The lit joint tumbled from Morressy's full lips and landed on the car seat between his legs. He panicked and reached for the marijuana, scrabbling for the door handle with his other hand.
Bolan leaned across the seat and pressed the barrel of the gun into the man's neck. He thumbed the hammer back without a word. Car horns bleated behind them as the traffic came to a standstill.
His face white with fear and pain, Morressy raised his hands to his shoulders. He spoke in Japanese, his hands trembling faster than his voice broke.
"Speak English," Bolan commanded.
"I'm on fire," Morressy whined.
"Reach for it slowly," Bolan said, "otherwise I'm still looking for the man I need."
Morressy searched between his legs with one hand, keeping the other in plain sight. The sound of car horns picked up intensity, joined by cars in other lanes as the blocked vehicles made unexpected lunges into their paths. Morressy raised the joint between his thumb and forefinger.
"Throw it out the window," Bolan ordered, "and get this car moving. If the police become interested in us, you'll be the first to die."
"Sure," Morressy said. "You aren't going to have any problems with me." He flicked the joint away and started the car, pulling ahead at a sedate pace.
Bolan left the barrel of the .45 where it was as he glanced behind them. Traffic began to unsnarl. No one appeared interested in following them.
"Do I know you?" Morressy asked. He glanced nervously at Bolan, uncertainty flashing in his brown eyes.
"No, but I know you."
"What do you want with me?"
"Pm in the market for some merchandise."
Morressy's voice sounded more hopeful. "What kind of merchandise?"
Bolan studied the man, letting the silence build. The little finger on Morressy's right hand had been amputated at the second joint. The resulting scar tissue was rough and looked as lumpy as candle droppings. The man was dressed casually but expensively, and would have looked out of place with most of the sidewalk crowd. "Keep both hands on the wheel," the Executioner ordered. He reached across the seat and relieved Morressy of a Heckler & Koch 9 mm pistol from a hand-tooled shoulder holster. He dropped the weapon into his trench coat pocket.
"Look, you mentioned merchandise," Morressy said. "Maybe we have some business to transact, okay?"
Removing the .45 from his captive's neck, Bolan cradled the big automatic in his lap. "Turn left here. Stay in the outside lane."
Morressy complied, making an effort to keep his eyes off the .45. Bolan shifted in his seat as he tried to find a position that didn't stress the stitches in his side.
"Taking me down might not be such a bright idea," Morressy said. "I know a lot of people in Tokyo who'd love to have a chance at a guy like you."
"You're small potatoes to the Yakuza," Bolan said in a damning voice. "You know it and I know it, so don't try to confuse the issue by throwing threats at me. If I pulled this trigger once, you'd be history, and nobody you know could pull you back from that."
Swallowing hard, Morressy turned back to concentrate on his driving. Rain smashed against the windshield in a steady beat, swept away almost immediately by the wipers.
"I hear you're a guy to see about getting weapons in and out of Tokyo," Bolan said. He switched the radio off, letting the sound of the rain fill the car.
"You heard wrong. I don't do anything like that."
"We don't have time for games, guy. Pm on a very tight schedule here. You're Kendo Morressy and you've been living on the fringe of Yakuza activity for the past four years. You couldn't make it in the big leagues. That's why you lost those two joints on your little finger. The story I got was that you had to have help cutting the last one off."
Morressy's eyelids flickered rapidly.
"Turned out you didn't have the stomach for the bloody jobs," Bolan continued. "And you couldn't be trusted to keep your mouth shut about where some of the bodies were buried. Personally I think you're lucky you weren't drawn and quartered. The Yakuza normally run a tight ship."
"They needed me."
"They needed your connections," Bolan countered. "It's not the same thing. You're the son of an American soldier stationed here after World War II who developed a thriving business in the after-war black market. At least he was until SCAP put him in a military prison. You learned the ropes at an early age, and you had some of your father's acquaintances to work through. Most of those people are gone now, but you've maintained some channels of your own." The information almost exhausted what he had on Morressy in his war book, but it was more than enough to get the man's attention.
