Deathbites at-12

by Dick Stivers

  As they went out the door, Nogi spoke. “This is your last chance. Do you wish to learn to handle yourself better and be paid for it, or do you want to step into the alley with me for a demonstration?”

  “You’re not shitting me? I’d have a job?”

  Nogi did not bother keeping the amusement out of his voice. “You’d have a job.”

  “Okay, boss, you got a man.”

  “You’re willing to go through stiff training?” Nogi insisted.

  “Let me go, will you? Why do we have to talk while you’re breaking my damn arm?”

  “I’m not breaking your arm. If I let go and you take a swing at me, then I will break your arm and you’ll be no good to me. Is that clear?”

  “Is what clear?”

  Nogi carefully suppressed a sigh of exasperation. “I’ll let you sleep off the alcohol and then we’ll talk. No business until I’msure you have a clear head. Is that understood?”

  Lyons looked at the scuffed toe of the old construction boots he was wearing.

  “I, uh, haven’t had a chance to find a room yet.”

  Nogi grinned. “I thought not. That’s okay. We provide our team with living quarters until they’re well into training. Do you want to stay there, tonight?”

  “You’re not ribbing me about a job?”

  “Not if you can leave alcohol alone and follow orders.”

  “I’m no damn wino.”

  “We’ll soon know. I’ll break both your arms if you are. Now, I’m letting go of you. You can come with me or go away, but take a swing at me and I’ll break you into little pieces and leave you here. Is that clear?”

  Lyons nodded slowly, reluctantly.

  Nogi let go of him and began walking, leaving Lyons to come or go. Lyons followed, rubbing his shoulder.

  “You were lucky,” Lyons sulked. “You won’t get me like that again.”

  Nogi kept walking at a brisk clip.

  “Tell me that tomorrow in the dojo,” he grated at the blowhard he had just recruited.

  “The what?”

  “The gymnasium, you long-nosed idiot.”

  “Why didn’t you say so?”

  Nogi continued in silence, wondering if he would have the restraint not to break this one into little pieces. The garbage he got to work with was hardly worth the trouble.

  *

  July 11, 805 hours, Smyrna, Georgia

  The receptionist judged that the two redheads were in their early thirties. She also guessed that both women had at one time been blond. The women, who introduced themselves as the Ross sisters, wore expensive business suits and carried attache cases.

  “Mr. Brognola will see you right away,” the receptionist told them. “His assistant will take you to his office.”

  The elder redhead asked, “Who is Mr. Brognola? We’ve done much of the recruiting for Elwood Industries, but we haven’t met him before.”

  “Mr. Brognola has taken over as acting manager since the disturbance,” the receptionist answered. She was polite, but did not encourage further pumping.

  The assistant appeared in the reception area.

  “Susan, Jennifer, it’s good to see you again,” she said to the recruiters. “I’ll take you to Mr. Brognola’s office.”

  Susan, who was four years older than Jennifer and looked ten years older, shook the assistant’s hand. Jennifer gave the woman a hug.

  “After the terrorists hit here, we’ve had some difficulty getting staff back together,” the assistant said. “Mr. Fischer and his secretary were killed. Some people quit. Some say they’re still too shaken to come back to work.”

  They passed a place where workmen were replacing a bullet-shattered door. The two sisters exchanged glances.

  “So, I told Mr. Brognola that you could find the type of people he needs faster than anyone. I know the company, so I’m helping him find his way around.”

  When the two recruiters walked into the chief executive’s office, they knew they had been recognized. But they could not recall ever having seen the gray-suited, gray-haired man who stood up and came around the desk to shake hands.

  “Sit down, ladies. Would you like a coffee?”

  Both shook their heads. They held their attache cases tightly, knuckles white. Hal Brognola perched on the corner of his desk, studying the two women.

  “How’s Henry these days?” Brognola asked.

