Siege

by Don Pendleton

  * * *

  Yemon studied his two captives. His father showed no signs of hope, but Picard was too calm. It unnerved him slightly, making him want to pull the trigger. But his desire to explain the success he had wrought overcame his unease.

  "You were both instrumental in creating the vehicle I have taken control of," he announced, rising from the chair. He stepped over one of Picard's dead guards. "You both saw the potential of the consortium concerning world business, and you both wanted to twist it to your own greed. By causing the schism between Japan and the United States, by causing the fall of the financial dependency the Americans have given to us, I will make Japan a giant in the world. An acknowledged giant."

  "You're insane," Joji Hosaka said.

  "Am I?" Yemon glared at his father. "No, it's you who have been insane. You have been guilty of raping this country for four decades with the help of your CIA friends after the war. We have operated as their satellite since then. Now, with the tides of financial freedom being stripped from their country, with the American people not even aware of what they're doing to themselves, now is the time to strike."

  "What do you know of business?" Joji demanded. "If you try to destroy the American market, think of the void it will leave for Japanese business."

  "I have. We can survive it. They cannot."

  "Do you actually think the American people are going to take this lying down?" Picard asked. "If you do, you've got another think coming. Your old man's right — you're crazy."

  "Really, Picard?" Yemon faced the man, meeting his gaze unflinchingly. "And wasn't that why you were seeking control of the consortium through me? So you could play better politics in your own country? In your language, bullshit. You know the kind of power the consortium can wield over the United States right now, and it draws you like a magnet to steel because that is true wealth to you. How does it feel to see someone come along and take that from you?"

  "You haven't done it yet."

  Yemon slapped the desktop with a palm. "Yes, I have. And I'm going to use it to further Japan's future. The land of the rising sun is going to rise to heights no one ever dreamed of."

  "You figure on cutting yourself a deal right in there near the top, don't you?" Picard asked.

  Yemon grinned. "Why not? I'll be leading a large block of this country's wealthiest people. Retaliation by pulling out of the United States financially is going to seem tame, but it will have the most impact." He pressed the remote control and a picture appeared on the television of the flag with the rising sun. "America left us in ashes after World War II, and we came out of it. It will be interesting to see if they have the resources and strength to do the same."

  An explosion rocked the house, followed quickly by another. Cherie screamed. Lifting the .45, Yemon faced Picard.

  "One thing I forget to mention," Picard said as he threw himself out of the chair. "Trust or no trust, I didn't come to this little shindig alone."

  * * *

  Ransom watched in disbelief as the front gates of the estate blew without warning. Then a buzz saw of noise started up, flowing through the opening with the motorcycles that flooded the courtyard. There were two men on each motorcycle, one to handle the steering while the other kept up a steady barrage of gunfire that chopped through the black-clad estate guards.

  Her grandfather pulled at her sleeve, motioning her back into the shadows.

  "We can't leave Belasko," she said stubbornly.

  "We'll do him no good at all if we're dead."

  Ransom drew her bow and nocked an arrow, pausing to glance up at the empty veranda, then followed her grandfather. She watched, unable to take her gaze away as the carnage and destruction continued. A motorcycle roared to a stop forty feet from the house, sliding to a standstill as the rear man dismounted and fell to one knee. A bulky tube took shape on his shoulder. A second later fire belched out of the rear of the tube and an explosion blew the front doors from their hinges. The driver of the motorcycle reloaded the bazooka, then patted the shooter on the helmet. The second round smashed into the upper story, opening a gaping wound in the wall.

  A motorcycle roared at them. Her grandfather stood and ran, weaving, making himself a difficult target for the gunner. Bullets kicked up grass as they pursued him.

  Moving instinctively, Ransom nocked the arrow back to her cheek, targeted in as her grandfather had taught her with the body instead of only the eyes, then released the shaft. The feathers brushed her cheek as it left her fingers, plunging through the clear visor covering her target's face, and knocking the gunner away.

