The present required all of his attention.

For the sake of any future at all.

Bolan took the elevator to his room. He had no sooner kicked off his shoes when there was a knock on the door. Bolan snared the 93-R and moved against the wall next to the door.

"Who is it?" he asked.

"Johnny."

Bolan relaxed a fraction, slipped the chain off the catch and turned the knob to let his brother in.

Johnny was waving a newspaper.

"Look at this, guy."

"Read it to me," Bolan said, relocking the door and unfastening his weapons gear. Then he moved to the bed.

"The FBI has discovered a big cache of smuggled guns, worth over three million dollars, in a shipment of industrial machinery at a Gresham farm equipment dealership," Johnny read. "The military-type automatic weapons, rockets and launchers have been turned over to the Forty-first Division of the Oregon National Guard, and the rest is being held by the FBI.

Gresham police are unable to account for the small-scale war that took place in the farm-equipment firm warehouse where the guns were found. By the time firemen and police reached the scene the exchange was over. Automatic weapons and hand grenades had been used, and police report men killed and wounded.

Survivors claimed that some of the munitions in the shipment blew up.

However, police pointed out that most of the wounded were hit by bullets, not shrapnel. A large number of shell casings were also found in the warehouse, many of the 9mm parabellum size, as well as .45 and .38 caliber."

Johnny read another story about a Japanese ship captain reporting a hijack attempt on his ship when a group of men overpowered the river pilot and boarded along with him at Astoria. The captain reported he and his crew had killed or pushed overboard all five invaders. Neither the police nor the captain could explain the attack.

Johnny smiled grimly and turned to the Executioner.

Mack Bolan was fast asleep.

Johnny Bolan let the newspaper drop to the floor as he studied his big brother. Sadness assailed him as he reflected on the tribulations of this brave warrior. The younger Bolan wondered what path Mack's life, indeed, the lives of the entire Bolan clan, would have taken had circumstances not been as they were.

Bolan awoke with a start, muttering April Rose's name. He took in his surroundings, then looked at his watch.

"Damn," he said, strapping on his weapons.

He had unfinished business in Portland.

Downstairs in the rented Thunderbird he checked over his equipment. A plan for dealing with Gino Canzonari, the Portland Godfather, had been forming in his mind.

He drove to a convenient phone booth and called Canzonari's private line, an unlisted number that changed every thirty days.

The Godfather himself answered.

"Joey, is that you?" the father asked, obviously worried.

"No, this isn't Joey, but I know where he is. Interested, Canzonari?" Bolan held the phone away from his ear when a roaring scream blasted through the receiver.

"Bolan, you bastard! Where is my son?"

"How much is he worth to you?"

"Half a million! I'll get you half a million in cash, no traces."

"Joey offered me one million."

"Okay, okay. That's the most I can get on short notice."

"Deal. In an attache case. Come alone. Anyone with you or following you, and Joey is turkey meat."

"Yes, yes. Don't get excited. This is just a business deal. Money for the boy."

"My terms. Go to Killingsworth and Thirty-third. Be there at exactly 2:00 P.M. From there you'll get new instructions."

"Whaddya mean, "new instructions"? Joey better be with you."

"He won't be. I've got to make sure nobody is following you and you don't have the place staked out. Take it or leave it."

"I'll be there. I'll drive myself. Satisfied?"

"At two." Bolan hung up.

The Executioner recognized the man walking along the sidewalk from pictures he had seen. He was about five-five and 250 pounds, and carried an attache case.

Gino Canzonari was doing as he was told.

Bolan moved his car slowly behind the Mafia chieftain. He could spot no suspicious cars trailing the Don. He might have kept his word — doubtful, but possible.

The Executioner pulled half a car-length ahead of the man and motioned him to get in. The Beretta was trained on the Mob chieftain all the way.

"Canzonari, take off your suit coat," Bolan commanded.

Canzonari hesitated, then stripped it off.

"Now take off your shirt." As soon as the mobster opened it, Bolan saw the wires and the small radio transmitter. He jerked the apparatus off Canzonari, threw it out the window and hit the gas.

Bolan noticed the unmarked police car behind him, and another on Killingsworth. He flattened the Thunderbird's gas pedal and the big car surged on. He slid through a stoplight, wound north to Lombard and Union and was soon on the 99 freeway heading across the Columbia into Washington State, toward Seattle. His gun was trained on Canzonari all the time.

He exited on the Washington side, powered around two interchanges and finally parked below an overpass.

Canzonari scowled. "Cops made me wear the wire. They heard about you and about Joey missing. They made me do it!"

"Sure they did." Bolan frisked him quickly, found a .38 in an ankle holster and threw it out the window. "They made you wear that, too? Where are the rest of your boys? How many cars did you have following us?"

"Two, but you lost them."

"You bring the money?"

Canzonari pointed to the attache case.

"Good. Now you can tell me what happened to Charlotte Albers."

"Who?"

"Charlotte Albers and her twin sister, Charleen Granger. Two pretty black girls about twenty-five."

"Granger... yes, the black girl. I hear she died up in the park."

"Your men killed her, Canzonari, and used her for bait to get me. But they missed. I don't miss."

Bolan edged out from under the concrete overpass and turned south back toward Oregon. He drove with the flow of traffic-heavier now, nearing rush hour — figuring the cops would not be watching close enough.

Eventually he turned off, heading along the Columbia River on the Oregon side. At Troutdale he turned south until he picked up U.S. 26, which became the Mount Hood Loop highway route.

"Where the hell we going?" Canzonari asked.

"I thought you wanted to see Joey."

"You got him stashed up here?"

"Right."

They drove in silence until they passed Brightwood. At the spot where he had run Joey's car off the road, Bolan pulled to the shoulder.

"Out. We're taking a walk." Bolan locked the Thunderbird, moved Canzonari across the road, and they plunged into the timber.

"What the hell?"

Ten minutes later Bolan motioned Canzonari around a pair of tall fir trees and pointed.

Joey lay where Bolan had left him.

Canzonari ran forward. He dropped to his knees and grabbed his son's body, rocking back and forth. Then he jumped up and charged Bolan. The Executioner sidestepped him, tripped him and pushed the fat hoodlum to the ground.

"You bastard! You promised me my son back!"

"I said I'd bring you to him and I did. Just think of Joey as payment for Charleen Granger. You killed her, and now your son is dead."

Canzonari rushed at him again. Bolan slammed the Beretta across the mobster's head, smashing him to the ground.

"There's still payment due from you for Charlotte Albers, Canzonari. We'll think of some way to even the scales. Now pick up your son and carry him back to the road."

Dusk had settled as Canzonari stumbled to the edge of the highway with the dead weight. He collapsed there. A car rolled by, and Bolan ducked out of sight.

Canzonari got to his knees and stared at his dead son.