  “Oh, he’s the same as ever,” Susan said. “I swear if I live to be a hundred, Henry will still be around and still be the same. We asked if he wanted to retire. He was really annoyed with us for…”

  Her voice trailed off. Her face turned white. She looked at her sister who was holding her briefcase much too tightly.

  “How do you know about Henry?” Jennifer demanded. There was anger and defiance in her voice.

  Brognola smiled. “Relax. I’m a friend of a friend.”

  Neither women said anything. Their eyes were locked on Brognola and filled with suspicion.

  “This friend,” Brognola continued, “posed as an enforcer to get Jennifer out of the Sciaparelli house and then went back and carried Susan out.”

  “You wouldn’t have had to know him to know that,” Jennifer said. “It was in the damn papers.”

  “He told me some time later about how you kept the mobsters at bay. He said that his marksman medal exactly covers your navel.”

  Jennifer’s paleness was suddenly transformed to a mild tint of pink. “That’s something Mack Bolan had better have told only to a friend,” she said.

  “So what’s happened to you two since then?” Brognola asked.

  “At first we hid from the Mafia. There weren’t that many left in this area to hide from,” Susan answered. “Then, when we thought we were safe, some capo sent us word that the incident involving our father was over and done with. If we’d forget, so would they. We kept the last name change. It was pretty close to Rossiter anyway. We went into this type of headhunting and so far they haven’t bothered us.”

  “You think the truce will last?” Brognola probed.

  “Not a chance!” Jennifer replied.

  “But we’ve given up running and hiding,” her sister added. “When trouble comes, we’ll meet it.”

  “I still miss Mack,” Jennifer said softly.

  “Why did he have to die in that damn explosion!” Susan exclaimed.

  Brognola’s heart ached to tell these two women that Mack Bolan still fought the good fight, still had to watch his back against those who should be helping him. But it would do neither. Mack Bolan nor the United States any good to broadcast that the warrior was still very much alive. Brognola wanted to tell them, but he had to settle for a sigh.

  The Rossiter sisters — now the Ross sisters — also sighed.

  “Back to business,” Brognola said, his voice brusque.

  “What do you need?” Susan asked.

  “Staff. At least temporary. Some will probably be taken on permanently when regular management takes over again. But I want this place busy and productive in three days.”

  “Three days. You’re joking.” Jennifer exclaimed.

  Brognola shook his head.

  The two recruiters looked at each other for a moment and then stood up.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Brognola,” Susan said. “We’re not interested in your business.”

  “We need those people.”

  “We’re not in the habit of supplying live bait for traps,” Jennifer said.

  Brognola stared at them.

  “The bait is Lao Ti,” he said. “Routine jobs are being filled by federal agents. Everyone will be evacuated under protection of those agents, if there’s any danger. No one is bait except her.

  “We need people to really make this establishment run,” Brognola added. “We can secretly pump some money in, but in these days of computer record keeping, we can’t fake a productive company. We need the real thing. They’ll be safe, but we’d be wasting our time without them.

  “Troub
le’s here,” Brognola told them. “Are you going to meet it, or run?”

  The two recruiters paused for a second before answering.

  “We’ll do our best for you, but no guarantees,” Jennifer said.

  “I never ask for more than that,” Brognola assured them.

  *

  July 11, 938 hours, Atlanta, Georgia

  The Atlanta office of Workers Against Redundancy was in a building in one of the city’s new industrial subdivisions. When Nogi had taken Lyons into the WAR office at about ten the previous evening, volunteers were still bustling, stuffing envelopes, filing, answering telephones.

  Behind the general offices were a few executive offices. Nogi headed straight for a door marked President. A tough-looking individual in a security uniform sat at the secretary’s desk. He nodded to Nogi and pressed a concealed buzzer, admitting them to the president’s office.

  Nogi walked through the empty office and used a key to open what appeared to be a closet door. Lyons followed him through that into the back half of the building, the world of the Harassment Initiation Team.

