Bolan went back to Portland the way he had come: the Willamette River due north toward the junction with the Columbia and on to the Pacific. As he drove, the Executioner reviewed what he knew about the Canzonaris. The big family house was in Washington Heights, an exclusive area. The family owned half a dozen firms, including a trucking outfit, several small legitimate businesses that laundered ill-gotten money, several lumberyards and a sport-fishing fleet that operated out of Astoria, Tillamook and Nehalem Bay. Most of their basic income was in gambling, drugs and girls.
Gino Canzonari's son Joey was a comer, and he was smart with computers. He lived in the Council Crest section, another exclusive area. Bolan had looked up the address in a roadside phone booth. To Bolan, it was ironic that the creep's address echoed the very slimiest thing about his father, the Don, which was the Council of Kings. Bolan figured a visit might be worthwhile.
Just after dark, the nightstalker was sitting in his car a few doors down the street from the Joey Canzonari residence.
The big house was walled, but Bolan noticed no gate or guards or dogs. Joey blended in with his rich neighbors. No need for conspicuous security.
Except lights. Floodlights bathed the front and sides of the two-story house, and the two Mercedes in the driveway, A half-hour after Bolan arrived, a man in his twenties left the estate in the 380 SL and drove away. Ten minutes later a woman emerged from the house and put the Mercedes 300 Diesel into the garage, opening and closing the door by remote control.
Twenty minutes later another woman left by the side door, walked to the street, and drove away in an old Chevy. The day help was leaving.
The rain had stopped. Mack shed his raincoat and sport coat, donned the combat harness over his black long-sleeved jersey, replaced the sport coat.
Seeing no one on the street, he darted into the yard beside the Canzonari place, ran to the back and leaped the six-foot stone wall. In the Canzonari backyard he moved to the rear of the house and away from the lights. It seemed too easy — the back door was unlocked.
Bolan went through it into a family room. He heard a television near the front of the house. He was looking for a den or home office.
Somewhere a baby cried.
"No! Cindy! Not now!" It was a woman's frustrated cry.
Hearing the woman walk toward him on the carpet, her slippers slapping against her feet, he slid between a couch and the wall. She went up some stairs. He heard her hushing a child, singing softly for a few minutes. Then she came downstairs.
"Oh, damn! It's over and I missed the ending age." More sounds came from what he guessed was the living room. A cocktail shaker was rattled and the television channel was changed.
Bolan edged down the hall until he could see into the living room. A blond woman with a drink in her hand sat on a sofa, looking at the TV. Her dress was open. He moved back through the hall to the stairs and ascended quickly on silent feet.
He found six rooms: the master bedroom, two other bedrooms, a bathroom, a playroom, a den-office with three computers in it.
Two of the computers were up and running and connected by modems to the telephone. A printer evidently linked to the computers came to life and chattered out something on tractor-feed paper.
Bolan carefully turned on the light. He examined the computer setup more fully. He figured it duplicated a system elsewhere, so Joey could work there or at an office.
What could he take that would not be missed? This was a soft probe, and Bolan wanted to leave no clue that anyone had visited. Stealing software and data disks would be too obvious. What else?
The wastebasket. He searched it carefully and found a banana peel, several accordion-folded printouts of figures and balance sheets and some scraps of paper with scribbling on them.
One torn and crumpled sheet bore two words in pencil: Karatsu Maru. He put the paper in his pocket.
He returned quietly to the computers, looking for something of value. He found it. On one of the pullout boards under the terminal were three sheets with signs, symbols and a list of phrases and numbers that looked like a code.
Determined to leave no trace of his visit, the Executioner found a blank piece of paper and a pencil and copied down twenty words and phrases and numbers. The two words he wrote at the top of the sheet spelled good news.
They were: "Access Codes." Finally Bolan copied the phone number on the handset near the modem and put the paper in his pocket.
Then the baby cried again.
Bolan snapped off the light as footsteps sounded on the stairs. The woman was muttering, "Second damn show you've ruined, kid."
