and another.

  Bolan looked upward and saw the flash of a shirt as more boulders crashed down the slope toward the Executioner, each dislodging others. Soon a minor rockslide was thundering toward Bolan.

  There was no time to outrun it. Bolan darted behind the closest tree. It was barely two feet thick, but it prevented the heavy rocks from hitting him.

  After the last rock rolled by in a cloud of dirt and pebbles, Bolan leaped forward and raced around the slope in time to see his target leave a cleared section and enter heavy timber again not far from the highway.

  Bolan ran faster now, fired his .44 AutoMag twice just to let Joey know he was still around.

  In the heavy timber, Bolan heard the sounds ahead. The sounds of exhaustion, gasping and coughing. He came around a bend in the trail. A few steps later, the Executioner stopped.

  The chase was over.

  Joey Canzonari lay on the ground, exhausted. He struggled to sit up when he saw Bolan before him. The mobster's face was bright pink from the exertion.

  Sweat dripped from his nose and chin. His hair was wet and plastered against his head.

  "You going to blow me away?"

  "Why not? Isn't that the way you made your bones?"

  "I'm only a bookkeeper and a computer man."

  "Yeah, one of the innocents. And your hobby is killing girls and importing submachine guns for fun and profit."

  "Who the hell cares?"

  "Right. You have bigger worries. Like trying to convince me that you did not help torture Charleen."

  "I don't know what you're talking a
bout." Canzonari clutched his wounded right hand with his left, sliding both of them toward his ankle. Bolan seemed not to notice the movement.

  "So what do we do now?" Joey glared at the Executioner.

  Bolan lowered the 93-R. "Up to you. Do you want to go back and face smuggling charges on the guns?"

  "Look, there's enough money for you to live like a prince for the rest of your life. Five million dollars!"

  "You don't have that much, Joey."

  "My father does. He can get it for you." Suddenly Joey pulled a snub-nosed .38 from an ankle holster.

  The weapon barely cleared leather when Bolan lifted the Beretta and fired at the Mafia gunman.

  The round slammed through Joey Canzonari's right cheekbone and was deflected upward into his brain. He dropped the .38 and fell against the bloodsplattered fir. A gray-brown pulpy mess spilled from his shattered head.

  Bolan stared a moment, his finger still on the trigger.

  Then he walked away from the corpse and slowly slid the 93-R back in leather.

  The Executioner deduced his bearings from the snow-capped side of Mount Hood and walked back toward the cars.

  Fifteen minutes later he saw Joey's car.

  On the front seat was an attache case filled with money, probably some kind of downpayment on the submachine guns. It would make a good deposit in The Executioner's war chest. He threw the case in the crew wagon he had driven out and started toward Portland.

  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.