Council of Kings (8 page)

Touching either board would be deadly.

He looked into the room beyond and saw a regular floor that once had been covered with linoleum tile. Now some had loosened and come off.

Leaning, he caught the top of the door and rode with it as it closed, swinging over the last two mines and touching down in the next room as his hands were about to hit the doorjamb.

The Executioner glanced at his watch. It was after 4:00 A.M. Plenty of time.

He did not need any more surprises. What was unusual and deadly about this room? There had to be something. Jody Warren was not going to give anyone a free pass through it. Did the missing nine-inch squares of tile form a pattern? No, they were random. He studied the floor. Why were some tiles removed? They had not been curled or steamed off. He examined the nearest bare spot. Strips of black adhesive that had once held tile were still visible. Around the spot the floor had been gouged and scraped.

The tiles had been removed on purpose.

Why?

Bolan turned and delicately lifted the half-inch board from the mine trigger. It was four feet long. He pushed an edge of the board against the floor where the tile had been. Nothing happened. He swung it ahead and jammed it down on the next empty square.

There was an immediate "spanging" sound, and a dartlike arrow whizzed across the room and embedded itself in the far wall.

The Executioner studied the near wall and saw a small slit four feet high. The wall was evidently an addition, built to conceal something. He could see slots along this false wall, some four feet, a few three feet high.

He watched the wall as he pushed the board against another bare square.

A black dart flashed from a slot and rammed into the far wall.

Crouching, Bolan moved toward the far wall, carefully avoiding the squares with no tiles. Finally he reached the door. When he tried the handle, it would not budge. Locked.

The time for finesse was over. Bolan still sweated from the nerve-jangling bout with the mines. He stepped back and drove his right foot forward, mightily kicking the door below the doorknob. It sprang open.

The room ahead was smaller, and empty except for another iron spiral staircase at the far end. He detected no booby traps. He held the Uzi as he walked toward the staircase. Nothing moved.

No sounds came.

He looked up the staircase and found the same type of dim electric lights that existed in all the rooms. With a critical eye, he cased the small room. No hidden dangers were apparent. Maybe he was through the gauntlet.

Electrified stairs? Easy enough, since they were metal. He dropped a penny on the metal. Nothing unusual happened.

He touched then gripped the hand rail.

He moved up the steps soundlessly, the Uzi raised, his finger on the trigger. There was no steel plate barring the top of the stairs. At last he had access to the inner sanctum of Jody Warren, Beast of Portland.

He climbed to a small landing, and peered into it over the top of the ladder. Sensing no danger, he continued upward into the room. It was about eight feet square, bare except for a door.

Soft music sounded from concealed speakers. Bolan tested the door.

Unlocked. He opened it slightly and peeked into the next room. He saw an old-fashioned parlor with a couch, chairs, a spindle-legged dining-room table in heavy oak and four oak straight-backed chairs with cane-laced seats.

Antique tintypes and a large, oval, glass-framed picture of a dour man and woman decorated the walls. The man had a heavy mustache and stood behind the chair in which the woman sat, looking very prim and proper.

Bolan hurried across the room to another door.

Beyond was a kitchen and a bath, and farther on, a large bedroom. A man and two women, all naked, lay sleeping on the king-size bed.

Jody Warren was short and fat. His stringy brown hair was scattered over the pillow. Acne scars pocked his face. Brownish stains, possibly from lack of washing, splotched his face and neck.

He mumbled in his sleep and reached for the closest girl.

The Executioner held the Uzi an inch above his ear and fired into the wall. Warren jolted upward, his eyes wild.

He saw Bolan in the soft night-lights and swore. Both women jumped up, screaming. Warren yelled, "Who are you? And who the hell let you in?"

Bolan tossed a marksman's medal onto the bed and the small man began to shake.

"Hey, it ain't me you want. Get the big shots. Me, I'm small potatoes. Get the bosses!"

