Ninja Assault

by Don Pendleton

  He bagged his purchases and paid Yuko without dickering over price. No tip, since that would be an insult and a waste of time. Once action started in the city, Yuko might decide to make a call, but not to the police. He’d curry favor with the Yakuza, up to a point, though he could not identify his gaijin customer. Against that, he would weigh the possibility of retribution from the CIA and other foreign clients, if they ever learned he had betrayed one of their own.

  It was a devil’s choice, and either way, if Yuko tried to sell him out, Bolan would never know. He would be dead by then, if the betrayal worked. And if it didn’t, well, what difference did it make?

  Bolan left the pawnshop a hundred pounds heavier, stowing the gear in his Honda, and left Roppongi behind for the moment. His first destination lay elsewhere.

  It was time to light the fuse.

  * * *

  Akasaka, Tokyo

  KATO ANDO DID not resent his orders. It was true that he would have preferred to join the fight against his oyabun’s opponents, but he had a duty to perform, and he did not deceive himself by thinking that he could accomplish anything The Four could not. They were beyond the pale of normal soldiers, members of a breed apart.

  It was near the end of business for most offices as Ando took his post to watch Saikosai Biometrics from across the street. Foot traffic flowed around him, as if he had been a boulder in the middle of a stream. He watched the third-floor windows, saw their lights go out at last, and memorized the faces of the four young people—two men and two women, no one smiling—who were next out of the building, turning as a group in the direction of the nearest metro station.

  Would there be a watchman left behind in darkness? Ando doubted it.

  He waited for the crossing signal, made it to the other side and tried the front door of the office building. Open. It was possible a janitor might come around and lock it while he was inside, but Ando was not worried about being trapped. No door had ever yet defeated him.

  He shunned the elevator, used the service stairs and moments later stood before the door of Saikosai Biometrics. This one was locked, and he moved along the hallway, checking other offices to satisfy that none were occupied, before he doubled back and went to work with lock picks. Once inside, he looked for keypads, any sign of an alarm, but found nothing.

  What was he looking for? Something that would explain the operation to his oyabun. Some explanation as to why it lured Toi Takumi. He started with what seemed to be a private office, one more locked door vanquished. More locks on the filing cabinets, but Ando knew the trick to beating them, tipping each cabinet and reaching underneath to press the master disconnect. Inside, he found files filled with formal business correspondence, none of which meant anything to him, and ledgers filled with formulae that might as well have been composed in ancient Greek.

  For all he knew, they were.

  He couldn’t spend the whole night here, searching for some small clue he might not even recognize. Ando considered taking one of the ledgers—or maybe some pages selected at random from each—but what would his oyabun do with them? Did Kazuo Takumi have contacts who could translate scientific blather?

  Almost certainly.

  He drew his blade and was about to slit a page from the first ledger, when the lights hummed on above him. Ando turned to face two men approximately half his age, both holding guns with silencers attached.

  “Silent alarm?” he asked.

  “It’s motion-sensing,” one of them replied. “Keyed to the light switch by the door.”

  “Don’t tell him that!” the other grated.

  “Why not?” the first one asked. “He isn’t going anywhere.”

  * * *

  Kabukicho, Tokyo

  BROTHELS FLOURISHED IN JAPAN, although the Anti-Prostitution Law of 1956 strictly prohibited payment for sexual intercourse. Enforcement of that law gave rise to alternate activities, including “fashion health parlors” that featured intimate massages, and the soaplands, where clients reclined on waterproof beds, smeared with lotion, while prostitutes writhed atop them without penetration. By recent estimates, the legal sex trade in Japan raked in some $24 billion per year, and Kabukicho was the hotbed of activity in Tokyo.

  Most locals called it “Sleepless Town.” A recent police inventory counted more than a thousand Yakuza members in Kabukicho, with at least 120 different enterprises under their collective thumb. The controversial installation of fifty closed-circuit street cameras had reduced theft and mugging in Sleepless Town, but sex workers still serviced johns around the clock.

