* * *
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!
8
The Executioner knocked on his brother's hotelroom door, then tried the handle. It was unlocked. He pushed the door open and entered. A pretty black woman was wagging a finger at Johnny as she talked. Johnny stood listening, dressed in pajama pants with no shirt. An electric shaver was in his hand and an embarrassed expression was on his face.
"Hey, the boss is here. He's the man you should talk to."
The girl turned, and Bolan saw that she was beautiful. She wore a single gold chain around her neck, conservative makeup, a jungle-green blouse and a lighter-green skirt. She stared at Bolan, and something like recognition came into her face. She said, "This young man came around yesterday asking me a lot of questions about my sister Charlotte Albers, and right away I got to thinking that he was asking questions no real reporter or writer would want to know. Can you tell me what is going on?"
Bolan moved forward, his hand out. "I'm sorry about your sister. You look exactly like her."
""Exactly" is the right word. We are were identical twins." The woman stared again at Bolan, who still wore the mustache. He had taken off the dark glasses. Her hand flew to her mouth. "My God! You're the one on the front page of the paper yesterday. The Executioner!"
"Mrs. Granger, you are safe. We are trying to find out if your sister was involved with a loan shark."
"You kill people. You shot those three men yesterday." She sat down on the bed.
Bolan stepped in front of her. "Did Charlotte borrow money from a loan shark?"
"Yes, she sure did. They were the ones that killed her!" She told them about the phone call, Charlotte's need for money, even the name of the man she went to see. "I believe in an eye for an eye," she added slowly. "I think you should do your thing."
"First, tell me the name of the loan operation."
"No, not unless you let me go along and help."
* * *
Twenty minutes later they were driving in her car down a street that showed mostly black faces.
"This block, halfway down," said the woman.
They circled and came up in an alley.
Around the back of the King Finance Company was a small sign. The door was locked. Bolan used a credit card to open the door.
No one was in the room. It was filled with boxes of paper forms, an old desk and a secretary's chair with one caster missing. They slipped into the room, and Bolan unleathered the Beretta as he moved to the connecting door.
They could hear voices in the next room.
Bolan opened the door a crack. He saw a short hall, a front counter and offices on both sides. Two men stood talking at the counter.
The Executioner motioned the woman to enter first.
"Let's see how they react," he whispered. "We'll be behind you, watching."
Charleen Granger walked inside. The men turned and looked at her.
The first one to react was the taller man. His eyes widened, and his mouth fell open.
"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 a
s 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."
Joey smiled. "I admire a cautious man. Incidentally, Emmett called and said you might drop by. Now I have some work to do. I'll look forward to your call."
Johnny left by the door he had entered.
* * *
When the second door beyond his office closed, Joey pulled out a desk drawer and adjusted several knobs on a small control panel there. A television screen flipped up on his desk.
He pushed a switch and a videotape began rolling in a Betamax.
Johnny Bolan's likeness appeared on the screen in profile. Joey froze the image and forwarded it to a set of computer memory banks for scanning and matching.
A few moments later the screen changed and the resul
ts were shown: NO EXACT IDENT. TWO SIMILAR CLASSIFICATION CHOICES.
The screen then showed a picture of a young television actor whose face resembled Johnny's. A coincidence. Joey hit the delete button and the screen went blank. Then another profile came up. It was the Executioner.
Joey laughed. He studied a split screen of the two profiles, first in line sketches, then with the best photograph they had of the Executioner. There were some similarities, but a dozen or so differences. Again, a coincidence. He hit the CONTINUE button and the computer reported: No EXACT MATCH ON SCREEN IMAGE. NOT A KNOWN FIGURE IN ANY OF THE IDENT BANKS. NOT A FRIENDLY. NOT A COPY WITH ANY LEA MEMBER ON FILE.
Joey touched a button and the screen recessed neatly into his desk. He touched another.
"Yes, Mr. Canzonari?" asked a voice through a small speaker.
"How many tails on the man who just left my office?"
"Two."
"Good. Get a report back to me as soon as you can."
"Yes, Mr. Canzonari."
* * *
Johnny sensed he was being followed even before he left the building. He caught a cab, saw a tall man in a brown suit grab the next cab in line. He told the driver to take him to the airport, then asked for the police station instead. When they arrived Johnny said he now wanted to go to his hotel.
The cabby was getting curious.
"Someone's following us," Johnny said.
"Not for long." the cabby replied. He gunned the Chevy down the block, into an alley, around the block and into the alley again. He parked behind a bakery. Five minutes later he eased out the other end of the alley and drove Johnny to the hotel. Johnny gave him a ten-dollar tip.
There was a message in Johnny's box with his key, listing a number to call.
Johnny hurried to a pay phone and dialed. It was the number Charleen Granger had given him to use in an emergency.
Someone answered on the first ring.
"Yes, hello!"
"This is Johnny. I had a message to call this number."
"Thanks. I met you last night when you talked to Charleen about her sister. I'm her husband." There was a catch in his voice.
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