"They come next, Jody."

At a sign from Bolan, the women moved off the bed and out of danger.

"Get your pants on, Jody. I hate to see a man die when he's naked."

"Hey, you got no fight with me. I just follow orders." He started to rise from the bed, rolled over and grabbed a .45 automatic from under the big pillow. Bolan slammed three shots through his wrist, and flesh and blood and bone sprayed as the heavy gun fell to the sheets.

"Bastard!"

"Get your pants on."

With his good hand, Jody picked up a pair of blue pants from a chair and got into them. He was in agony.

"May I bandage his hand?" one of the women asked.

Bolan nodded. The tall slender brunette took a scarf from a dresser and wound it around the wrist, stopping the bleeding.

"Now show me how you turn off the juice in that hallway, Jody."

Jody glared at him in fury, then motioned with his bandaged hand. "Down here."

The Executioner followed him through another room to a closet. Warren leaped on a brass pole and slid through the floor.

A fireman's pole!

The Executioner grabbed the pole and dropped into the blackness below.

There was no light, absolutely none at all.

Bolan guessed he had landed in a second-floor room on the far side of the hallway. He held his breath.

Hearing a movement to the left, he drew the silenced Beretta and fired three single shots.

Then the Executioner snapped on his cigarette lighter. The small flame revealed a figure cowering in the corner.

"Nice try, but you're still a dead man, Jody. Now how do you turnoff the juice?"

"It's on a timer."

"Where is the door in here?"

Jody pointed to the right in the flickering light.

"Open it."

Warren rose and opened the door. He looked into the hall. The slick, electrified surface seemed unchanged, except that now a charred wooden chair lay on the floor.

"Juice is off," Bolan said. "It must have burned out your reset."

Then Warren dashed into the hall, ran past two doorways and through a third.

Bolan caught the slamming door and stopped six steps behind Warren, realizing they were in the mechanical dart room with the patchwork linoleum floor.

Bolan watched the pimp and loan shark hopscotch across the floor, and followed exactly in his footsteps. Then his quarry burst into the mined room, tripped over the retaining wall and fell into the sand. He turned to Bolan with fear on his face.

Bolan stopped at the door, the Uzi up, amazement on his face.

"How the hell did you miss the mines?"

"I didn't. There's only one in here that's live. The rest are practice mines with no charges."

"Let's find the live one," Bolan said, triggering the Uzi into the sand, hoping one of the slugs would detonate the mine.

"No! That's not fair!"

"Tell Charlotte Albers about fair, you bastard." Shielded by the door, Bolan moved his fire to the other side of the room.

One slug found the right spot and the room exploded with a deafening roar that slammed the Executioner back into the dart room. He felt a sting on the arm that had been exposed, and saw a four-inch gash where shrapnel had penetrated. A red stream poured out.

He returned to the door. The mangled, bloody remains of Jody Warren were strewn near the far door.

"That one was for Charlotte and Charleen," Bolan said.

The electricity was still off in the hall. Bolan hurried across it to the end room, and found the black girl dressed in street clothes, waiting for him.

"Glad you won," she said. "I got everybody else out. Just the girls in trouble were here. I told them never to come back. I don't care about the bitches upstairs. We better split, cause the cops gonna be here in a couple of minutes."

Bolan nodded. He let the Uzi hang on its cord, and they paced out to the street.

The black girl looked at him.

"Don't know who you are, but thanks for the vermin extermination." She paused. "Hey, if you ever..." She stopped and shook her head.

"No way, girl. This man don't ever have to pay for his loving."

She grinned. "Been nice," she said. "Thanks again." She walked away into the Portland dawn.

As the Executioner got into his Thunderbird, the rain began again, soft and cleansing.

It was after 5:00 A.M. when Mack Bolan unlocked his hotel door and entered the room. He sensed someone there and crouched, then snapped on the light.

Johnny slept on the bed, fully clothed.