  One of the sleeplands owned by Kazuo Takumi in Kabukicho was Joirando, which Bolan understood to mean “Joyland.” No subtlety required, when customers came looking for a quick fix or the next best thing to love. To emphasize the point, neon outside the club portrayed a blue lotion bottle gripped by a pink hand with red-lacquered nails. Every thirty seconds or so the hand squeezed, and the bottle ejected a creamy white geyser.

  Pure class.

  Bolan entered and was greeted by a lounge lizard he assumed to be the manager. The guy spoke English perfectly, none of the cliché problems with the ls and rs.

  “Good evening, sir. Time to come clean!” He gave a little chuckle that Bolan didn’t share. “The price for ninety minutes is twelve thousand yen.”

  Bolan converted that in his head, $126 give or take some change. “You take Amex?” he asked.

  “Of course, sir.”

  Reaching underneath his jacket, Bolan said, “How about Glock?”

  The lizard stiffened, lost his artificial smile. “You don’t know what you’re doing, gaijin,” he advised.

  “Seems pretty straightforward to me,” Bolan replied. “Show me the office.”

  “Hai. It is, as you might say, your funeral.”

  “Not yet.”

  He trailed the manager, saw one hand rise to the lizard’s lapel and let him key the panic trigger. Better to dispose of any muscle now than have them springing at him from the shadows as he left.

  Two of them emerged from a door to Bolan’s left before they’d reached the office. Both were armed with pistols, but they clearly didn’t want to shoot their boss if they could help it. That gave Bolan all the edge he needed, firing two quick shots over the lizard’s shoulder, dropping both hardmen where they stood, before they had a chance to use their guns.

  His escort gaped, aghast at the display of blood and brains in his establishment, where other fluids were the stock in trade. The lizard doubled over, spewed his dinner on to his patent leather shoes and finished gasping, hands braced on his knees.

  “Is that it?” Bolan asked him. “Are we done?”

  The guy managed a shaky nod.

  “Okay, then,” Bolan said. “I’m on the clock. Let’s get to work.”

  * * *

  LIEUTENANT KENICHI KAYO studied the first pair of corpses, letting the CSI team wait for him. He had been summoned to the Joyland murder scene after firefighters had answered an alarm there, only to discover that there was no blaze beyond a metal trash can in the bloodstained hallway, spewing smoke from burned-out bedding.

  It had been enough to clear the place, too many feet trampling the scene as clients fled, before emergency responders finished off the job. No one had actually touched the two dead gunmen lying in the corridor as far as he could tell, but cursory examination might not be enough.

  Two head shots, relatively neat and clean as such things went. Whoever had dropped the gunmen had not bothered to collect their weapons, though a closer look revealed that both had lost their magazines. Kayo frowned at that, puzzled. Was it a bid to make the pistols safe, in case someone lifted them from the scene? Or did the killer want more ammunition for himself?

  Impossible to say.

  “You recognize them?” the lieutenant asked Hiromi Inoue, the first detective on the scene.

  “They’re Sumiyoshi-kai, sir. Small-time muscle.”

  “Outclassed, I would say, on this occasion.”

/>   “Yes, sir.”

  “Where’s the manager?”

  “This way.”

  Kayo trailed the man who’d called him out to Joyland, reached another door that stood open, and stepped into an office rank with death. A body’s sudden relaxation at the final instant vented all manner of unpleasant smells and substances. The manager propped in a high-backed chair behind a cluttered desk had left his home this evening thinking he was dressed to kill.

  As it turned out, he had been dressed to die.

  It was another head shot, almost carbon copy. Whoever their shooter was, he didn’t hesitate and didn’t miss—at least, from ten feet out.

  “Cartridges?” the lieutenant asked.

  “Three .40-caliber,” Inoue said. “We’ll check for prints, of course, but…”

  “Hai.” But nothing. They’d be lucky to retrieve a greasy smudge, if that.