"What do you want with me?"
"Like I said, merchandise."
"What do you want?"
Bolan showed him a thin smile. "Do you have a spring catalog?"
"It takes time to get things, you know? You can't just expect me to be able to get my hands on something right now."
"I'm not looking for an antiaircraft carrier," Bolan said. "Where are you going now?"
"Nowhere."
Bolan raised the .45 and shoved it against Morressy's temple hard enough to bump the man's head against the window.
"All right, all right." Morressy's voice was shrill, tight. "I'm going to see a guy about some machine pistols. Some Uzis, Skorpions, and maybe a half-dozen handguns."
"We can start there," Bolan said.
Morressy faced him as they stopped at a traffic light. "You can't go to this meet with me. Those guys will kill us both if they think something's wrong."
"Just tell them I'm the money man behind this deal," Bolan suggested.
"You don't understand the kind of men I'm talking about."
"I think I understand perfectly." Bolan took out a sheaf of crisp yen notes and tossed them into Morressy's lap. "Maybe money can't buy trust, but it goes a long way toward helping greed overcome it."
Chapter Six
Three men waited in the narrow alley off one of the main streets leading to Tokyo Harbor. Morressy had passed Shinagawa station a few minutes ago and had almost succeeded in getting Bolan disoriented in the maze of tall buildings. The rain continued to fall, though in the form of mist now rather than solid sheets. Tokyo Tower rose spectacularly in the north, dwarfing Shiba Park, then disappearing from view as the walls of the alley closed in on them.
Morressy pulled to one side of the alley and stopped. His attention was riveted on the three men standing in the shelter of an iron stairway zigzagging up the side of the building behind them. All three were young, dressed stylishly and wearing sunglasses despite the weather. One of the leather jackets gaped open to reveal the butt of an automatic.
"Switch off the engine," Bolan ordered.
Morressy complied without a word.
"Give the keys to me." Bolan held out a hand, then dropped them into an empty pocket. "Get out of the car nice and slow. Remember, this is a business deal like all the others you've handled with these guys."
"This isn't going to work," Morressy said.
"Just flash the money."
"It's not enough for this shipment. I was just coming to look, not to buy. I haven't got a market for this stuff yet, and I never come to one of these meets to be robbed."
"We'll meet the price," Bolan assured him. He opened the door and stepped out into the rain. Morressy clambered out behind him seconds later. The arms dealer's face was pale, and his eyes blinked constantly. The sheaf of yen notes was balled up in one white-knuckled fist.
The alley was empty except for a scattered dozen trash cans and a Toyota van pitted with rust spots and dents. The windows in the vehicle were tinted enough to mask the interior. Fish odor from the nearby open-air market cut through the musty smells of the alley.
As Bolan walked across the alley with Morressy, he adjusted his numbers. The three men would take precedence until their buddies spilled from the van. He figured two, maybe three more inside. He kept his hands at his sides and an easy smile on his face.
&
nbsp; The three men spread out as they were approached. The man in the middle looked like a Thai, but Bolan knew Singapore was a melting pot for Asian races, and whatever direction the arms shipments had to take from Tokyo, they were sure to cross near that country. The man on the left was Japanese; the one on the right was black and sported a Special Forces tattoo on the inside of his right forearm.
The man in the middle spoke in Japanese as Bolan and Morressy came to a stop in front of them.
"Speak English," Bolan ordered. He stood to one side of the small group so that he could still see the van.
Morressy started to speak, but the middle man waved him to silence. He studied Bolan quietly. "Who are you?"
Bolan returned the hostile gaze full measure. "I'm the guy who's putting down the money on this deal."
"Why are you here?"
"I go where my money goes."
"You're American?"
"Does it matter?"
