Siege

by Don Pendleton

  Winterroad signed and put his weapon away. "He tried and I almost went for it. I'm getting old, too goddamn old to be playing cowboys and Indians out in the field anymore, and I don't have anywhere to go from here. Sacker tried to make it sound like I was saving America from the Yellow Peril. Straight out of the comic books kind of heroism. But it's the kind I believe in, at least, the kind I want to believe in."

  "I understand." And the look in Brognola's eyes told Winterroad the man did understand.

  "If it hadn't been for this sudden field promotion as a result of Tucker's murder, maybe I would have let myself believe in it a few days longer. But it was too goddamn coincidental. I couldn't ignore the fact that Sacker had him killed just as he's set everything else into motion here." Winterroad gazed down at Tuley, trying to make sense of how cluttered honor, duty and heroism could become when a man started doubting that any of them existed. "Anyway, when Tuley contacted me earlier, as arranged through a phone call from Sacker, I had an agent put on him with orders not to act until I gave clearance. I almost got here too late. I wasn't expecting them to move against you as quickly as they did."

  "Do you know where Sacker is?"

  "I had the call traced, but all I could find out was that it originated from somewhere in Tokyo."

  "So he's here?"

  "Yeah. Somewhere."

  Brognola limped off.

  Winterroad fell into step beside him. "So what do we do now? I'd say I've pretty much broken the angle I was planning to work."

  "Are you willing to tell the Japanese about your contact with Sacker?"

  "I don't think it's something the Agency would be particularly fond of," Winterroad said. "But then I've never been one to stay on Langley's good side."

  Brognola raised an eyebrow. "Do they have one?"

  "Yeah. Me."

  They turned the corner, squaring off against the irate crowd gathered in front of the restaurant.

  "What does telling the Japanese have to do with anything?" Winterroad asked.

  "I know where Sacker probably is," Brognola said. "I'm sure they'll be interested, too. You can corroborate my story. Together we're going to have to leverage an army from a guy named Fujitsu before I lose one of the best men I've ever known."

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Switching off the engines of the speedboat they had liberated near Atami, Mack Bolan took a small pair of night glasses from a pocket of the blacksuit and surveyed the shore of Oshima Island less than a mile away.

  Small gray boat houses lined the beach on this side of the island, and was a replica of what lay on the other side according to Ransom and Ogata. In the greenish glow of the vision afforded by the night glasses, there weren't many people moving around. A few boats, mostly fishing boats and the occasional houseboat, sat out the night in deeper water.

  From the outside looking in the island appeared as the tourist attraction it was supposed to be. Tropical vegetation grew furiously over every untouched piece of land, highlighting the houses, Japanese-style ryokan inns, and the roads. In the center of the island, towering almost twenty-five hundred feet into the night sky, was the impressive bulk of Mount Mihara, formed by a volcanic reaction years before.

  "See anything?" Ransom asked as Bolan put the night glasses away.

  He shook his head and dropped back into the seat. Ogata sat in the stern, feet crossed in a lotus position as he waited. With the grayness reflecting from the ocean surface barely penetrating the cowl of his clothing, he looked like a medieval representation of death. Instead of the scythe, he carried the short sword slung over his back.

  Bolan touched the controls, listening to the powerful engines kick to life, then felt the propellers bite deep into the ocean and push them forward.

  Navigating between the houseboats and fishing boats, the Executioner took advantage of the concealment they offered. "Where's the Hosaka estate?" he asked, not taking his eyes from the shoreline.

  "On the north side of Mount Mihara," Ransom replied.

  "What's the terrain like?"

  "Mountainous, rugged, and he has spared no expense on security. As you have noticed, Joji Hosaka made a number of enemies on his way to his success."

  The warrior picked out a spot on the beach, then reduced the boat's forward speed until they coasted to a crunching stop in the loose sand.