  A small, stout safe stood open in a corner of the room, behind the desk and lolling corpse. Kenichi’s frown deepened into a scowl. “Three dead, for robbery?”

  “The two resisted, sir.”

  “And this one?”

  “Leave no witnesses.”

  Kayo nodded. “Cameras?”

  “In place and functional,” Inoue said, “but someone took the disk.”

  “Of course they did. Print every surface from the office to the entryway.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Was there anyone remaining when you got here?”

  “They were wise enough to flee.”

  “And damned unlikely to come forward now. They’ll call Tadashi Jo before they’d speak to us.”

  “You’ll question him, sir?”

  “On what grounds? Does his name appear on any lease for this establishment?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “And without that link…”

  “He’s bound to squeal harassment.”

  “Certainly harassment, at the very least. I think, Hiromi, we must treat this as a simple robbery gone wrong. Pursue such evidence as may remain after the buffalo stampede, and wait to see what happens next.”

  “Is this a war beginning?” the detective asked.

  “I couldn’t say,” Kayo answered.

  But I can always hope, he thought to himself.

  * * *

  Shiodome, Tokyo

  TOI TAKUMI’S SMARTPHONE blared its ringtone from the coffee table in his living room.

  He did not recognize the number showing on the phone’s screen, so he answered cautiously. “Sore wa daredesu ka?”

  His master’s voice spoke softly, as it always did. “We have a difficulty, Toi.”

  “Difficulty?”

  “We have caught a spy prowling the laboratory. It appears your father sent him.”

  “Mazāfakkā!” Toi was instantly embarrassed by his use of the obscenity. “Forgive me, Master.”

  Susumu Kodama’s voice was soothing. “This is a surprise, I know, but one that I should have foreseen.”

  “Has he confessed?”

  “He was reluctant, but the flesh is weak. He calls himself Kato Ando.”

  “He’s my father’s lackey.”

  “And a killer, eh?”

  “No doubt. What shall be done with him?”

  “He claims to have learned nothing, but he was surprised while stealing files. We cannot risk releasing him.”

  “Of course not, Master. But will eliminating him cause further difficulty?”

  “You would be the better judge of that, I think.”

  “My father will expect to hear from him. When he does not, he will send others to investigate.”

  Kodama did not answer for a moment. When he did, his voice was calm as ever. “Thankfully, our work is nearly finished. We no longer need the office or laboratory. I shall purge the files tonight and leave nothing behind for other spies.”

  “A wise decision, Master. And Ando?”

  “He will simply disappear. Such things are common in the city, as I understand it.”

  “Forgive me for the inconvenience of my father,” Toi pleaded.

  “On the contrary, Toi. He helps us by accelerating our plan. You should thank him.”

  “I give thanks that he and all his rotten family will soon be gone.”

  “A vengeful spirit does not suit you, Toi. Bear in mind that we visit this judgment on the city out of love.”

  Chastened, Toi answered, “Yes, Master!”

  “And you’ll be available, to play your part?”

  “I will.”

  “God’s love to you, Toi.”

  “God’s love to you, Master.”

  Toi cut the link and stared through his apartment window toward the Shiodome city center, a collection of thirteen skyscrapers housing billion-dollar firms such as Fujitsu, Nippon Airways, Bandai Visual, and SoftBank. In his mind, he pictured the great towers crumbling, rotten from within, burying thousands of their zombie slaves as they collapsed.

  His father had conspired to ruin everything, as usual, but this time he had met a force that guns and money could not overcome. Accustomed to eliminating any obstacle with bribery or brute force, how would Kazuo Takumi fare against the mighty wrath of Bishamon?

  Toi smiled, imagining his father’s face when the great oyabun discovered everything he’d done in the pursuit of wealth and power was a waste of time. The day was coming when no private army, no corrupted judge or politician, could protect him. If Kazuo Takumi were allowed to see the future, would he plead for mercy? Beg forgiveness for his crimes?