The man gave him a smile that held no mirth. He held out a hand to Morressy. The arms dealer dropped the crumpled yen notes into it. He unfolded the currency as he stepped back into the protection of the other two men, then counted it. Finished, he straightened the notes and looked back at Bolan.
Dulled pain axed at the Executioner's side, and he could feel his shirt sticking to the bandages under the trench coat. It was easy to ignore when he looked into the flat eyes of the three men. All of them were killers, and the tension of the situation placed them at the edge of an abyss of violence that threatened to sweep them away. He focused on the center man, letting his peripheral vision take care of the other two and the van. All action would stem from the spokesman.
"It's not enough for the shipment we agreed to show Morressy," the man said. He didn't offer to return the money.
"I'm not here for a shipment," Bolan said. "I'm traveling light."
The man nodded. "What were you looking for?"
"Morressy mentioned machine pistols."
The man tapped the money. "And if this isn't enough?"
"I've got more."
A smile tugged at the corners of the man's mouth.
"Good. Very good." He turned to his companions and held the money up, speaking in Japanese. The act was faultless. Only Morressy's sudden movement kept Bolan from being caught in a deadly cross fire.
The Executioner was in motion at once, drawing the .45 as the Japanese man came at him with a spinning reverse kick. He blocked the kick with his forearm, then got a grip on the man's leg and shoved them both into the wall under the iron stairs. He triggered two rounds from the .45 just before the impact. The hollowpoints lifted the center man from his feet just as he was bringing a chrome-plated pistol to bear. The remaining man fired three shots before he broke and ran toward the van.
Glittering steel slid toward the warrior's face, letting him know the man he was holding wasn't out of the fight yet. He stepped back as he blocked the knife with the .45, pulling the man's leg with him. Off balance, the guy had no choice but to follow him, waving wildly as he struggled to swing the knife again.
Bolan aimed at the man's face point-blank and pulled the trigger, smelling the cordite fill the air between them. The corpse collapsed as he tracked onto the rolling van.
The black man flailed at the sliding door on the van's side as arms reached out for him. The vehicle's engine screamed as it accelerated, rocketing for the mouth of the alley.
Holding the .45 in a Weaver's grip, the Executioner pumped the remaining five rounds through the windshield. One of the wiper arms spun away wildly. The van went out of control as autofire raked the alley in front of Bolan. He recognized the familiar stutter of an Uzi in full-throated operation as he threw himself over the hood of Morressy's car.
The van smashed into the car. Glass shattered in the windows of both vehicles and left them as intact jigsaw puzzles with only a few of the pieces missing.
The Executioner dropped the empty magazine and slammed another one home, thumbing the slide back into position. Someone fired through a window in the back of the stalled van, punctuating the hissing coming from the broken radiator with rapid-fire bursts and breaking glass. He blasted three rounds through the thin sheet metal where he guessed the gunner to be, then emptied the clip, blowing holes at waist-high intervals the length of the van.
A sudden burst of autofire sprayed out from under the car. Not hesitating, realizing he needed height for a moment to find out where his enemies were, he jumped up on the car, feeling the pain in his side soar to new levels as he vaulted for the top of the van. He landed hard, seeing black spots explode into his vision from the wound in his side, then rolled to the far side of the van. He pulled the .45 into position just as the gunner was getting back to his feet. A rapid drumbeat of two hollowpoints sent the man staggering backward, a scream dying suddenly as one of them crashed through his throat.
Still on the move, Bolan swung down and brought up an arm to level the .45 on the running black man as the guy turned with an Uzi blazing from his waist. The trail of 9 mm bullets left pockmarks along the brick walls and ripped long splinters from the privacy fences beside the tangled vehicles.
Bolan fisted the .45 as he pressed into the van, presenting the shooter with only his right profile. He became the gunsight as he brought the big weapon to bear on the man. When he had target acquisition, he let out half a breath, following the man's movements automatically, then squeezed the trigger. The pistol bucked in his hand, blocking the view of his target. By the time he had the .45 realigned for his next shot, the man was sprawled in the narrow street.