He sat up, rubbed his eyes and grinned.

"Guess I dropped off to sleep."

"Yeah." Bolan went to his suitcase, took out a first-aid kit and broke it open. Johnny was beside him in a minute, checking the slashed left arm, taking over. He cleaned it with a wet washcloth, doused it with antiseptic, put a compress over it and bandaged it tightly.

Mack Bolan inspected his wound, then put on a clean black jersey and looked at Johnny. "When is that ship due to dock?"

"At 13.30 hours, one-thirty, at Terminal One, berth fifteen."

"So it'll enter the mouth of the Columbia about daylight. I should be able to find it along the Columbia on the way."

"You need help?"

"I need two hours sleep. Then I'll be ready to go. See if any of the helicopter rental agencies are open yet. See if you can find one that has a pilot who flew choppers in Nam, and find out about renting a bird from eight o'clock to about noon, cash in advance."

Johnny nodded and turned to the phone book. Before he found what he was looking for, the Executioner was asleep.

At nine A.M. Bolan and Scooter Roick slanted down the Willamette River from the Portland International Airport. Both were scanning the water. They were flying a Bell Jet Ranger, with enough speed and power for the job.

Scooter Roick was a lean man of about thirty-five. His eyes danced when Bolan told him that what they were about to do was highly illegal but that Scooter would be only marginally involved.

"Damn, just like Nam. Most of what we did there was a little wild, too!"

"Some guys on deck may shoot at us with handguns or rifles," the Executioner said. "Are you still game?"

"Hell, yes! I haven't had any fun in years. You want me to set you down on the fantail of some freighter?"

"Right. She'll be moving upstream at maybe ten knots. Get me within eight or ten feet of the deck, and I'll go down a rope. There might be some guy wires or cranes on this thing. I don't know."

"Man, I'll put you down so you can step off."

"This freighter is smuggling a load of arms and ammunition to the Mafia for terrorist training. It's my job to stop the shipment from getting to port."

They talked about Nam for a while as they flew along the Willamette to the mouth of the mighty Columbia River as it flowed toward Astoria and the Pacific Ocean. They spotted a freighter coming upstream, but it showed a Dutch flag and was riding high in the water.

They continued downstream. Ten minutes later they saw another freighter.

"Japanese flag," Bolan said. They came down for a closer look. The name on the bow was Karatsu Maru. "That's our baby, Scooter. How does she look?"

"Piece of cake. There's that short mast right on the stern, but there aren't any cranes or lines stretched around. I can get you within three feet of the deck."

Bolan nodded. "We go on downstream until we're out of sight, then turn and come back at them low over the water."

"You got it!"

They continued downstream, made a sweeping turn over green woods and fields, and returned at reduced speed, barely above the river.

Bolan checked the Uzi, hung around his neck.

His combat harness was filled with the usual gear and two smoke grenades. Big Thunder clung to his thigh and the Beretta 93-R nestled in shoulder leather.

"Let's do it!" Bolan said.

The chopper raced up-current, came around a bend and found the black stern and churning wake of the Japanese freighter three hundred yards ahead.

Bolan looked down and saw water no more than two feet below. He hoped they did not hit a sudden downdraft.

He checked the latch on the outward swinging door.

Scooter looked over and grinned. "In another thirty seconds I'll lift our nose up and come over that fantail, then drop down, almost touching the left-hand side of the deck. You ready?"

Bolan unbuckled his seat belt.

Scooter momentarily scrutinized the controls, then the water and the black hulk ahead. "Now!" he yelled. The craft lifted like an elevator and nosed over the thirty-foot wall of steel.

Bolan slammed back the door and jumped. An instant later he rolled onto the deck of the Karatsu Maru.

He ran behind a small shack near the center of the big deck. At once the chopper lifted and headed downstream at full throttle. Bolan had seen no guards or seamen. No shots had been fired.