  She saw the sword in her grandfather's hands flicker once, then the helmeted head of the driver was rolling across his leather-jacketed shoulders. The motorcycle was out of control and smashed into a small building containing the estate's gardening equipment.

  Men abandoned the motorcycles in front of the house, roughly half of the assault team taking the building by storm. The man with the bazooka wreaked havoc on the lesser buildings as his loader fed him round after round. The small pagoda-style structures went up in orange and yellow flames, staining the darkness of the morning sky.

  Ransom took another arrow from her quiver, trusting the bow more than her unknown abilities with the Beretta Belasko had given her, drew it back and sighted for the bazooka man. Releasing half her breath, she held the rest and let go of the string, immediately reaching for another arrow.

  The shaft sped true, burying itself in the man's chest, dropping him forward on his face. His companion went down under a sudden burst from one of the guards. Ransom put her next shaft through the ninja's eye as he turned to face them, the point coming through the back of the man's head.

  Grenades increased the chaos and destruction in the courtyard, destroying one of the fountains and leaving an uncontrolled jet streaming straight into the air. Trees were felled by others. Orange and gold flames clung to awnings, dropping them in flaming kite tails to dash sparks against the ground and quickly flutter away.

  The whining drone of the motorcycles seemed unstoppable, punctuated by the rattling roar of automatic weapons. A sudden burst dropped Ransom and her grandfather into the protection of the nearest flower bed.

  Looking out across the flames, explosions and corpses, she said, "This is madness."

  Her grandfather was beside her, fisting his sword in both hands. "No, this is a deathground where survival is possible only through the courage of desperation."

  Ransom's thoughts turned to Mike Belasko, remembering him as the warrior in black whose convictions ran as deeply as her grandfather's. She couldn't help but wonder if he would find the courage of desperation her grandfather spoke of. Then a new, louder drone filled her ears, pulling her attention skyward.

  Four large helicopters filled the sky.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Bolan watched the procession of motorcycles stream through the mangled front gates. Shots rang out inside the room occupied by the Hosakas and Sacker. Bullets penetrated the door, ripping out chunks of wood.

  A man raced from an adjoining room, gun held at waist level. The Executioner cut him down with a burst from the Uzi. He whirled, slammed a big foot on the door near the lock, felt it give and go crashing back inside.

  Autofire raked the doorway, forcing him back. Reaching into his webbing, Bolan took out a spare clip for the Uzi and tossed it into the room. The ruse worked. The men thought a grenade had been thrown inside and scrambled for cover.

  The Executioner swung around the door, hammering several rounds through the two guards trying to squeeze through the open panels behind the desk. Their bodies fell across the threshold, blocking the attempts the sliding door made to close behind them.

  Three dead men were in the room in addition to the ones he was responsible for. One of them was Joji Hosaka, slumped backward in a chair with a bullet hole in his forehead. Two were American. A screaming woman huddled in the corner of the room, her arms held protectively over her head.

  The Executi
oner crossed the room in long strides, lifted her up and asked, " Where are they?"

  The woman screamed louder, pushing at his face with a hand. Her fingers came away bloody.

  Bolan repeated his question.

  "Through there," the blonde said, pointing through the secret doors.

  "Who?"

  "Yemon and Picard."

  Bolan charged through the open doorway, determined to stop Yemon Hosaka dead in his tracks. He gripped the Uzi tightly, following the sloping passageway toward the rear of the building.

  A faint whup-whup-whup rattled through the passageway, overtaking him as he ran, a familiar sound heard above the constant yammerings of autofire and explosions. Helicopters. Big ones.

  * * *

  Brognola grabbed Fujitsu by the shoulder and pulled him away from his field of view. The Hosaka estate was just below, the setting for a major fight. There were dozens of fires scattered about, and coils of black smoke rose toward the helicopters.

  "Son of a bitch," he heard Winterroad say.

