Twin bloodstains leaked from the CIA agent's abdomen. He held his arms across his stomach, pain whitening his face, rolled into a fetal position.
Sitting down, knowing policemen were already on their way, Brognola cradled Tucker's head in his arms. "Just hold on, kid, help's already on the way."
"Too late," Tucker said grimly. Blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth. "I've been shot before. This is different." He coughed, spitting up more blood.
Brognola held him tightly, watching the younger man's eyes rapidly losing muscle control.
"I've been… expecting this," Tucker gasped, "but you never… really know until you know… do you?"
"No. You don't."
Tucker swallowed hard. "The files, Hal." He swallowed again. "That's one thing they hadn't counted on." He coughed. "Key… around my neck… train locker… Ginza station."
Four uniformed policemen in riot gear surrounded the car and trained their guns on Brognola. The big Fed slid his .38 away and held Tucker.
A convulsion shook the CIA man. He closed his eyes, barely opened them back to unfocused slits. "Code word… disks… is Rosebud… thought it fit." He coughed, then wheezed wetly. "Get the son of a bitch."
"We will," Brognola promised.
Tucker stopped breathing and lay still. Without being seen, Brognola continued to hold the man long enough to tug the rawhide thong from around Tucker's neck and drop the key into his own pocket. He laid the body gently down. When he looked back up, Fujitsu was there. Covered with Tucker's blood, the big Fed stood and said, "Looks like those pictures of yours were faked after all." He shrugged out of his jacket and covered Tucker's face.
* * *
Gusts of wind swept across the rooftop, creating miniature dust storms that died as soon as they tipped over the edge of the building.
Bolan crouched in the darkness, adjusting the binoculars. He counted from the bottom up, and once he found the floor he wanted, he started scanning the large windows of the offices. It took the second series of searching to uncover the one he wanted.
The huge bulk of the air-conditioning unit behind him kicked on, and the rooftop vibrated under his feet. He moved away. Long seconds later he became part of the building's shadows, lying prone as he studied the movement inside the office.
Expensive furniture filled the suite, and the bright lights were muted by the magnification of the polarized glass. It also bent the light in a manner that told him it was bullet-proofed, as well. But that didn't concern him because he wasn't there to take out Saburo Hosaka. However, it did let him know Papa Hosaka had spent plenty of money on security for the building.
Inside the office Saburo Hosaka nervously paced along the windows, chain-smoking. Three men stood or sat in the spacious conference room behind him, all marred by scars that testified to previous violent encounters.
Bolan put the binoculars down and watched the guy with his naked eye for a moment. It wasn't hard to guess from the pacing that Saburo Hosaka was waiting on someone.
There had been plenty of time for word to hit the street. Saburo knew he was being stalked, and Bolan was guessing the man knew the Yakuza had given him up to the stalker.
Lifting the binoculars again, Bolan scanned the street. There were four hard vehicles below. Two of them were American luxury cars denoting the interest the Yakuza continued to show in the future of Saburo Hosaka. A black minivan was parked directly across from the entrance. The small sedan on the other side of the street could hold at least four more soldiers.
Those were the numbers on this side of the building. Bolan reasoned the other main entrance probably held a crew about the same size.
As Bolan watched the street, a limousine pulled to a rocking stop in front of the building. He trained the binoculars on the people getting out, not terribly surprised when he saw Yemon Hosaka in the middle of four men acting as security. He'd thought Joji Hosaka might be the one Saburo contacted, then he reconsidered. If Saburo wanted a meet with his father, he would have gone to the Hosaka home. The thought added an auspicious flavor to the mix rumbling through the Executioner's suspicious mind. Or perhaps Papa Hosaka hadn't shown simply because he believed the situation concerning his son had reached some kind of critical point.
Yemon Hosaka and his security crew disappeared inside the building.
Bolan kept to the darkness as he evacuated his position. The recon was done, and the target had been verified. Now it was time for the warrior to kick open the engagement.
* * *
Arms aching with the strain, Michi Ransom continued her hand-over-hand climb along the nylon cord between the buildings. The arrow holding the cord vibrated with her movements but maintained its bite into the wooden sign advertising the lawyer's offices at this level.
She wore gloves covered in resin to help maintain her grip. Inside, her hands sweated and her fingertips felt like prunes. As she swung forward for the next handhold, the weapons positioned over her body thumped softly against her. She forced her breathing to remain regular, not thinking about the distance still before her until her feet touched the ledge. Once there, she rested a moment, drawing in her breath sharply, feeling the cloth of the mask covering her lower face press against her mouth and nostrils.
Leaning forward to spread her weight across the building rather than keep it dangling from the nylon cord, she reached into a concealed pocket of the black uniform she wore and removed a glass cutter. She pressed it against the dark window of the office beside her, inscribing a circle, halting only when a police car slid quietly through the alley, shining its lights into the dark corners.
She finished the circle, put the cutter away, took out a roll of double-sided tape she'd brought expressly for this purpose and made an X of two long strips, looping them in the middle to form a handle. Using the slack in the loop of tape, she rapped the heel of her palm against the circle in the window and pulled back. The glass squeaked and came away in her hand. Reversing it, she stuck the glass to the side of the building, then clambered inside.
