Siege

by Don Pendleton

  Chapter Sixteen

  Bolan watched the first drug buy go down in the men's room of an upscale nightclub in the Roppongi district within twenty minutes of his arrival. He washed his hands and kept surveillance on the dealer via the mirror above the sink. When the slender Oriental pocketed the cash and left, Bolan followed.

  The nightclub was packed. Blue-gray cigarette smoke swirled toward the ceiling from the close-set tables, filtering the color of the whirling lights that bathed the dance floor.

  The dealer stopped beside a rubber palm tree, took a cigarette from inside his jacket and stuck it between his lips. Bolan thumbed his lighter and offered it to the dealer. The man gave him an uncertain smile, then lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. He nodded his thanks. "Do you speak English?" the warrior asked.

  "Yes."

  Bolan gave him a thin grin. "That makes things easier." He showed him the business end of the Beretta. "Outside, guy."

  "Who are you?"

  The Executioner nudged him with the 93-R and pointed him toward the side door. A young man got up from one of the tables and walked toward them with folded yen notes between his fingers. "Tell him you're out of business temporarily," Bolan whispered, "or I'll put you out of business permanently."

  The man stopped in front of them, forcing Bolan and his prisoner to halt. He pushed the yen notes forward and said something in Japanese. Holding his hand up, the dealer shook his head and replied in the same language.

  Bolan watched the crowd, picking out the club's bouncers, watching two of them drift in his direction slowly. He'd been made, but he wasn't sure if it was because he was escorting the dealer out or if the bouncers had noticed one of the dealer's cocaine buys. He pressed the barrel of the Beretta into the man's back. "Move."

  "He doesn't believe I'm out of product," the dealer said. "He thinks I'm only refusing to sell to him."

  The bouncers were closing in. Bolan maneuvered the two men behind the brief shelter of rubber foliage and swung the Beretta's butt into the young man's temple. He caught him by the shirt before he fell and lowered him into a chair without anyone being the wiser. "Let's go," he told the dealer.

  "Shit, man, maybe we make deal, okay?" The dealer's voice was higher, tight with panic.

  Gripping the man by the upper arm, Bolan hustled him through the side door. The bouncers had complicated matters, especially if they were trying to shut the dealer down.

  The side door opened onto an alley. Raising the Beretta, Bolan aimed at the cluster of lights halfway down the alley. He pulled the trigger and listened to the silenced phuts of the shots as they extinguished the lights. He shoved the dealer into a run and headed toward his rental car, which was parked nearby.

  The bouncers burst through the side exit. Bolan lifted the 93-R and flamed a tri-burst at the wall beside the men. Sparks flew from the bricks, and the bouncers dropped to the ground and began to crawl back into the club. He opened the driver's side door and shoved his prisoner inside and over, then climbed in after him, the Beretta centered on the guy's chest.

  "Look, man, I don't have much money." The dealer put his hands on his head, showing he knew the routine. "If this is a shakedown, you got me too soon. You know?"

  Bolan took the key out of his pocket and put it in the ignition. He jerked the car into gear as people came out of the side door and around the front of the club. Without turning his lights on, he put his foot hard on the accelerator and aimed the car at the street in front of the club. Tires spun and shrieked.

  He overcontrolled the rental and fishtailed out onto the street, shooting into a gap in the late-night traffic. The dealer cried out and covered his face with his hands as they slid across the lanes of oncoming vehicles. The warrior let go of the steering wheel long enough to switch on his lights.

  "I'm looking for Saburo Hosaka," Bolan said.

  "I don't know him."

  Lifting the Beretta, the Executioner pressed it into the side of the man's neck with enough force to pin him against the window. "I didn't ask if you knew him. I want to leave a message."

  The dealer nodded, swallowing with effort.

  "You tell him I want Tuley and the other Americans he arranged passports for. You tell him I know he arranged the hit in Foreign Affairs yesterday morning. You tell him I'm going to keep looking until I find him or them. Understand?"

  "Yes."

  "Give it back to me."

  The dealer did.