  "Here's your proof," Brognola said to Fujitsu. The satisfaction in being proved right that the Hosaka family wasn't a wholly innocent victim in the stateside terrorist action was no compensation for the knowledge that Mack Bolan was somewhere below in the conflagration.

  "I see no proof," the Foreign Affairs man said. "I see only more death." He turned a weary but iron-hard face toward Brognola. "And if I find your agent Belasko is at the root of this, consider yourself placed in my custody. And I'll have you shot if you try to escape."

  Brognola lifted the cane ruefully. "As if I could get very far. Get these choppers down there, damn it. I've got a friend down there who's put his neck on the line to get to the bottom of this."

  Fujitsu motioned to the pilot to land, talking in rapid Japanese over the open channel shared by the four Bell helicopters. Their chopper landed outside the estate, and the four teams disembarked with crack efficiency as each of the squad leaders followed Fujitsu's orders.

  Brognola forced his injured leg to let him keep up with the Foreign Affairs man. It was more than a matter of pride. It had taken too much time to persuade Fujitsu to undertake the mission. And that just might have cost Bolan his life.

  The first man of their team reached the inner courtyard, holding his riot shield in front of him. A heartbeat later a motorcycle roared into him, the front wheel high in the air. The man went down as the motorcycle tracked over him.

  Feeling clumsy in the body armor Fujitsu had insisted he wear, Brognola drew the motorcyclist into target acquisition and dropped the hammer on his .38. The motorcycle went out of control, and the unnatural angle of the rider's neck told the big Fed it wasn't necessary to check for vital signs.

  Then the battle was joined.

  * * *

  Ransom streaked toward the back of the house, followed by her grandfather. She tucked the Beretta into her sword belt, reaching for the grappling hook concealed in her clothes. Chances of getting in through the front were virtually exhausted. The squad in riot gear had broken all attempts at retreat, turning ninjas and American mercenaries back with astonishing success. It left only the rear.

  One of the mercenaries peered out at her from an inside room through a glass stained by blood, swinging his weapon around to bring her into his sights. She ducked, reaching for one of the smoke pellets in a concealed pocket. She crushed it underfoot as she kept moving. White smoke rose to engulf her.

  Bullets missed her by feet as she freed the Beretta. With the man in her sights, she squeezed the trigger and kept it up until the corpse jerked out of sight.

  A motorcycle careened around the corner of the building, and the rider jammed on the brakes when he spotted them, changing direction as he set up the rear man for the shot. Ransom saw her grandfather slide toward them with a thick branch in his hand.

  The branch caught in the rear wheel as the gunner tried to bring his weapon to bear, stopping all forward motion and slinging the two men off like a bucking stallion. Her grandfather killed them both with his sword before they were able to get to their feet.

  A door opened farther down, reminding Ransom of the garage containing the limousine Joji Hosaka had kept there from the old days when he had been more connected to the Yakuza. She ran for it, the 93-R tight in her fist.

  * * *

  Picard wiped at the blood streaming down his chest. His breath was ragged, raspy, too wet sounding to be anywhere close to normal. His hand, holding the .45 he'd stripped from one of his men, was slick with blood, as well.

  The secret corridor he traveled turned onto an upstairs bedroom that had been hit by the bazooka. He gazed down through the wreckage at the bodies littering the courtyard under the increasingly lighter sky. Sunrise was only moments away.

  Memories of Cherie bounced against the walls of his mind, finding them collapsing in on themselves. He had been so wrong, so soft, about both of them. Cherie and Yemon.

  Gritting his teeth against the pain growing in his chest, he made his way out of the room, finding a staircase that led down, leaning on the railing hard. The worst part was that no one would know how close he'd come to controlling so much.

  But if he got away, there was still the chance that he could somehow make things go right for him. He had changed things around plenty of times before. There was no reason why he couldn't do it again.