  They quit the boat silently. Ransom carried the Beretta with three extra clips, and Ogata carried only those things he had hidden on his person. In the dark, stalking their way into Hosaka's estate house, the primitive weapons the old ninja carried would be as effective as a round from the .44.

  Bolan followed them into the darkness of the forest a moment later, his Uzi up and ready. The sniper rifle was slung upside down over his back and tied so that the barrel didn't interfere with leg movement.

  Oshima island was less than three miles wide, and the plan was to make the two-and-a-quarter-mile distance to Hosaka's estate on foot rather than risk involvement with the local population by taking a car.

  Fifteen minutes later Ogata waved them to concealment, taking refuge behind a tree and fading so quickly that even the Executioner's trained eye could no longer pick him out. Ransom went flat behind a rocky shelf jutting from the uneven terrain. Bolan dropped behind a cluster of bushes, moving the snout of the Uzi into position.

  Three men appeared in the darkness farther down the slope. Bolan watched them approach. Unable to understand what was being said, he judged that one of the three was arguing with the others and they weren't taking him seriously.

  The men came to a stop in a clearing Bolan and his team had skirted. The arguing got louder, with the man holding to his own convictions finally walking off into the brush by himself.

  Bolan put the Uzi aside for the Ka-bar in his harness, fisting it tightly as he moved forward. He stayed low to the ground, watching the two men left behind as they continued talking between themselves. Both wore black, leaving their ski masks rolled up as they smoked. They carried machine pistols as well as swords.

  Circling behind them, Bolan rose to a standing position less than fifteen feet away, part of the trunk of the oak tree that reared toward the dark heavens.

  Reversing the knife so that the blade pointed downward, Bolan took a step forward. A sound in the brush where their companion had disappeared drew the men's attention, and they reached for their guns.

  Bolan leaped, smashing into his chosen target and taking the man down. He rolled to his feet and saw the remaining guard wheel in his direction. The knife left his hand and thudded through the guard's heart. Returning his attention to the man beneath him, Bolan grabbed the guard's chin and jerked, the sound of the snapping spine seeming to fill the clearing. Then it vanished as quickly as the life itself.

  He stood and walked over to the man impaled by his knife. Ransom rose from the darkness, and Ogata walked into the clearing with his sword in his fist. Besides the knife an arrow had penetrated one eye and a slim stiletto jutted out from under the man's jaw.

  Ogata put a foot on the dead man's chest, pulled the arrow out and returned it to his granddaughter. He pocketed his own stiletto after cleaning it.

  Bolan removed his knife and the extra clips the guard had carried for the Uzi. Then they went on into the darkness.

  * * *

  Yemon escorted his father across the sweeping veranda toward the rooms he had commandeered as his personal offices on the island. The sky was oppressive, thick with the coming rain. Usually he found it depressing as well. But tonight, everything was coming together for him. He had to keep the smile from his face and the lift from his voice.

  "Who is on the phone?" Joji Hosaka asked as he stepped through the whitewashed double doors Yemon opened for him.

  "I don't know. I thought it might be Ogata, but it isn't his voice."

  His father looked rumpled in the expensive suit, still lost in his thoughts over Saburo's death. Yemon tried to remember if the man had slept since last night but found he was unable t
o. Of course, he'd had distractions of his own. As for himself, he'd had no sleep at all. Even with everything coming together as it was, there had still seemed so much to do. Now it was done. Only the dying remained.

  The office was divided into two parts: one was dressed in elegance as a waiting room for guests entering from the veranda, the other as an electronic network that connected Yemon to the businesses he constantly oversaw. He felt a wave of jealousy consume him when he saw that Picard had taken his chair behind the desk, but he squelched it before it could become a problem. Everything would turn within the hour, and the fall would be that much harder for his enemies if they thought they held the upper hand.

  Picard switched the light on, catching the elder Hosaka by surprise. Joji Hosaka blinked as he turned toward the light, looking like an owl with the intensity of his gaze. Two of Picard's men stepped from the darkness near the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

  "You!" Hosaka made a visible effort to control the rage that filled him.

