on, Scott. We need to talk." It was a command.
Bolan left the coffee and followed the walking skeleton.
Tony Pagano's office was a barren cube.
Everything within it was white: desk, filing cabinet, pictures, walls, even visitor's chair. In front of the white draperies on the far wall was a white couch, into which Bolan lowered himself as Pagano chose a seat behind the desk.
"If you knew Freddie, you know he died in a twisted crew wagon in New York State a few years ago. Some bastard cut him down with what the cops figured was a bazooka kind of rocket."
"Tough. But Freddie always did things with a flair."
"You connected?"
"Used to be with Manny the Mover-Marcello."
"San Diego. Yeah, rough down there recently. You got a letter?"
"Manny didn't have time to write no letters."
"True."
"Hey, I'm just a soldier, wheelman, you know," Bolan said. "Nothing high up."
The living skeleton pondered this a moment, then nodded. "We're with Gino Canzonari, but my people work directly under me. Mostly loans, classy loans, nothing under ten grand and with plenty of interest. This is fat city out here."
"That's what I figured," Bolan said, dropping the mobster talk and rising from the couch. "Back away from the desk slowly, Tony."
The Executioner pulled the silenced Beretta from its shoulder leather.
Pagano stared. A marksman's medal plopped on the white desk and Pagano trembled.
"The safe, Tony. Open up. Anybody ask any questions you put them down, or both of you are dead."
"Okay. Easy with the cannon."
They went through a second doorway and down a hall to a room at the side of the building. They entered. No one was inside.
Bolan, locked the door and motioned Pagano ahead. The tall man moved a file cabinet on wheels, to reveal a safe. He fixed his deadly stare on Bolan.
"Look, we run a clean operation here. High class. Nobody gets hurt. These rich bastards can afford the interest. We ain't broke an arm in over two years."
"The cash, Tony. Put it on the table in one of those bank bags."
Pagano obeyed.
"Fill it up. Hundreds."
When Pagano was finished, he looked up.
The Executioner shot him once in the forehead, blasting him against a wall. The deed would spare the guy the pain of the explosion to come. The slime-bucket slumped to the floor, lifeless.
Working quickly, Bolan pressed one C-4 plastic explosive on the inside wall and set the timer for five minutes. He moved into the hall and set another charge there with a five— minute timer.
He returned with the bank bag to the lobby and the pretty receptionist.
She saw him and smiled.
"How many people in the building?" he asked.
"Five or six, I guess."
"Notify them immediately that the place is on fire and that they must evacuate at once."
"But I don't smell any..."
"Hurry. There isn't much time."
She made the calls. When she was done, he took her hand. "Now let's head for the sidewalk."
"But my job..."
"Your job here is finished."
He led her outside. They had just reached the edge of the manicured lawn when the first blast shook the building. Two men ran up to her, their eyes wild.
"What the hell's happening?" one of them asked.
She shook her head as the next blast sounded and the building sagged.
Then the upper floor caved into the first in a shower of dust and crashing concrete blocks and timbers. When the smoke cleared, the receptionist turned to the tall handsome man — but he had disappeared.
11
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,
Bolan left the coffee and followed the walking skeleton.
Tony Pagano's office was a barren cube.
Everything within it was white: desk, filing cabinet, pictures, walls, even visitor's chair. In front of the white draperies on the far wall was a white couch, into which Bolan lowered himself as Pagano chose a seat behind the desk.
"If you knew Freddie, you know he died in a twisted crew wagon in New York State a few years ago. Some bastard cut him down with what the cops figured was a bazooka kind of rocket."
"Tough. But Freddie always did things with a flair."
"You connected?"
"Used to be with Manny the Mover-Marcello."
"San Diego. Yeah, rough down there recently. You got a letter?"
"Manny didn't have time to write no letters."
"True."
"Hey, I'm just a soldier, wheelman, you know," Bolan said. "Nothing high up."
The living skeleton pondered this a moment, then nodded. "We're with Gino Canzonari, but my people work directly under me. Mostly loans, classy loans, nothing under ten grand and with plenty of interest. This is fat city out here."
"That's what I figured," Bolan said, dropping the mobster talk and rising from the couch. "Back away from the desk slowly, Tony."
The Executioner pulled the silenced Beretta from its shoulder leather.
Pagano stared. A marksman's medal plopped on the white desk and Pagano trembled.
"The safe, Tony. Open up. Anybody ask any questions you put them down, or both of you are dead."
"Okay. Easy with the cannon."
They went through a second doorway and down a hall to a room at the side of the building. They entered. No one was inside.
Bolan, locked the door and motioned Pagano ahead. The tall man moved a file cabinet on wheels, to reveal a safe. He fixed his deadly stare on Bolan.
"Look, we run a clean operation here. High class. Nobody gets hurt. These rich bastards can afford the interest. We ain't broke an arm in over two years."
"The cash, Tony. Put it on the table in one of those bank bags."
Pagano obeyed.
"Fill it up. Hundreds."
When Pagano was finished, he looked up.
The Executioner shot him once in the forehead, blasting him against a wall. The deed would spare the guy the pain of the explosion to come. The slime-bucket slumped to the floor, lifeless.
Working quickly, Bolan pressed one C-4 plastic explosive on the inside wall and set the timer for five minutes. He moved into the hall and set another charge there with a five— minute timer.
He returned with the bank bag to the lobby and the pretty receptionist.
She saw him and smiled.
"How many people in the building?" he asked.
"Five or six, I guess."
"Notify them immediately that the place is on fire and that they must evacuate at once."
"But I don't smell any..."
"Hurry. There isn't much time."
She made the calls. When she was done, he took her hand. "Now let's head for the sidewalk."
"But my job..."
"Your job here is finished."
He led her outside. They had just reached the edge of the manicured lawn when the first blast shook the building. Two men ran up to her, their eyes wild.
"What the hell's happening?" one of them asked.
She shook her head as the next blast sounded and the building sagged.
Then the upper floor caved into the first in a shower of dust and crashing concrete blocks and timbers. When the smoke cleared, the receptionist turned to the tall handsome man — but he had disappeared.
11
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,
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