  Satisfied, Bolan pulled over to the curb in front of an all-night movie theater. "Out of the car," he ordered.

  The dealer crawled out, his lower lip trembling.

  Bolan pointed the 93-R at the man's face. "There's a grate at your feet," he said in a graveyard voice. "Throw down the cocaine. Quick."

  People in line for the movie started to get interested. The dealer knelt and dropped glassine envelopes through the slots of the grate.

  "Is that all of it?" Bolan asked.

  The man nodded.

  "Good. Now the money."

  The dealer looked at him unbelievingly.

  The Executioner thumbed back the Beretta's hammer.

  Yen notes drifted into the gutter in record time.

  "Don't forget the message," Bolan said as he pulled the door shut and surged back into the traffic. He watched the rearview mirror and saw the dealer get to his feet. He slipped out of his bomber jacket, reached under the seat for the primed Uzi, shrugged the sling over his shoulder, then put the jacket back on. He checked the street at the light, placed himself on the mental map he'd made of his strike area, then plotted his course to his next message drop. Tokyo was a city that thrived on nightlife, and tonight it was being graced with the presence of a new kind of party animal that would add its own variation to every beat known. Saburo Hosaka was being put on notice.

  * * *

  "Look, Billy," Michi Ransom said, holding a palm over the ear that wasn't covered with the telephone receiver, "I don't have time to explain now, but I want you to stay on top of things for me." She stood at the public telephone in front of the Ginza subway station and watched the people watching her.

  "This is hot stuff we have here," Wu was saying. "I'm talking about film that's turning to solid gold even as we speak. I had my camera right on Kokan when he took the bullet. I need you to get in here and do the voice-overs."

  "I can do it over the phone."

  "The hell you can." Desperation entered Wu's voice. "Hey, we go back a few years, remember? I helped you get your start in this business. We're supposed to look after each other. Isn't that what you told me when you came to me to set this deal up?"

  "The story's breaking faster than you think it is," she said.

  Wu fell silent for a moment. "What are you working on? Besides irate news directors, I've also flagged calls from the Metropolitan Police wanting to know where you are."

  A chill coursed through Ransom. She'd known interest by the authorities would only be a matter of time now that the Justice agent had recognized her. "Who's been calling?"

  Papers shuffled at the other end of the connection. "A Detective Sergeant Yemana with Tokyo Special Services. And another guy, Goro Fujitsu of Foreign Affairs. Do you know either of these men?"

  "No."

  "Well, they sure as hell know you. Fujitsu didn't take my word that I didn't know where you were. He sent an unmarked car here to watch me."

  "What about the Americans?"

  "What Americans?"

  "Has anyone tried to contact you from the American Justice Department?"

  "No, but the last I heard, they were coordinating their activities through Foreign Affairs. Whatever you're working on, it isn't worth risking your life or pissing off the police. You should give it up and let those guys do their jobs."

  Ransom forced herself to chuckle. "Is that what you would do?"

  There was a pregnant pause, then, "No. You know it isn't."

  "I'm a reporter," she said with false lightness. "It's the skill I depend on to earn a liv
ing. And this is my story. If Foreign Affairs gets the chance, they'll shut down everything I'm trying to do with it."

  "The people who killed Kokan aren't kidding around, and the word I'm getting is that they're the same people responsible for the massacre at the Sumida River yesterday morning."

  "They are."

  "How deep are you into this thing?" Wu asked.

  "I'm not in over my head."

  "Are you sure about that? I was told your grandfather killed a couple of the assassins himself."

  Ransom's stomach tightened. She forced her voice to remain relaxed. "I didn't know that."

  "Well, know it now. I got that straight from one of my contacts in the Metropolitan Police. The last man your grandfather killed was a man who had already surrendered. If it wasn't for Joji Hosaka's considerable influence, your grandfather would have been taken into custody for murder."

  "Where is he now?"

  "I don't know."

  Ransom silently damned Hosaka. Her grandfather had killed those men on Joji Hosaka's orders. Why Hosaka would give those orders remained to be seen. "I've got to go. I'll be in touch when I can."