  Picard smiled, leaning forward to place his elbows on the desktop. "Hello, Joji," the man said in fluent Japanese. "It's been a long time."

  "You are a fool to be here," Hosaka said. "I have an army waiting outside. One word from me and you're not only a fool, but a dead man, as well."

  Picard's smile grew wider. "I think Yemon might have something to say about that."

  Yemon felt his father's eyes on him, saw them widen when the father sensed the truth in the son.

  "You're with him," Hosaka said in a quiet voice. He took a step backward, his hand clawing at the door that led to the waiting room. It was locked.

  Yemon walked to a chair in front of the desk and lifted the remote control for the electronics around the office. He cradled it in his lap, waiting for the proper time. Picard pushed himself up on his knuckles, seating himself on the corner of the desk.

  "You have disgraced your family," Joji Hosaka accused, staring at his son.

  Yemon returned the gaze full measure, letting some of the anger and rage he had harbored for so long show through. "No. I am not the disgrace. I am everything you raised me to be. And more. You have prostituted yourself for the Americans far too long and have helped keep this country under their control for four decades. I am trying to make amends for that."

  Consternation narrowed Picard's eyes. Yemon turned his head and smiled. He pointed the remote control at the wall behind the two American mercenaries and flicked a button. Panels slid aside, allowing four ninjas to enter the room before the mercenaries could bring their weapons to bear. They operated as two-man teams, one bringing their man down with a sword blow while the other secured the weapon.

  Before Picard could pull the holstered .45, Yemon moved from the chair into a spinning kick that knocked the older man headlong into the library shelves behind him. With a roar of rage, Picard got to his feet, blood trickling from his broken nose.

  Almost effortlessly Yemon blocked the wild overhand punch with the back of his arm, responding with a chop to Picard's throat that took the man's wind away. While the man tried to recover, Yemon pulled the .45 from Picard's holster.

  "Search him," Yemon commanded one of the ninjas. The black-clad man responded immediately, turning up two small knives and a derringer. The ninja's knife flicked in quick flashes that removed the pockets and lining from Picard's clothes. "Sit him there," he said when the man had finished, pointing to one of the chairs in front of the desk.

  Moving behind the big desk, Yemon placed the .45 on the desktop and picked up the remote control again. He watched as Picard, with the bloody blade of a sword under his jaw, was made to sit in the chair. The man's eyes were nuclear furnaces of pure hatred.

  Yemon pointed to the other chair. "Sit down," he commanded his father.

  Joji Hosaka made no move at first, then, when another ninja started forward, sat by Picard.

  Yemon permitted himself a smile as he looked at the older man. "As I said, Picard, it was basically a very good plan. I just made a few additions of my own." He flicked the remote control again and a forty-two-inch television set in the wall came to life. "We built an empire, Father. You, Kokan and me, and we started it a decade ago when Hosaka Industries became a legitimate business and broke away from the dirt Picard had us do."

  "You didn't think the business was so bad at the beginning," Picard said. "Neither did your father."

  "No, but times change. So do fortunes. Hosaka Industries became quite successful in its own right. Then the consortium came about."

  "It wouldn't have without my help," Picard reminded him. "I blackmailed some of the larger investors your father and you couldn't persuade. You wouldn't have gotten any of this off the ground if it hadn't been for me. I provided the strikes in America that made them feel even more united."

  "For which I thank you." Yemon bowed his head. "I couldn't have achieved those effects without your help."

  "You knew those people would be killed?" The look on Joji Hosaka's face was incredulous.

  "Of course. Who do you think helped provide Picard's men with target areas that would achieve the most notice?" Yemon shook his head at his father's squeamishness. "This is war. People die in war."

  "This is quite a boy you've got here," Picard said with heavy sarcasm. "We've been in on this together for four years, and I'd never even suspected he had enough guts to put something like this together." He smiled. "It's a shame, though, that you're still going to have to deal with me to make sure you keep your flock together. And I've kept notes on this whole little operation as insurance."