  Toi doubted it. And secretly, that pleased him.

  Let the old man die with all the other sinners.

  Toi hoped that his father would die screaming.

  * * *

  Haneda Airport, Tokyo

  TADASHI JO WAS waiting when the Bombardier Global 8000 landed, right on time. The pilots knew their master well enough to understand that no delays were tolerated in emergencies.

  Haneda Airport—formally known as Tokyo International—had been the city’s primary international airport until 1978, when Narita siphoned off much of the commercial airline traffic. Nowadays, Haneda was the hub for Japan Airlines, All Nippon Airways and various low-cost domestic carriers, with private charter flights. It remained the second-busiest airport in Asia and the world’s fourth busiest, moving sixty-nine million passengers yearly.

  No one would notice The Four.

  Watching the 110-foot jet taxi closer, Tadashi Jo rehearsed his instructions to Kazuo Takumi’s elite assassins. He wanted no confusion, nothing to retard a swift solution to his oyabun’s concerns. Above all else, he wanted to be firm and in control while giving orders to The Four.

  The truth was, they intimidated him. He’d never seen them work, but knew some of the things they’d done in service to the Sumiyoshi-kai. As individuals, they would be feared exterminators. But together, as The Four, they were approaching legendary status.

  Shoei Sato. Koyuki Masuda. Nakai Ryo. Tamura Min.

  Each had his specialty—explosives, blades, poisons, the bow—but all four had been rigorously trained by masters in ninjutsu and kung fu, as in firearms, edged weapons, scuba, hang gliding and a host of other skills. For “graduation,” Kazuo Takumi had made arrangements for a twenty-member strike team of the Japanese Special Forces Group to hunt The Four through five hundred square miles of virgin forest in Honshu’s Shirakami-Sanchi preserve, with orders to pull no punches, take no prisoners.

  The result had been catastrophe—for the soldiers. Three had died, chalked off to “training accidents,” while the remaining seventeen were hospitalized, four with injuries necessitating their retirement from military service. Takumi contributed to their disability pension and arranged a promotion for the colonel who had authorized the exercise.

  Such men as these were dangerous in the extreme. But if their loyalty held fast…

  Tadashi Jo watched them disembark, leaving their bags for someone else to carry. He had brought a Toyota Century Royal to acco
mmodate The Four and their luggage, chauffeured, with a shotgun rider along for security’s sake—an almost humorous inclusion, now that he considered it.

  No casual observer would have thought The Four were special. Certainly, they moved with an athletic grace most humans did not share, and were possessed of quiet confidence, but if a passing stranger on the street were asked to guess at their profession, he would probably have called them young accountants, brokers, maybe up-and-coming lawyers. Perfect form, enhancing their invisibility.

  Jo knew better than to shake hands with any of The Four, or waste their time with pointless pleasantries. He bowed in greeting, ushered them inside the limousine and was the last to enter. Perched on a jump seat facing his passengers, he said, “You may be curious about the cancellation of your mission.”

  No reply from any of The Four.

  Jo forged ahead. “Your boss considers that the trouble in America may be beyond redemption for the moment, while the family is threatened here, in Tokyo.”

  “By whom?” Tamura Min inquired.

  “That is unclear. Part of your task is to identify the enemy.”

  “We’re not detectives,” Shoei Sato said.

  “That’s understood,” Jo granted. “Others are at work to name the targets. If they strike in Tokyo, however, it is hoped you may be able to pursue them and…eliminate the problem.”

  Koyuki Masuda smiled and answered for The Four, “It’s what we do.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Nihonbashi, Tokyo

  Someone was working late at Kazoku Investments when the Executioner arrived. Kazoku translated as “family,” and in this case, that meant the Sumiyoshi-kai. The firm consisted of accountants and advisers moving money for the Yakuza, “cleaning” it in the process, while a board consisting of six oath-bound, tattooed members of the Yakuza issued the orders from their oyabun.