A quiet scrape let her know the weight of the glass circle had gotten too great for the tape strips. She leaned out the hole as it started its downward slide, trapping it in her gloved hand. Then, pulling the glass inside, she placed it against the wall.
She used the sword strapped across her back to cut through the nylon rope. Escape would have to come by other means if it became necessary. The rope fell against the dark side of the building and disappeared into the shadows. She took the time to use the glass cutter to remove the rest of the glass from the window. It would be more difficult to notice a whole pane of glass missing than to notice a hole cut through one. She laid the pieces next to the circle.
The lawyer's offices smelled of stale paper, herbal room deodorants and lingering traces of strong tea. Bookshelves containing massive tomes covered one wall.
Ransom placed the office in her mental map of the building as she scooted the swivel chair over to the wall with the air duct. She used a small knife to remove the screws, put the screen on the floor and climbed inside. Metallic air blew into her face as she forced her way along on hands and knees.
The building had been old when Joji Hosaka bought the floor his offices were located on, and the new skin of reflective glass and brick had been grafted on at a later date. The cooling system remained the same — a monolith in architecture that didn't perform as well as newer systems, unreplaced because tenants of the building couldn't agree on who would pay how much.
Ransom made her way to the end of the duct and found herself looking out over the central cooling shaft. Cooled air pushed up at her. The duct had widened to three feet at this point and she stood, hunkered over. She leaned out, holding on to the metal lip of the duct work. Another duct was directly above her.
She took out a collapsible grappling hook with padded ends, whirled it and launched it toward the opening. Then she began her ascent.
* * *
Dressed in the white coveralls and cap he'd f
ound in the maintenance room of the building's underground garage, Bolan crossed the street with the light. He'd had to let the hem out of the coverall legs to get them to drop to within three inches of his boots, and the cap was canted forward to help disguise the fact that his features weren't Oriental. He'd also found a red toolbox the Uzi would fit inside once it was broken down. The coveralls had belonged to a big-chested man with short legs and provided adequate coverage for his weapons.
He walked like a man worn down by the hours, dreading one last, unexpected assignment. The hardmen in the cars glanced at him but didn't appear interested enough to ask questions. He timed his arrival with a handful of young men obviously feeling no pain.
Bolan followed them inside, taking care to trail behind just far enough to get in the locked doors on their key.
Plexiglas-covered boards in the lobby listed the businesses occupying the office suites in Japanese and English. Plastic plants, scattered rows of seats in alternating red and ivory that carried out the lobby decor, and a small group of men clustered near each elevator fleshed out the surroundings.
Bolan didn't hesitate once inside. He marched straight over to the elevators and stepped inside one that already held an older couple. None of the hard teams tried to follow him.
He tipped his hat to the couple, then pressed a button two floors above their stop at the twenty-third floor. He held the toolbox in front of him and didn't look anywhere in particular, giving off the appearance of a man in no hurry to do his job.
The couple got off without anyone else getting on. Bolan hit the stop button after the elevator doors slid to a close, felt it lurch to a sudden halt, then reached up and rapped the heel of his hand against the emergency exit. He put the toolbox through first, pressed the button for the bottom floor, then restarted the elevator. It came to a jerky halt two floors up just as he hammered the emergency exit back in place. Fisting the toolbox, he heard the elevator doors ping closed and stepped off the cage just as it started downward again.
Clinging to the side of the elevator shaft, he stepped out of the coveralls, dropped the hat and started moving upward, climbing through the maze of steel supports. He paused at the floor that housed the offices of Joji Hosaka, slipped the combat knife from his harness and pried the elevator doors open a fraction of an inch.
Five men occupied the corridor, three of them carrying Heckler & Koch MP-5 submachine guns with curved 30-round boxes. Evidently the Hosaka brothers had decided to pull the gloves off for any encounters that might take place inside the building.
Bolan didn't doubt they had placed guards in the fire escapes, as well, effectively sealing off the building. The problem was, with this much security on tap, it would prove even harder to take Saburo Hosaka while the man was on the move.
The numbers were falling too fast on this one to let it slide. People were dying through carefully orchestrated plans by a still as yet unknown enemy. The Executioner's only choice was to keep the heat on until something collapsed from all the pressure.
He slipped the knife from between the doors and sheathed it. It took less than a minute to reassemble the Uzi and sling it over his shoulder. He left the toolbox on one of the support beams, reflecting on the layout of the room he'd seen during his recon. It wasn't necessary he leave the building with Saburo Hosaka. All he had to do was obtain a name, then get the hell out.
The elevator shaft hummed with the renewed movement of the cage. Bolan glanced down, watching it rise.
* * *
"We must talk," Saburo announced as Yemon stepped into the large conference room.
Tightening his grip on the anger threatening to explode out of him, Yemon walked into the room, ignoring his brother's gunmen. His own guards automatically took up positions on both sides of the main door. "Of course," he said in a controlled voice. He lifted a hand toward his private office.
