Siege

by Don Pendleton

  "You can't guarantee the hit on Kokan if you move on Belasko first."

  "I know."

  "Then get that thought out of your head, buddy, 'cause it's almost show time. When the toast goes down, Kokan's supposed to go down, too."

  Tuley took the scope off of Belasko with regret. "Somehow I think I'm making a mistake."

  "It's Sacker's play," Vardeman stated. His voice seemed lighter now. "Thought I'd lost you there for a minute."

  "No." Tuley broke open the big weapon and thumbed in the two cartridges it held. "I may question Sacker's orders, or his reasons for doing something, but I follow them. The man's good at what he does, and his planning has gotten me out of some tight situations. I'll do it his way until his way doesn't work anymore."

  Vardeman resumed looking through the binoculars.

  "Besides, maybe the secondary team will take him out during the confusion." Shouldering his weapon, Tuley put the cross hairs on his target's right eye and waited.

  * * *

  "Get away from me," Michi Ransom gritted between clenched teeth.

  Saburo's hand closed on her wrist with bruising strength. He smiled at her, dark eyes glinting above white teeth.

  Ransom tried to jerk her hand away without being conspicuous. The last thing she wanted to do was alert her grandfather. Her stomach threatened to empty at Saburo's touch, and her heart beat rapidly. She felt weak and vulnerable as he took another step toward her.

  "Don't be silly, Michi," Saburo whispered, his breath warm in her ear.

  She felt the nausea rise and struggled to restrain it. Nightmares from the past beat at her self-control with taloned fists.

  "Tell me," Saburo said with his smile casually in place, "have you had a man better than me yet?" His words taunted and tore at her.

  Clamping down on the feelings of revulsion that threatened to explode out of her, she turned to face him. She smelled the alcohol on his breath, and it made her head spin with the memories that threatened to overwhelm her.

  "You're more beautiful than I remember," Saburo said. He reached up to trail his fingers across her cheek. "I like the way you wear your hair now."

  Ransom steeled herself not to flinch at his touch, breathing in through her nose the way her grandfather had taught her to do when she was faced with a difficult task. She reached up for his hand, touched it gently, then applied pressure to the nerve clusters under his thumb. She heard the breath wheeze out of him as the pain gripped him. It was a struggle not to increase the pressure to the point of real pain, perhaps to the point of snapping the bone.

  Saburo's face blanched, and his eyelids closed slightly. He moved his fingers away from her cheek, but she didn't relax the hold. Curling his fingers over her hand, he tried to get away from her grip.

  She increased the pressure, eliciting a small cry of pain. "I'm no defenseless girl anymore," she said. "Don't make the mistake of thinking I am." She gave the thumb a final twist, then released it. "It could get you killed."

  Nostrils flaring with pain and rage, Saburo took his hand back and rubbed it.

  Billy Wu, her cameraman, approached them, his camera resting comfortably on his shoulder like a parasitic growth. "Is there a problem, Michi?" the photographer asked.

  "No, Billy, thank you."

  The little cameraman was dwarfed by Saburo, but the scars on his face, arms and hands told of a long knowledge of violent life. Wu bowed to Ransom, carefully balancing his camera, then returned his attention to the consortium guests.

  Ransom peered over Saburo's shoulder and saw his father staring at them. "I think your father wants you."

  "I don't care," Saburo replied. "He doesn't run my life anymore. I do what I choose to. I take whatever I want. Maybe you should remember that when you look at me."

  "A moment ago you couldn't even take back your own hand."

  Saburo bared his teeth in a mirthless grin. "Next time I may use someone else's hands. I'm used to taking what I want from life now."

  "You've always thought you could," she said, returning his gaze full measure, "so that part of you hasn't changed."

  "Other things have." His words were cold and full of challenge. He turned and walked away, joining his father at the table. Yemon Hosaka sat immediately to the right of Joji Hosaka, Saburo sitting directly across from him.

  "How do you want to handle these next few shots?" Billy Wu asked.