  "Wait." Wu sounded frantic.

  "What?"

  "Keep in touch with me. Please. I'll do what I can to hold off your network."

  "Thanks." Ransom broke the connection, filled with confusion and rage. She'd left the banquet room as soon as the Justice agent had, knowing the man would expose her for what she had done the previous day. And once knowledge like that had been released to the authorities, it was only a heartbeat away from Joji Hosaka's ears. There was still much to do, and the time to do it grew shorter.

  * * *

  Wearing a trench coat with the Uzi slung underneath it and four grenades tucked into the deep pockets, Bolan left his rental car parked at the side of the street and walked back into the darkness of the alley. He leaped and grabbed the lowest rung of a fire escape ladder and hauled himself up. The warrior made his way along the metal skeleton until he reached the sixteenth-floor landing, where he used a lockpick to open the metal door.

  When the door closed behind him, Bolan was alone in a dark corridor. According to the current intel in his war book, the top three floors of the building were part of a Yakuza-operated pleasure palace, complete with several interlocking rooms used for making porno films that had international distribution. The first twelve stories were leased to legitimate businesses.

  He bypassed several doors and moved toward the electronic nerve center of the operation. Surveillance cameras were out because too many of the house's "guests" were in the public eye, from Japanese business officials and politicians to their international counterparts.

  Holding the machine pistol in one hand, the Executioner stepped into the lighted area around the corner. The beautiful redhead behind the high-topped counter looked at him in surprise, her light green eyes flaring at the sight of the weapon. Her left hand inched toward the underside of the counter.

  Bolan pointed the Uzi at her. "I wouldn't," he growled.

  She forced a slight smile and nodded. Her hand dropped away from the counter.

  "Step back," Bolan ordered, closing in.

  The woman moved back to the wall behind her, holding her hands above her head. "I don't suppose you'd care to tell me what this is about?" she asked. "Since you haven't shown me a badge and appear to be alone, I assume you're not with the local police."

  "You assume pretty good," Bolan said as he stepped around the counter and ripped the wires from the silent alarm. The phone rang on the desk as a man walked into the reception area. Bolan dropped the Uzi out of sight under the folds of the trench coat as an answering machine took the incoming call.

  The man straightened his tie and smiled at the woman. "Everything was exquisite, Gina," he said in accented English. "You'll give my regards to Ishikure-san?"

  The woman smiled sweetly. "Of course."

  The man whistled all the way to the private elevator across from the counter and gave a last wink to the receptionist as the door closed before him. Gina stared at Bolan.

  "I want to know where your fire alarm is," he said.

  "Why?"

  The Executioner gave her a grim smile. "You're going out of business tonight." He showed her one of the grenades. "I want to make sure we have no casualties, so we're going to evacuate the building. Now."

  "What the hell is this all about?"

  "It's about a guy named Saburo Hosaka."

  "I don't know anyone by that name."

  "Somebody will. You give them the message that I'm looking for him and that I'm not going to stop until i find him."

  The woman didn't move.

  "If I have to do this myself, things aren't going to be as orderly as if you ring the fire alarm and get these people in motion. I don't have the time to wait while you consider your employment future."

  Sighing, the woman reached behind the oil painting behind the desk and flipped it outward, exposing a recessed button. "You're going to make a lot of enemies with this move, Yank."

  Gina pressed the button and a strident buzz filled the corridor as emergency Lights flared to life. Shouts followed immediately as two dozen people in various stages of undress evacuated the rooms.

  Bolan stepped forward, taking Gina's wrist in one big hand to lend credibility to his presence. He let the Uzi hang by its sling under the trench coat. "Use the fire escape," he shouted, then repeated the command. Once the people were moving in the right direction, he turned to the woman at his side. "Who's running this operation?"

  "Mochihito Ishikure."

  "Is he here?"

  She shook her head.

  "Who's in charge now?"

  "Me."

  Nodding tightly, Bolan pulled her after him, moving toward the elevator. "How many guns are on these three floors?"