Two of Saburo's guards made as if to enter, but his brother waved them back impatiently.
Yemon opened the door and stepped aside. His gaze touched that of the lieutenant of his private security team. Both of them nodded imperceptibly as Saburo passed through the door.
Inside, the immense office was a mixture of opulence, technology and antiquity. Persian rugs covered the floor; oil paintings hung on the wall; vases of exquisite color and shape, some dating from the Ming dynasty, sat in niches made into two of the walls. A pair of samurai swords hung over the back wall under the sunburst flag of Imperial Japan.
"Modesty has never been one of your strong points, has it?" Saburo asked with a broad smile.
"The businessmen I deal with expect a show when they speak with me," Yemon said, ignoring the sarcasm. "I see to it they get it." He walked around his brother and headed for the large, ornate cherrywood desk sitting off-center in front of the aquarium.
"And this is merely the opening number."
"Yes."
"Is it effective?"
Yemon took his seat in the swivel chair. He could tell by the glow in Saburo's eyes that he had been using drugs. The knowledge tightened his stomach, threatening to unleash the hostility he felt. "Yes."
Saburo walked closer, pausing to touch one of the vases. Yemon had to bite back a command for it not to be touched. He laced his fingers in front of him, presenting a calm exterior, waiting for Saburo to come to the point.
"All this," Saburo said, replacing the vase, "and I wager Father hates it."
Yemon nodded. "It is so."
A grin twisted Saburo's lips. He seated himself in one of the three chairs before the desk. "Do you know why?"
"No," Yemon answered honestly. It had been a point of contention between them for years.
"Because Father believes in the old ways. He believes a man should be taken for who and what he is rather than what he surrounds himself with. This…" he waved at the room"…shows nothing of you. Only shadows of who you may be. Are you an appreciator of fine paintings? Your collected paintings say so. Do you like fine things? The rugs, the selection of liquors in the bar in the center of the room say so. Are you attracted by the past? The swords, the vases, these things say so." Saburo paused. "So, who then am I talking to when I take this seat across from you? Am I dealing with someone who has a taste for art, for good living, for history, or perhaps someone who lets his introspection guide him?"
"The people I deal with expect this," Yemon said.
"Maybe they do, but you don't have to give it to them. Father doesn't."
"Father lives in the past."
"Don't the samurai swords, the vases and the flag suggest the same thing about you?"
Yemon remained silent, curbing his impatience.
"That's why Father's office has remained unchanged after all these years," Saburo said. "He displays nothing of himself save the businessman. His office is stripped of personal possessions except for a few that speak of his successes in the business areas. The furniture is the best functional pieces money can buy, yet they aren't art. He shows no extravagances. He communicates his stance and never wavers from it."
"Why are you here?" Yemon asked, annoyed with his brother's beliefs. Their father had voiced almost the same line of thinking about the decor of the room. It was amazing to see how closely his father's and brother's rationale could be, yet leave them seemingly stranded in opposite worlds.
"Have you listened to the news tonight?"
"Only on the way over here in the car."
"Did you hear about the fire-bombed building or the destruction of the warehouse on the Arakawa Hosuiro River?"
"A little, but I didn't pay attention to it. It has nothing to do with me, or us."
"That's where you're wrong." Saburo reached inside his jacket.
Yemon watched the hand closely, his gaze locked with Saburo's. The hand came away with a twisted cigarette. "I don't permit smoking in my office."
"Permit me, just this once." Saburo flicked a lighter to life and ignited the marijuana cigarette. Blue-gray smoke whirled around his head and he waved
it away. "I have never darkened the doorway of your office here before and I plan never to again. But now we must talk."
Yemon reached into his desk and took out a plastic case filled with paper clips. He poured the paper clips out and set the case in front of Saburo.
"There's a man hunting me," he said in a quiet voice, "a man I don't know. The building and the warehouse were Yakuza holdings, an esteemed whorehouse with an international clientele, and a nerve center that does a lot of gambling business. This man destroyed both places, then let Yakuza members know he was only doing it to find me. They were to tell him where I was."
Settling back into his swivel chair, Yemon said, "And do you think they'll try to protect you?"
"No. I'm no fool, and I've seen the Yakuza vehicles parked below. If they haven't already sold me out, it will be soon."
"Then this unknown man may be in the area even now."
Saburo inhaled deeply, held the smoke then let it out in a gentle stream. "What difference would it make? I have my people, you have yours, and there are Yakuza out there, as well. If this man does come here, he'll never leave."
"Why did you bring these troubles of yours to my doorstep?"
Saburo squinted against the smoke. "An interesting question, brother, and one I only have questions to answer with. I don't know this man, nor why he would have reason to seek me. Yet of his presence there can be no doubt. People who have seen him and survived say he's an American."
Masking his anxiety, Yemon turned from the desk and slid open a panel above the huge aquarium set in one wall. He took a box of fish food from the recess, then took pinches of it to spread among the numerous hexagonal tanks built within the larger one.
"I have no dealings with Americans," Saburo continued. "My business is here within Tokyo."
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