  She looked at him, forcing her mind to return to the window the photography would give her viewers. It was easier to think in terms of the story, giving her more distance from the past she had hoped to avoid. "Just shoot it," she said in a quivery voice. She made an effort to firm it up. "We'll do the editing later. We can use these scenes to intro the different people involved in the founding of the consortium. The voice-overs will be mine, short and to the point. Give me a selection of shots, some in obvious good humor and others that reflect the seriousness of what they're planning. This is big news, Billy."

  The cameraman nodded. "Especially considering what's been happening stateside." He shrugged into the weight of the camera again. "You never did say how you blackmailed the network into giving you this story."

  "That's right," she said in a calmer voice. "I didn't."

  "Hey, take it easy, you're among friends now. This is Billy you're talking to."

  "Sorry."

  "It's okay." Wu looked at her, and she tried to avoid the honesty she found in his gaze. "What is it, kid, the story or the jerk you were talking to?"

  "Perhaps a little of both." Ransom looked past the cameraman and saw her grandfather sitting behind Hosaka at another table. He didn't acknowledge her, just as she knew he wouldn't. He never did when he worked.

  "It seemed like you knew that guy from before," Wu persisted.

  "A long time ago," she replied.

  Wu accepted that after a moment. He patted the camera and took a peek through the viewfinder. "If he causes any more problems, just give a whistle. I'll be around."

  "You've been watching Bogart again, haven't you?" she asked.

  Wu smiled. "Hollywood never made pictures better than they did in those days." He moved off, following the camera as if it had a life of its own.

  Ransom turned her attention to the punch bowl on the table behind her. Her hand shook as she filled the cup, and some spilled on her fingers.

  "Let me," a deep male voice said.

  Glancing over her shoulder, she saw the big man who she now knew to be a Justice agent. She had recognized him earlier, but had hoped that her different hairstyle and clothes would hide her identity. Mind racing, she allowed him to take the ladle and cup from her hands.

  He filled her cup and gave it to her. "Thank you," she said.

  He nodded and refilled his coffee cup, then turned to look out over the floor. "Your friend Akemi said you were in trouble."

  Ransom took a sip of the punch, not looking at him. Waiters moved among the tables serving drinks. "Akemi worries too much."

  "He didn't give me that kind of impression."

  "You don't know him."

  "True. And I didn't know you yesterday, either." The warrior sipped his coffee and studied her with ice-blue eyes. "But you didn't let that stop you from coming to my aid."

  "You were capable of helping yourself."

  "But you still dealt yourself in."

  "Only to make sure."

  "Why?"

  Ransom didn't say anything. Joji Hosaka stood, raising his glass high, and spoke to the assembled men at the tables. A cheer filled the room as they joined the man in a toast to their combined futures.

  "I need to know," Bolan said. "Did you follow me, or did you follow the men who attacked me?"

  "What do you think?"

  "I think you followed the men." His statement was flat and final. "I knew I was being tailed almost from the beginning. I counted eight different men at different times. I never saw you."

  Ransom glanced at him coolly. "It appears we both have unanswered questions a
nd unsolved problems awaiting us in our respective jobs."

  "Lady, I know what my job is, and I know what a reporter usually goes through to get a story. What I need to know is how you're involved in this. I'm not a betting man, but I'm willing to wager there wasn't a story filed in any of the news services by a Michi Ransom on yesterday's firefight."

  "That wasn't the story I signed on to do."

  Bolan nodded. Ransom felt trapped and wanted to avoid the encounter.

  "I think you've gotten yourself in over your head," the man said in a soft voice. "I think you've got your own resources concerning what's happening with the Hosaka Consortium, and who's pulling the strings. That makes you dangerous." She looked away from him. "You've got a past history with the Hosaka family," he continued. "Your grandfather is here, in whatever capacity he serves Joji Hosaka. You're here. The conversation you had with Saburo was short and unfriendly."

  "And you think that means something?" Her words were curt.

  "Sure I do."

  "Then you're a fool."