Two men rushed past Bolan to the stern rail and watched the chopper disappear. One was obviously a Mafia soldier. He held an old model .45 automatic. The other was a Japanese seaman wearing blue jeans and a blue T-shirt.

"Now what the hell was that all about?" the hood said.

"Friendly American hello?" the puzzled Japanese said in heavily accented English.

The soldier shook his head. "I think we got trouble."

"Yeah, back here," Bolan said, the 93-R in his right hand.

The hood spun, his .45 ready before he had seen a target.

Bolan fired. The shot took the hood under the chin and traveled upward through his brain. The Executioner rushed to the rail and flipped the Mafia corpse over the barrier into the churning wake.

Bolan turned to the stunned Oriental. "Friend," Bolan said, looking at the seaman. "I won't hurt you. How many bad Americans like him are on board?"

The Japanese sailor's eyes were still wide.

"You... you... killed him!"

"Yes. He's a Mafia criminal. How many?"

"Four. They come with river pilot at Astoria."

The Executioner scowled. It figured Canzonari would want some protection coming upstream. He motioned for the Japanese to follow him, and they squatted behind the metal shack for cover.

"Do the other Mafia guys have guns?"

"Yes, big pistols. Most of them two guns."

"Have they hurt any of your crew?"

"No, but Captain most unhappy."

"I bet he is. Can you bring one of the Americans back here?"

"Not if you kill him."

"Yes. I understand. Where are they?"

"One with pilot, one in captain's cabin with captain. Other two..." The Japanese shrugged.

"Do you know there are illegal guns on board, thousands of them?"

"No, industrial machinery!"

"Big closed boxes?"

"Yes."

Bolan asked the seaman to direct him to the captain's cabin. Then he ran past three cargo hatches to the superstructure.

There were three decks above. He slipped through a doorway and climbed some steps to the top deck and found the room he had been told was the captain's cabin.

The Executioner tested the doorknob. It moved.

He turned it as far as it would go to the right, held the 93-R in his left hand and quietly and quickly opened the door.

It was a big cabin with a window. A Japanese man — the captain, Bolan guessed — sat in a soft chair. A tall Mafia soldier wearing jeans and a T-shirt and a black stocking cap stood looking out to sea.

"I thought I saw a white man down there," muttered the hardman. "You got anybody else on board?" He glared at the captain, a heavy handgun held at his side.

"I'm right here, bad-ass," Bolan said quietly.

The soldier spun, his piece coming up, but it never reached target. A 9mm slug punched a widening hole through the side of the soldier's head, killing him with only the sound of a gentle cough.

The captain leaped to his feet, chattering in Japanese. At that moment the seaman Bolan had met below entered and began translating.

"Captain Ohura wants to know if you are one of the criminals."

"No. I'm here to help him, to help all of you and to stop the hidden arms from reaching their new owners."

The crewman translated. The bilingual man listened to the captain speak, then turned to Bolan.

"Then you are a policeman. Welcome. Now we must retake the bridge. Another pirate is there with the river pilot, and you may kill the criminal, also, if you wish."

Bolan grinned. "You lead," he said.

The seaman spoke briefly to the captain, who took a small automatic from a handsome mahogany cabinet.

Then they left the cabin and moved forward and to the left, as the seaman indicated.

"That's the door. Inside are three big windows, and navigational and operating instruments. The pilot knows the river and he steers us upstream to the port." The captain spoke quietly but sharply. The seaman listened, then translated. "Captain Ohura says he must fight this battle. It is his honor. I am to enter the room first to distract the Mafia man. My captain will capture him."

"Tell him I'll back him up at the door." Bolan stood by the wall beside the door and watched the seaman open it and enter the room.

"What the hell! Told you guys to stay off the bridge!" The voice was a roar.

The seaman muttered something softly.

"What the hell! Speak up!"

The captain bolted into the room. Bolan followed, aware that more than one Mafia soldier might be inside.

There was not.

