The Executioner drove past one of the brothels on the list. He watched two cars turn into a parking lot in the back. Bolan parked in the street. Nobody could see the customers entering through the front. Another car rolled into the lot. If the brothel had this much business in an afternoon, it must be roaring at night.

Bolan found a phone and called the Portland Central Police Station. He reached Lieutenant Dunbar.

"Dunbar, I just drove past a whorehouse. It's still in operation. Why?"

"Hey, guy, we got other things to do besides bust hookers. Like a girl who took a leap out of a fourteenth-story window. Besides, we closed down three houses last night. Any idea what it does to booking when we bring in fifteen girls and about twenty johns? It raises hell with the whole operation."

"So you want me to raise hell in this town? Work on it, guy." Bolan hung up and drove away. As he neared the hotel, he wondered about the gun shipments. How could you fool the port customs officials that guns were really industrial machinery? They must have a system. Big bucks under the table? It would be interesting to find out.

A Cadillac limo swept uphill through Washington Park, curved along Southwest Fairview Boulevard and turned into a large estate overlooking the park and two-thirds of Portland.

Don Gino Canzonari's personal bulletproof crew wagon swung to the rear of the house and the four-car garage. The driver bailed out quickly and opened the rear door for a tall muscular man.

He was clean shaven, with dark, piercing eyes, and moved like an athlete.

He was a Black Ace, the only man Don Canzonari had ever known who carried a hit specialist from La Commissione's elite corps.

Vince Carboni stepped out of the Caddy and looked at the backyard of the Canzonari-family headquarters. Three acres of lawns and gardens trailed slightly upward toward a mass of evergreen trees. Carboni didn't care that he couldn't tell one tree from another. He was a city boy born and bred, and he was proud of it. He straightened the jacket of his seven-hundred-dollar suit and stepped along the sidewalk in his two-hundred-dollar Italian imported shoes.

Everything was so green he could not believe it.

Carboni ignored the beauty, the strangeness.

He was there on business.

"Where?" he asked curtly.

"Right this way, Mr. Carboni. Mr. Canzonari is waiting for you."

Carboni swept past the driver, who held the door, adjusting the Colt Commander under his jacket.

The house was palatial, even the rear entrance, but Carboni did not notice. He would not have appreciated the cherry-wood paneling in the vestibule as he marched along, a snarl slowly taking over his face. Gino Canzonari sat on a screened-in porch in the far wing, indulging in a breakfast of fresh orange juice and prunes.

It was a little after eight in the morning.

Canzonari rose from the chair, grunting as he hoisted the 250 pounds on his five foot five frame.

"Vince! Good to see you!"

Don Canzonari had met Carboni before, and knew his reputation for being disrespectful. But he was a good hit man, the best contract specialist the Commissione had. No one was better suited to take out the Executioner.

Canzonari responded to Vince Carboni's silence by saying, "The guy left a marksman's medal at the loan office where he gunned down three of my boys from a sniper spot."

"Must have used a high-powered rifle," muttered the visitor. "What else?"

"He whacked out Leo the Fish in a bar in Leo's home turf with fifty people around. Nobody knew anything had happened, thought old Fish was sleeping. Silencer, I'd guess. Took Leo's roll and his loan cards. My people are getting nervous."

"Tell them to relax. Vince Carboni is here and the Executioner has forty-eight hours to live."

"I've heard that before, Vince. Last night this madman pulls my loans director out of his own house, takes him to the company office, drills him twice, steals I don't know what and blasts the office into junk. He ruined every loan record on the premises. The bastard has cost me over a million already, and he ain't been in town for twenty-four hours."

Carboni removed his jacket, hung it over a chair and sat at the small table.

"Don Canzonari, I want a crew wagon with plenty of firepower inside. You have any automatic submachine guns?"

"One MP-40. I had it out once and it."

Carboni held up his hand and continued.

"I need five hundred rounds and two good men. A driver and one for backup. I want your best gunner. I want him here now."

The Don nodded, made a phone call. When he hung up he made an impatient gesture.

"His name is Rocco. Damn good man."

"I'll need three .45 autos and lots of magazines. After that I'll let you know what happens."

"Right. I've got a room for you here and a hotel room downtown. You can use either or both."

An hour later Carboni had settled into his room in the Canzonari mansion.

He watched a Mexican maid unpack his bags. When she was done he field-stripped and offed the MP-40, a weapon he had not seen for a while.

This one was in good shape; like most of them it probably fired high and to the left. But he would not need to sight it in. He would just spray the target. Once he'd checked out the weapons, had met his wheelman and inspected the car, he returned to the Portland Don.

"Where's Rocco?"

"He got hung up, but he'll be here in half an hour. Now what is the procedure?"

"The Executioner is my job. The minute he shows his nose, I want your people to call you before they take a breath. I want to know where he is. He's slippery, but with a fast-working crew we can track him down. Then he's my meat."

"I've offered five thousand dollars for the man who first spots him and reports in. What about the head money, the million the Commission put up?"

"It's still waiting to, be collected," Carboni said.

"You eligible?"

"Damn right." He shrugged. "And now I find myself waiting for this great gunman, Rocco. When he gets here, keep both him and the driver in the limo. If we get a call, I want them there and the damn engine warmed up."

Canzonari returned to his desk and called his loan operators, commanding them once again to contact him immediately if they even suspected the Executioner was around.

He called in his consigliere, and they discussed the problem of who to put in charge of the loan and prostitution operations.

It was hard to believe that Also Capezio was gone. He'd been slow to develop, but he had a good future. Now they must pick a new lieutenant.

The Don stared beyond his screened porch at the pool and acres of carefully tended lawns. He tried to enjoy the sun while he could. His was a high-risk occupation. He ought to live the good moments for all they were worth. He had lost five good men in the past few hours.

Vince Carboni must be an expert. Anybody the Commissione sent would be top drawer. But was he good enough to take out Mack Bolan? Five men whacked out and not a clue for the cops or his "rectifiers." He phoned Joey to meet them in the study with the computer evaluations on the top men.

Don Canzonari lumbered to his feet and waddled up to his office.

Joey was there when he arrived. The consigliere, Joseph Morello, went to his own office for some files and returned a few minutes later.

Joey grinned at his father and slapped down computer printouts. Joey was twenty-six, a graduate of the University of Oregon at Eugene and a bona-fide computer whiz. He had set up the programs and the hardware for the entire system. Now he could call up facts and figures on any of the family businesses, legitimate or otherwise. He'd even rigged his office so that anyone sitting in a certain chair could be videotaped from one of three cameras.