  Nogi led him to a long room filled with double bunk beds. About two dozen were occupied; the same number were empty, a tribute to the effectiveness of Able Team. Nogi unlocked a supply room and loaded Lyons with bedding, a toothbrush, a disposable razor, and a karate gi, or fighting uniform, with a white belt.

  “Wear these and report to the dojo with the rest, tomorrow morning,” he ordered. He then left without another word.

  Lyons considered exploring during the night but decided against it. He was willing to bet that someone was waiting for him to do just that.

  Lyons took his sleep while he could get it. He made sure that he was neither the first man to do anything, nor the last. He rose, shaved, showered, and put on the supporter, giand sandals provided.

  “You’re new?” someone asked.

  “Last night. When do we eat?”

  “Not until after the first workout.”

  Lyons cocked an eyebrow at the pimply youth who was speaking to him. The boy’s yellow belt looked unsoiled. Lyons guessed that he had just been promoted from white and was feeling kindly disposed to lesser creatures.

  “We have three workouts a day and one two-hour session in a classroom. How well you do determines how much time you get off. Each new belt means we get paid more money. Same thing goes for marksmanship.

  “I’m afraid I’m never going to get a raise for my shooting,” the yellow belt confessed.

  Ever since Lyons had been given the gi, he had been chewing on the problem of going through karate classes without showing his own proficiency. Perhaps if he stuck close to the yellow belt and imitated his mistakes, he could cover himself.

  “I’m not too bad with guns,” Lyons said. “I’ll give you some tips, if you’ll show me some of this judo stuff.”

  “First, it’s not judo, it’s karate. Don’t let Mr. Nogi catch you making that mistake. He’ll cuff you around and make you do fifty push-ups or sit-ups or something.”

  “That little Nip better keep his hands off me,” Lyons muttered, thinking he had better get back into character.

  Pimples turned pale. “Don’t let him hear you say that,” he whispered. “Mr. Nogi can smash bricks with his bare hands. He’s murder on anyone who doesn’t show the proper respect.

  “Some guy failed to bow when he came into the dojo two days in a row. He beat him so thoroughly that the guy had to be taken to the hospital. We never saw him again, but you better believe everyone who saw that bows when Mr. Nogi comes in.”

  “Never saw the guy again,” Lyons mused.

  “Naw. He must have been booted out.”

  Probably buried, Lyons thought, but said nothing.

  “You going to show me the ropes?” he asked.

  “Ahh, we’ll see. I got to go now.”

  The kid hurried away, leaving Lyons with a distinct impression that alliances in HIT depended on how favorably the candidate was viewed from above.

  Lyons had to prevent himself from bowing to the dojo when he entered. No one had told him to do so; it would have been a giveaway. He took five paces into the large room with the bare floors before he was hit on the back of the head with sufficient force to throw him on his face.

  “Bow when you enter a dojo,” Nogi told him.

  It would have been easy to slap the floor and roll when he was hit from behind, but Lyons knew that would give away his training. So he absorbed most of the fall with his arms. His palms stung and he was face down and helpless. Nogi placed his bare foot on the back of his neck and shoved his face into the floor.

  “You bow when you enter a dojo, any dojo. Is that understood?”

  Lyons twisted his head to one side. “What the hell are you talking about?” he asked.

  Nogi kept his foot on Lyons’s neck.

  “Class,” he called in an authoritative voice.

  Lyons could see that mostly female students answered the master’s call. He was surprised to see one platinum blonde, who looked as if she would be more at home in a massage parlor. She was looking at Lyons’s face and smirking as she approached.

  When the class was assembled, Nogi spoke.

  “This worm was told to bow to the dojo. He has asked what the hell I am talking about. Because this is his first time here, I will be too lenient and explain. All of you listen. I shall not explain again.”

  “Are you going to let me up for the lesson?” Lyons asked.

  Nogi put enough pressure on the neck to cause pain. “Shut up and stay where you belong, worm.