  He forced himself to walk faster, tightening his grip on the pistol in his hand. He didn't have to die from the bullet wound in his chest. He hadn't given in to it when Yemon had first shot him, and he damn sure wasn't going to now. All he needed was a few minutes to get to the forest, then he could rest and wait out the day, until he could find a way to get out of the country. He had money, a whole belt full around his waist. It would be his ticket, more than enough to get the job done.

  He walked toward the rear of the house, stepping over the bodies in his way. His hand touched the doorknob at the side of the house. Someone called his name.

  * * *

  Yemon stepped through the panel in the garage, waving the bloody .45 in his hand at the two men taking cover near the garage door. "Into the car. Now."

  The men climbed into the front seat of the limousine without question.

  Yemon got in the back, then reached forward for one of the machine guns that belonged to his hardmen. The driver hit the electric garage door opener, and the door slid up with a squeal. The rear tires shrieked as they spun on the concrete and pushed the armor-plated vehicle up the short incline.

  Buckling in as the car started uphill, Yemon glanced up, saw Michi Ransom at the side of the garage and yelled, "Stop the car!"

  Anger burned in him as the luxury car spun in a half circle. The woman had been with the big American, and if she was here, it meant that the American was to blame for the sudden turn of bad luck. And she might know enough to testify about his murder of Saburo. She was a reporter and commanded a large audience. He rolled down his window and aimed the .45 at the woman as she pointed a gun at him. He flinched, even knowing the bulletproof windshield would stop the rounds, then triggered his pistol.

  At least one of the rounds hit Ransom and punched her to the ground. The .45 clicked dry, and he was out of ammo. A squad of riot-garbed men crowded around the front of the vehicle.

  "Get us out of here," Yemon commanded.

  The driver threw the car into reverse, backing over a line of stone lanterns delineating a flower bed. The bits and pieces clacked against the undercarriage, louder than the bullets that began to ping against the armor plating. The luxury car wheeled around, rocking on its special springs like a boat at sea. Then it shot forward, smashing into bodies, streaking for the front gate.

  Yemon lifted the mobile phone in front of him and dialed the number of the warehouse on the northeast side of the island. "Get the plane ready," he ordered. The voice at the other end acknowledged him and he hung up.

  He allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. Everything would be all right. Even at the w
orst his plans would only be delayed, not set aside. The red sun of imperial Japan could still dawn over the world.

  * * *

  Bolan rushed out of the passageway and into the garage in time to see Ransom go down. He triggered the Uzi as he charged up the incline, but saw that the parabellums had no effect on the white limousine.

  He dropped beside Ransom just as Ogata reached her. Together they turned her over gently. Blood spurted from a wound in her left shoulder.

  A handful of men in riot gear jogged around the corner, pointing their weapons at them as the team secured the garage.

  "Yemon was in that car," Ransom said.

  Bolan nodded. "I've got to stop him."

  "There's a warehouse on the northeast side of the island," she said. "Joji kept a seaplane there."

  "You're going to be all right."

  "I know." She forced a smile. "Go."

  Bolan looked at Ogata. The old ninja stripped his face mask away and nodded. "I will take care of her. Go. Your mission is not yet finished."

  Bolan stood, drawing the immediate attention of the men in riot gear. Brognola joined the warrior as they commanded him to put down his weapons, and identified him as a Justice agent. "Take care of these people for me, Hal," the Executioner said as he brushed past the big Fed and picked up one of the motorcycles. He mounted the vehicle, kicked it to life and sped off in pursuit of the white limousine, dragging a foot as he made the corner outside the gates.

  He pushed the motorcycle, listening to the engine keening its protest. The Steyr tugged at its sling, shifting in the wind. The road curved suddenly, and he had to gear down and skid through a tangle of trees before returning to the road.

  Gearing back up, he raised the speed to seventy miles an hour, then eighty. The handlebars felt light, spongy.

  The road dipped down without warning as he topped a rolling hill. The motorcycle left the ground, thudding hard when it returned to earth.