  "Look, there are a lot of variables in this operation, a lot of things to try to watch while dodging around and hoping the sky doesn't fall in on you. What you know could help."

  "Help you, you mean?"

  "Help all of us."

  "There's where you're wrong." Ransom looked at her grandfather and thought of the possible ramifications of what would happen if she were to tell any of the Americans or Japanese everything she had uncovered. She forced back the tears, wondering where guilt ended and how obligation continued to be so much a part of her life even though she lived in the United States now. "There's nothing you could do that would help me."

  He was silent for a moment, his mouth a thin, hard line. "I could have some people apply pressure on your employer to pull you off this investigation."

  She smiled at him bitterly and shook her head. "The American media? If one of your Justice Department people starts applying pressure at the network, they'd only work that much harder to make sure I stay with it."

  Satisfied that she had at least broken even in the conversation, Ransom looked back at the floor. Yemon Hosaka was standing now, offering his glass in a toast to Shoji Kokan who was seated at the other end of the main table.

  She looked back at the Justice man, thinking that things would have been different if she could open up to some of the people involved in the conspiracy she had uncovered, beginning with her grandfather.

  The sound of shattering glass burst through the overlarge room, followed immediately by the harsh boom of gunfire. Kokan's glass exploded in his hand a split second before the side of his head erupted in a torrent of blood and brains that spread across the table.

  Before she could move Ransom felt the big man's arm slide around her neck as he pulled them both to the floor. She had panoramic impressions of people in motion, of the Justice agent tugging a pistol from under his white jacket, of her grandfather covering Joji Hosaka with his own body, then she was shoved under the table as the big man pushed himself to his feet. She crawled back out from the table, the professional part of her watching Billy Wu kneeling behind a chair and working the camera, while the personal side of her felt chilled to the marrow when her grandfather ran with surprising speed to one of the room's exits into the hall. The Justice agent opened a nearer door and stepped out just as her grandfather did.

  Autofire cut loose in the hall and shredded one of the doors the American had vanished through only a heartbeat earlier. She was in motion before she realized it.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Executioner was all movement, dropping under the sudden barrage of autofire as he extended the Beretta 93-R in front of him. He thudded to the linoleum with both elbows and continued skidding across the hallway. Pieces of the door scattered around him like falling toothpicks.

  Three men, dressed in dark turtlenecks, gloves, slacks, ski masks and military webbing, stood at the fire escape. One covered their retreat while the other two shoved through the door. Chunks of flooring danced into the air as the MAC-10 flared to renewed life.

  Bolan rolled out of the way, coming to a halt on his stomach as he aimed at the man covering the retreat. The 93-R stitched a row of holes across the man's face, his head twisting violently with the impacts. The gunner went down as Bolan propelled himself to temporary cover in a doorway across the hall. The two gunmen had disappeared, leaving the dead man behind.

  The warrior moved into the hallway. A door opened in front of him, and he came face-to-face with Kiyosha Ogata. The old man glanced at him briefly. Steel winked within his fingers, but Bolan couldn't tell what the old man held.

  "Belasko!"

  Glancing over his shoulder, Bolan saw Ron Roberts standing in the shattered door he'd come through less than a minute ago. "Get Tucker and Fujitsu," Bolan ordered, "and see if we can get this building secured." Roberts nodded and withdrew.

  When Bolan looked back at the fire escape, Ogata stepped out into the corridor. He hustled after the man, keeping the Beretta pointed up and ready. He didn't know where the man fit in or why he seemed intent on following the gunners.

  The fire escape was empty. The door to the hallway closed and shut off most of the screams that came from the banquet room. Ogata pressed himself against the far wall, short throwing knives in both hands. His hazel eyes gazed at Bolan in open speculation. Keeping careful watch on Ogata, Bolan moved to the center of the spiraling stairs. He gazed down and saw nothing.

  "Move!" The hoarse command ripped from Ogata's throat.