  "I don't think so, Picard. I've known you too long. You keep the most self-damaging information in your head, and that will die with you. And just in case…" Yemon triggered the wall panels again, allowing Cherie to step into the room. "One of the additions I made," he said softly, trailing his fingers down the woman's white arm. He enjoyed the look of utter defeat that flashed across Picard's face. "You've gotten soft in your later years, Picard, and that's what's getting you killed."

  * * *

  Bolan unfolded a collapsible grappling hook from his blacksuit, took a couple of swings to build momentum, then let it fly to the top of the twelve-foot stone wall in front of him. He pulled on the nylon rope, securing the hook's hold, then glanced to where Ransom was performing the same maneuver twenty feet away. Thirty feet behind them Ogata crouched in the brush left by the landscapers, bow in hand.

  The warrior scaled the wall soundlessly and halted near the top, cautiously pulling himself up until he could see over the edge. The courtyard of the estate was shrouded in darkness, but the night vision glasses had revealed that the area was patrolled by men dressed in black who carried automatic weapons. He had timed the passage of the guard beneath this post and discovered the man made his rounds once every minute and a quarter. Numbers dropped softly through the Executioner's mind, as natural as breathing.

  The courtyard was lavishly landscaped, filled with pruned pine trees, a stone garden on the north side of the house, flower beds and three different fountains. Outbuildings for storage and servants' quarters were spaced around the main house. The house was three stories high, with red-lacquered tile roofs turned up on the corners in pagoda style. Only a handful of lights showed in the windows, and more guards kept watch on the courtyard from positions on the top floor. A veranda, facing north and west to the open sea, was open and exposed, the curtains twisting in the breeze.

  The Executioner drew himself up to the top of the stone wall and lay flat. Ransom did the same, never once betraying her position by sight or sound. Numbers continued to click through his head, urged on by the dawn, which was ready to break in the black eastern sky.

  The guard walked his round, dressed in the familiar black, his hood pushed back while he smoked a cigarette. Seconds later the man was past them.

  Bolan slipped over the edge of the wall and dropped to the ground, unlimbering the Uzi. No matter how much recon work he could have done, it was only a matter of time before they wer
e discovered once the probe went hard. Silence would buy them perhaps minutes, but not much more.

  Ogata was over the wall in a rush, flipping over in a tight ball, then landing with his sword drawn. He nodded, letting Bolan know that their approach had gone unnoticed, then took the lead, aiming for the house in a circuitous approach.

  The plan was simplicity — close in on the house, take out the Hosakas and Sacker if possible, then make their escape in the confusion.

  A few moments later Ogata waved them down, then crept forward with his sword in both hands. Bolan watched the man step out suddenly, trip the guard he heard coming around the corner of the servants' house and drive the sword home. The Executioner was in motion again before the choked gurgle of the dying man reached his ears.

  The warrior looked up at the veranda, drawing Ogata's attention. "That's where Yemon's offices are?"

  Ogata nodded.

  Bolan glanced up through the darkness at the second-story veranda and the guard on the third floor. He pointed. "I need that man taken out."

  Ogata nodded again and unslung his bow. Bolan listened for the twang of the bowstring, then took off running, not waiting to see the results of the arrow's flight.

  Bolan slung the Uzi before launching himself up into the lower branches of a tree that grew close to the corner of the building. His side flared with renewed pain as he pulled himself up into its branches. When he was high enough, he reached out and threw a leg over the veranda railing, unslung the Uzi and took refuge beside a potted banana tree.

  Voices reached his ears.

  He moved leaves on the banana tree and peered through the open sliding glass doors. Seeing no one there, he moved inside toward the voices. He recognized Yemon Hosaka's, then Joji Hosaka's. There was another man, with an American accent, whom Bolan assumed to be Sacker. He listened as Yemon Hosaka took over the conversation again.