"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."

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."

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.