  Bolan hurled himself to one side instinctively, reading the pattern of movement above him even as the old man yelled. He caught himself against the far wall as a flurry of large-caliber rounds ricocheted from the railings. Sparks flew from the metal bars as echoes of the autofire ripped away the sensation of sound.

  Already in motion, Ogata kept to the outside of the stairwell as he charged up the steps. Fisting the Beretta in one hand, Bolan threw himself after the bodyguard, finding himself hard-pressed to keep up with the old man. Ogata's feet moved silently as Bolan's shoes spanged tightly against the metal steps.

  Another burst of autofire ripped through the air, followed by a scream of pain from below. Four flights of stairs farther up, the fire escape dead-ended, showing a sheet metal door with the lock shot away. The door moved slightly with the outside breeze.

  Bolan took one side of the door, Ogata the other. The small rectangle of glass inset at eye level was reinforced by wire mesh. Beyond was an expanse of roof marred by silver air-conditioning ducts big enough to conceal compact cars. Nothing moved, but there was no doubt in the Executioner's mind that the two men he pursued were close by. They had cut themselves off from escape — or perhaps they only wanted it to appear that way.

  Ogata leaned forward and pushed the door open. Crouching, he signaled that Bolan should take the left side while he took the right. The Executioner nodded, shrugging out of the white jacket.

  Sprinting from the door, Ogata made for the nearest air-conditioning unit. Autofire chewed tar and pebbles near his feet.

  Bolan swung around the door, squeezing the Beretta's clip dry in continuous 3-round bursts that ripped fist-sized holes through the air-conditioning ducts where he judged the gunner to be hiding. He changed clips and looked for Ogata as he ducked back behind the door. The old man had vanished.

  The Executioner moved out along the twelve-story battle zone. It wouldn't be long before police or Foreign Affairs personnel put in an appearance. Once they did, Bolan knew his chances of interviewing one of the assassins alone would be nil. He moved through the duct work carefully, letting the Beretta lead him through the sheet metal maze.

  He looked around the corner of a three-ton cooling unit, his back set against it. At the far end of the roof was a tennis court marked off in green and white concrete. A rope door sagged, blown by the wind. Sunlight gleamed on metal for a moment to the right. Bolan dodged, throwing himself down as .45-caliber slugs shredded the corner of
the air-conditioning unit. The fan motor gave a banshee shriek as it fluttered to a stop and died.

  Bolan zeroed in on the man's position only to see him stumble from his hiding place seconds later. The hilt of a knife protruded from the assassin's throat when he fell onto his back.

  "Belasko!"

  Bolan recognized Roberts's voice as he got to his feet again. "Here, Ron. Shut down that entrance. Nobody in, nobody out."

  "You got it!"

  Moving on, the sounds of the stricken air-conditioning fan still in his ears, Bolan shifted to the outside perimeter of the rooftop. He continued his search in a crouch.

  The familiar whirling beat of helicopter rotors sounded below his side of the building, then rose dramatically as the chopper suddenly became visible.

  Bolan tracked onto the Plexiglas nose of the helicopter and made out two men dressed in jeans and shirts. He centered the 93-R over the pilot's heart, unwilling to pull the trigger until he knew whose side they were on.

  The helicopter swiveled, bringing the passenger into view. The long tube in the man's hands became identifiable as he hefted it onto his shoulders.

  "Incoming!" Bolan yelled as he dropped the Beretta into target acquisition and stroked the trigger.

  The helicopter was thirty feet away and climbing with a steady drone of rotors. The man in the passenger seat went down under the 93-R's assault, but not before the LAW had disgorged its contents. The resulting explosion shook the building.

  The warrior looked back over his shoulder and saw smoke belching from what was left of the fire escape exit as the empty magazine hit the rooftop. He rammed another one home and released the slide.

  Evidently the helicopter crew decided whatever rescue attempt they had been set up for was too costly because it streaked away. The aircraft paused over a building twice as high as the one the Executioner was standing on. A rope ladder was kicked free and two men scaled it.

  Bolan watched, unable to do anything to prevent the snipers' escape. He turned away, returning to the hunt of the last man.