She paused outside the den, and Mack ducked behind the big desk.
The woman took two steps into the room, still muttering. "I thought this door was closed." She shut it solidly and continued down the hall. The Executioner went to the door and listened. Nothing was audible through the solid wood; no hollow doors in this house.
He waited five minutes, and at last heard faint humming as the woman returned along the hall and, he hoped, downstairs.
He opened the door slightly and looked out, saw an empty hall. He edged into the hall. Safe so far.
He was halfway down the stairs when a blond woman, naked but for blue panties, started upward from below. She was carrying a tall glass containing a small amount of clear liquid, and her eyes were only half-open. She saw Bolan and shrugged.
"Hell, Joey, when did you get home?" She climbed the steps, pecked his cheek and continued upward. "I'm crashed, Joey, smashed and bashed and skunk drunk. Don't you ever tell mom." She stumbled on the top step and slid to the carpet.
Bolan quickly went downstairs, out the door in the family room and over.
Twenty minutes later Bolan sank into a chair in his hotel room and called Johnny.
"Mack! I've been trying to get you all afternoon. Charleen Granger was kidnapped this morning — her husband called me. They said they would phone him, but he hasn't contacted me again."
"Can you come to my room?"
"Be right there."
When he arrived, Johnny told Mack Bolan all he knew about the kidnapping.
"The only thing I can figure is that somebody spotted Charleen's car when we left that loan agency."
"Which is bad," the Executioner said. "Call her husband and see if he's heard anything more."
Johnny did, then shook his head. "The poor guy is still waiting."
"So we have to wait. In the meantime, see what you can do with these." He handed Johnny the sheet listing the access codes. "Did you bring your portable computer with the built-in modem?"
"I'll get it. It's in my room."
Johnny Bolan fetched it, plugged it in and positioned the handset. He dialed the number to Joey Canzonari's home office and made the connection.
Johnny entered one of the codes, and the screen showed the files and subject listings each contained. Quickly he worked through a mass of bookkeeping data, then came to the intriguing code name, "Jupiter." He punched it up and whistled.
"Here it is, Mack. Look at this. A ship named the Karatsu Maru is due here about 1330 hours on the thirteenth. That's tomorrow! It's to come in at Terminal One, berth fifteen. She has 9,783 metric tons, and the load is industrial machinery. Owner is listed as Canzonari Lines."
"Paydirt," Bolan grunted. "Now we have something solid. I'll meet them upstream. But first a couple of unfinished projects. You wait for word from Mr. Granger. I've got a date in back of that gun store."
The Executioner put a quarter of a block of C-4 plastique against the small door of the warehouse behind Northwest Guns, Inc., and set the timer for thirty seconds. It blew the door halfway through the warehouse and started dogs howling for half a mile.
Bolan threw two smoke grenades into the building and dropped a white phosphorus grenade outside. He sprinted to the phone booth on the street that ran by the vacant lot behind the warehouse. He reported the explosion and fire to the police.
Bolan watched from the vacant lot. A few minutes later two police cars arrived, followed by a fire truck that pulled up and doused the last flames of the white phosphorus with foam. Then the police and fire inspectors toured the warehouse, and six more squad cars and two unmarked cars arrived. Bolan, deep in the shadows once again, surveyed the distant scene.
That was one illegal arms dealer out of business for good. And the legitimate gun store would not be damaged by smoke or minor flames, so quick was the fire department's response to his call.
He moved on to another phone booth and called Johnny. Yes, Granger had phoned. The kidnappers had ordered Granger to bring either a hundred thousand dollars or Bolan the Bastard to a meeting set for midnight, only half an hour away. Johnny gave Mack the exact location and Mack gave Johnny some brotherly advice: stay in the hotel.
"The kidnappers know about us," Mack Bolan warned. "They made Charleen tell everything she knew about the Executioner. That's why they knew Granger could contact us. So get out of my room and wait for me in yours. Move it!"
Bolan hung up. It was his battle now.