The captain yelled something in Japanese in a wild, high voice, then shot on the handgun sounded like a .32 to Bolan, who watched the hoodlum take four rounds in the chest, then drop the .45 automatic he carried and collapse. There was no need to check his condition.

The American pilot at the electronic steering board stared in amazement.

"What's going on here? First these gunmen take over the ship, and now the captain shoots this guy down in a rage. And who are you?"

"Shall you just got a gun out of your ribs, joker. Don't push your luck. You do your job, we'll do ours." The Japanese were talking quietly. The bilingual seaman approached Bolan.

"My captain says he will stay here with door locked. I show you where last two are. He says you may kill them."

"Let's go find the other two rats in your holds."

They descended metal ladders, traveled along the deck, then down more ladders into a dark hold. It was jammed with big boxes and pallets of goods stacked high against the walls. Ahead, by a bright light, two men were laughing and joking as they wiped grease off a pair of submachine guns. A large cargo box was open beside them.

Bolan noticed that neither seemed to be familiar with the big weapons, and neither held side arms.

Bolan lifted the Uzi, made sure it was charged with a round and crept forward in the gloom. He stopped beside two heavy pine boxes and looked around. The men were trying to load a magazine with rounds. The two weapons were German-made MP-40 submachine guns.

"You've got to release the operating lever first, guys," Bolan said from twenty feet away.

Both men dropped the machine guns and dug for hand weapons.

The Executioner triggered a 5-round burst at the faster one, dumping him on the floor in front of the box with four holes in his chest. The slower one dived to the floor and crawled behind a wooden box. Bolan motioned for the seaman to stay put and ran ahead to the cover of an eight-foot-square box, the first in a row.

There was no sound. Stepping on a small crate, Bolan boosted himself on top of the tall box. He bellied across it and looked down an aisle.

Nothing. He jumped to the next box, and bellied across it and looked down. More nothing. He jumped to a third box and looked down. The gunman lay directly below, his .45 two feet from his hand.

Bolan stood.

The gunman lunged for his weapon.

"Touch it and you're full of lead." The hand stopped moving. "Some questions. You work for Canzonari?"

"Yes."

"Will he be at dockside at one-thirty today?"

"Yes, him and Joey."

"Good. Now stand up and walk back to those MPBLEDJ's. Put them away so all looks fine. Are all of the hidden weapons in this hold?"

"Yes. I saw the loading manifest."

"Move it."

The soldier repacked the two submachine guns in the box, replaced the box in the larger crate and nailed it shut. It took five minutes.

The box looked enough like the other crates now to pass. Bolan was about to order the mobster to move, when he heard someone coming.

Captain Ohura stepped into the glow of the bare bulb in the cargo hold, and glared at the hoodlum without speaking.

Then the Japanese skipper took out his small automatic and shot the hood in the head three times at point-blank range.

The Executioner watched as the Japanese maritime captain fired twice more into the Mafia gunman after he fell to the floor.

The captain intoned something in an urgent voice and marched away.

Bolan turned to the interpreter.

"The captain says this man has no right to live, no right to dirty the captain's good name by using his ship for smuggling."

"I have some suggestions," Bolan said. "First you hide the dead Mafia gunmen in a locker. Then I want to see who comes to pick up the guns. When your captain calms down, explain this to him. There will be no problems for him over the smuggled guns."

The Japanese seaman nodded grimly. "I try, but captain is furious. We have three hours before docking. I better go free rest of crew."

Bolan went topside and talked with the pilot.

"Three hours is all I need," Bolan instructed. "Do not mention the Mafia hoodlums or the killings to the customs and immigration inspector. At the end of that time you can tell the port authorities, the FBI and the Portland Police Department anything you want."

The pilot was in his mid-forties and had been up and down the river between Portland and The Dalles more times than he could count.

"This is the craziest ride I've ever had. Those guys really Mafia hoodlums?"

"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."