  “Always you will bow to the dojo when you enter and when you leave. In future, you will receive a severe beating if you forget. I will not tolerate such disrespect. You will also bow whenever your senseienters or leaves the room. You will also bow whenever a black belt enters and the senseihas not got your attention. Is that clear?”

  Lyons said nothing.

  Nogi pressed on his neck with his bare sole causing excruciating pain along the top of the vertebrae.

  “It would be so easy to break your neck. Answer when spoken to.”

  “Yes, I understand,” Lyons said. Inside he was telling himself that this was part of the price to pay for penetrating HIT.

  “Here you answer the question by saying, ‘Sensei!’ The tone of voice will tell me whether you mean ‘yes,’ ‘no’ or are asking a question. Can you grasp that, worm?”

  “Sensei,” Lyons grated. The foot eased slightly.

  “You are still thinking of revenge. That is good. We like angry people here. They make fine fighters. Good luck with your revenge,” Nogi said.

  “Now I will tell you why you bow to the dojo, to the black belts, and above all to the sensei. The senseihas power, so you bow to that power. The black belts have acquired some of that power, so you bow out of respect for the power they have acquired. You bow to the dojo, because it is the place where power is transferred from master to student. Treat the dojo with respect because it is here that you will acquire the power which earns you respect.”

  Lyons wondered how a person who had gone through the years of vigorous mental and physical discipline necessary to become proficient in the martial arts, could use that discipline to subjugate and terrorize others. As he thought, he relaxed.

  Nogi took his relaxing as a sign of submission and removed his foot. Lyons remained on the floor until he was told to get up.

  “Although we mix the sexes for training,” Nogi announced, “I usually make it a practice to match training partners of the same sex.”

  He grabbed Lyons by the collar and flung him into the arms of the surprised platinum blonde.

  “You two are partners, because women should train with women,” Nogi said.

  The blonde looked angry. The rest of the class tried to hold back laughter.

  “Why do I get stuck with a womanwho can’t take care of herself?” the blonde demanded.

  Nogi’s tone was heavy with sarcasm. “You have show
ed me how great a warrior you are. I’m afraid to give you anyone more valuable. You might damage someone that matters.”

  When the laughter died down, Nogi added, “Take this worm and teach him fundamental manners and how to stand up. He seems to spend too much time on the floor.”

  The blonde shrugged and headed for one corner of the room. Lyons followed, content to be inside and in one piece.

  6

  July 12, 1004 hours, Santa Clara, California

  Gadgets dropped the half-eaten doughnut back onto the table and stared morosely into his third cup of coffee.

  “One of us should have gone with her,” he told Politician for the fourth time.

  “There’s a chance someone in that building saw us in Atlanta,” Pol said. “It’s better if she cases the layout first.”

  Gadgets did not look convinced. He looked around the doughnut shop. No one was particularly interested in them. They both wore suits and ties and looked like two businessmen having a long meeting.

  A soft voice spoke as a hand touched Gadgets’s shoulder.

  “I’m back,” Lao Ti said. Gadgets shifted over in the booth and Ti slid in beside him.

  “WAR has the second, third and fourth floors of that old office building,” she reported to Pol and Gadgets. “The computer room is on the south side of the fourth floor. Excellent security. The building is full, but the tenants on the sixth floor, south side, are just moving in. Some sort of sales firm for personal computers. No one in this branch of WAR was in Atlanta at the time of the raid on Elwood.”

  “How did you find out all that?” Gadgets asked.

  “It wasn’t difficult. First, I went to the building superintendent and asked about renting. I learned from him that CompuSales had taken the last vacancy and were in the act of moving in.

  “I went to CompuSales and applied for a job. From that I learned the location of the office and the fact that they’re new and can’t afford to hire anyone.

  “Next, I applied for a job as programmer at WAR. I learned the location of the computer area from the way the security is set up. Being an organization for the unemployed, WAR takes workers from its own ranks. I was invited to join. When I told them that I had worked last across the road from Elwood, they were full of questions. From the nature of the questions, I’m sure that no one has come from Atlanta to that office since the battle.”