Bolan swiveled around the corner of the sliding door of the van. A dead man was crumpled against the rear section of the vehicle, a victim of the hollowpoints that had ripped through the thin sheet metal. He stepped inside, ducking under the low ceiling. The driver had been an instant casualty from the bullets penetrating the windshield.
Morressy started to get to his feet when Bolan looked back. The man immediately raised his hands over his head when he saw the Executioner aim the .45 at him. "Get over here," the warrior commanded.
The arms dealer was hesitant but quick to realize he had no choice.
Bolan kept the .45 in his fist as he inspected the contents of the two crates in the van. He removed the trench coat, slung an Uzi over his arm and donned the garment again. He found a gray-and-white duffel bag and unzipped it. "What did that guy say back there?" he asked as he shoved boxes of 9 mm ammunition for the Uzi into the bag.
"He told them to kill you," Morressy replied in a quavering voice.
"Thanks for the warning," Bolan said dryly. He lifted the top from another crate and found a half-dozen racks of hand grenades. Eight of them went into the duffel, two at each corner of the bag so that he could find them easily if he was in a hurry.
"I didn't know what to do," Morressy said.
"You ducked pretty good back there for someone who didn't know what to do," Bolan said. The blood smell of the dead pervaded the van. He looked through the smashed windshield at the crowd that had begun to gather, then blinked his eyes in an effort to clear them, feeling his system suffering from the adrenal payback his body was demanding. The pain in his side was no longer something that could be entirely ignored. "Why did he want to kill me? It couldn't have been for the money. That guy struck me as being a player, somebody who would have tried to string me along until he was sure he had me with all my ready cash on hand."
"He told his men he thought you were one of the Americans from the Sumida River confrontation this morning."
"Why would that matter to him?"
Morressy hesitated.
The Executioner gripped the man by his lapels and pushed him into the seat behind him. The corpse sprawled over the steering wheel and fell into the passenger seat. "I don't have time to waste on this, Morressy."
"Those men have prices on their heads," Morressy said.
"Who put it there?"
The man shook his head, looking frantic. "I don't know."
Bolan believed him. The panic was too sharp, too vibrant for Morressy to try to hide anything from him. He released the arms dealer. "How did you find out?"
"My connections in the Yakuza told me one of the big bosses wants these men. I have a couple of informants I keep in contact with so that I know the latest things I might be able to sell to them. I come across a lot of information in my dealings."
"How do they want these men?"
"Alive, if possible, but dead if it isn't."
"Why?"
"They didn't say."
"Do they know who these men are?"
"They're believed to be CIA agents. Some of the men killed this morning had files in the CIA. Others were mercenaries known to work sometimes for American intelligence. I believe they were sent over here to kill someone in the Yakuza. Someone big. Steps are being taken to prevent that. There was an attack made in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs building today that was designed to take out the Americans coordinating the CIA efforts in Tokyo."
Bolan raised the .45 as images of Brognola going down under an assassin's gun flashed through his mind.
"Don't!" Morressy screamed, closing his eyes and twisting his head to one side. "Please don't kill me!"
"Who ordered the attack?" Bolan asked in a graveyard whisper.
"Saburo Hosaka."
The big warrior lowered the pistol and turned the name over in his mind. There were a lot of connections to the Hosaka name, some of them dating back to the days of the American occupation after World War II. "Who is he?"
"Saburo's the younger son of Joji Hosaka, one of the founders of the new business consortium being gathered in Tokyo. Saburo's also a member of the Yakuza."
"Where can I find him?"
"I don't know. I've never seen him." Morressy licked his lips nervously, reading the disgust on the Executioner's face. "There's something I can offer you for my life, though. I know the name of the man who arranged the false passports for the Americans."
"It's not going to do me any good if a hundred other people are looking for him, too."
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