  Gina shrugged. The elevator doors shut them off from the pandemonium racing through the hallway as people evacuated the immediate area. "I don't know. Most of the guests who come here bring their own security staff."

  The elevator dropped quickly, slowing abruptly as it stopped at the next floor. Bolan fisted the Uzi, pulling the woman to his left so that she wouldn't be in the line of fire. "How many of Ishikure's people are here now?" The doors opened and revealed another corridor filled with screaming men and women.

  "I don't know. Ten or twelve."

  A tall man in a dark suit jogged into the hallway from another corridor with a H&K pistol in one hand. He gave a quick glance around at the confusion and focused on the woman at Bolan's side. "Gina, what the hell's going on?" Then he noticed Bolan and lifted his weapon.

  Already moving out of the elevator cage, the Executioner raised the Uzi, squeezed off a burst that lifted the man from his feet and deposited him in an ungainly heap against the wall. The fear-filled screaming reached an even higher level as men and women scattered before Bolan like rats caught in the sudden glare of a flashlight.

  Bolan shoved his foot between the closing doors of the elevator cage. Elbowing them apart, he grabbed the woman's wrist and yanked her out. He kept the machine pistol in sight now, using it as crowd control to keep the group of prostitutes and Johns out of the way. The woman fought against him as he dragged her.

  "Where are the tapes and camera equipment?" Bolan asked.

  "Let me go," the woman yelled as she swung an open-handed slap at his face. "You've got no right to do this."

  Bolan blocked the slap with his forearm. Before she could try again, he pulled her next to the dead man lying in the middle of the hallway and forced her to her knees. "As far as I'm concerned, you gave up those rights when you signed on as part of this." He forced her to look at the corpse's face. "This can be easy or hard. It's your choice." Angry tears streamed down Gina's face. Bolan pulled her to her feet. "I want the photography lab, the sets and whatever inventory Ishikure keeps on hand."

  "They'll kill you for this," the redhead gasped between sobs.

  "They'll try," Bolan res
ponded. "There's no time left now. Get moving."

  Pulling the woman behind him, Bolan glanced around a corner. Three armed men in suits, two without jackets so that their shoulder rigs showed, walked briskly up the hallway, nervously checking the row of empty rooms. Bolan didn't understand the language, but it wasn't hard to figure out the topic. Stepping out from behind the corner, one hand securing the woman and the other on the Uzi, he squeezed the trigger and swung the weapon in a lethal figure eight. The 9 mm tumblers kicked life from the three guards, sprawling them across the carpet.

  "Move out," Bolan commanded. He dropped the empty magazine and popped in a new one. The snap of the slide chambering the first round made the woman jerk apprehensively. She stepped over the bodies and shivered. A door behind them exploded against a wall and sent echoes racing down the hallway. The elevator groaned to renewed life as the door closed.

  Heads bobbed into view back at the main corridor. The Executioner triggered a series of controlled bursts that drove their pursuit to ground, taking one of them out of action permanently. Muzzle-flashes flamed yellow against the dimness of the hallway lights, shredding the walls of the corridor. A fluorescent tube above Bolan's head rained down in pieces as the escaping gas cloud briefly gleamed, then dissipated. Holding the machine pistol at waist-level, he swung into a full-frontal attack on his enemies and emptied the clip. Another man went down even as Bolan turned and raced after the fleeing woman.

  Ahead of him, a flashing emergency light exploded, then they were around the curve of the hallway. Bolan caught up with the woman easily. A neon nightscape of Tokyo hung on the walls, framed by the long windows.

  "Here," the woman gasped. She pointed to a series of doors.

  Bolan tried the first one, found it locked. "Get back," he told the woman. He squeezed a burst from the Uzi that left the lock a splintered, smoking wreckage. He lifted a foot and drove it into the door, opening the way. The interior was dark, but there were enough residual lights from the hallway to show him the camera equipment inside. He listened for footsteps in the curving hallway and found them advancing cautiously. Taking a grenade from the trench coat pocket, he pulled the pin, counted off the numbers, then tossed it into the corridor.