Susumu Kodama, that old fraud who would have sung the devil’s praises if it put yen in his pocket, seemed to have no sense of what was happening. The gangster’s son, their patsy in the game, cared nothing for his father’s outlaw trade beyond destroying it—sweet irony—and had no explanation for the fresh, untimely interference from abroad. Sun’s headquarters in Beijing could offer no advice, claiming their sources at the CIA and NSA were ignorant of any ripples on the vast Pacific pond.
So be it. Sun would have to carry on alone, protect himself now that the wheels were set in motion and a deadline was approaching.
Put the emphasis on dead for thousands scurrying around the streets of Tokyo.
Old debts would soon be settled, scales rebalanced, and a new day would begin.
* * *
Toshima, Tokyo
“LET US BEGIN AGAIN,” Tamura Min said.
“I have told you everything I know,” the old man muttered, not quite weeping. “This is all a terrible mistake.”
“You saw the men responsible for this attack,” said Shoei Sato, “and they let you live. Can you explain that?”
“I already answered that. Sending a message to our Father.”
The gray-haired manager of Shiokaze was a scrawny specimen without his clothes, duct taped into a metal folding chair. His nose had already been broken when they took him, but the other injuries were new. So far, he had not lost much blood. None of the damage was irreparable.
“What did they look like?” Nakai Ryo asked. No matter what the circumstances, members of The Four worked as a team.
“I’ve told you—”
Koyuki Masuda drove a fist into their captive’s side, below the ribs, wrenching a squeal from bloodied lips. Nakai gave the old man a chance to catch his breath, then asked again, “What did they look like?”
“One was a foreigner, around six feet, dark hair. He had the weapon.”
“Describe it for us once again,” Tamura demanded.
“I don’t know guns so well. It reminded me of those machine guns on the old American TV program The Untouchables.”
“The Untouchables? You mean a tommy gun?” Masuda asked him.
“Only bigger. Like a shotgun of some kind, but bigger still.”
Sato glanced at Tamura, saw him shake his head. The man was useless when it came to weapons. He had started as a pimp, knew how to beat his girls with a sap, then had been promoted to loan-sharking when he demonstrated a facility with numbers. Sato knew all this from questioning Tadashi Jo before they snatched the old man and began interrogating him.
This inquisition was his gift for twenty years of faithful service to the family.
“Describe the other one,” Masuda said. “The Japanese.”
“He smelled like a cop,” the old man replied. “Cheap suit, the way he acted, and the club he hit me with.”
“Tattoos?”
The captive thought about it for a moment. Shook his head. “None that I saw. He didn’t strip for me, of course.”
“He made no mention of the Inagawa-kai or any other family.”
“Nothing. I’ve told you that.”
“We find the truth through repetition,” Sato said. “Reviewing first impressions. Rooting out the memories a trauma may suppress.”
“But I have told you everything!”
“And then,” Tamura added, “there is still the matter of repayment.”
“What repayment?”
“To your Father. Four million yen,” Masuda explained.
“Four million? I don’t have that kind of money!”
“Not since you gave it away,” Sato said.
“I was robbed,” replied the old man, very close to weeping now.
“You’ve told us you were struck after the robbery. Was that a lie?” Sato asked.
“I’ve only told the truth!”
“That means you offered no resistance,” said Tamura. “You gave up your master’s money in a bid to spare yourself from injury.”
The old man saw that he had walked into a trap, but he recovered. “Would you rather I had fought them and they killed me? Who would give you their description, then?”
“Your hostess. Diners from the restaurant,” Nakai replied. “These robbers, as you call them, were not wearing masks.”
“Are you blind?” the old man asked, getting angry now. “You all see what they did to me.”
“But for what reason?” Sato asked him. “You did not resist. Was striking you, perhaps, a way to make it seem that you are innocent?”
“Did you arrange the robbery?” Masuda asked, before the hostage could respond to Sato’s question.
“No! I swear to you!”
“And if we take your word for that…there’s still the debt,” Tamura said.
They stood around the old man in a basement room, beneath a vacant pencil factory. His folding chair sat on a plastic tarp, spread out to catch his blood. From the expression on his battered face, he knew that it was hopeless now.
“Go on and kill me, then,” he said, his voice already lifeless. “All the talk about your bravery, and still—”
The muffled shot from Sato’s pistol cut off whatever the old man planned to say. The bullet drilled his forehead, blood and other fluids instantly released at death, raining on to the tarp. As he removed the pistol’s sound suppressor, Sato considered that the old man had, in fact, shared everything he knew about the robbery. Of course, that made no difference.
Their oyabun demanded vengeance. This was minor, and misguided, but at least it was a start.
* * *
Harajuku, Tokyo
BOLAN WAS PARKED outside another nightclub, this one in the district internationally known as a center for Japanese youth, their culture and fashion. The place was called Earthquake, and from the volume of the music audible outside, the tag was no exaggeration.
“Takumi thought this place would rope his son into the business?” Bolan asked.
“At first,” Kayo said. “But he proved irresponsible. He became the bar’s best customer, although he never thought to pay for anything. His father, as I understand it, was about to take the club away from him, when suddenly Toi changed.”
“Changed how?”
“Began to pay attention and apply himself. Stopped chasing every woman in the place and making profits.”
“So, the prodigal returns.”
“Not quite. The rumor is that much of what he earns here is donated to a New Age sect, Saikosai Raito.”
“Never heard of it,” Bolan replied.
“There is no reason why you should have. Membership is presently confined to Tokyo and Yokohama. It appears to be innocuous enough, the standard game where acolytes donate their worldly goods to let a guru live in luxury.”
“That must be irritating to Takumi.”
“He still dotes on Toi, despite a string of disappointments.”
The oyabun’s weak spot. His son and heir might know where Bolan and Kayo could locate the old man, and if not, grabbing the kid might bring his father out of hiding. Either way, it was their best shot for a wrap-up when their target had already gone to ground, hiding in one of six or seven high-rise homes in Tokyo, or someplace that Kenichi’s street informants couldn’t name.
It was a simple mission, on its face: pick up a callow youth and squeeze him just enough to make him talk. If he was still at odds with Daddy, Toi might play along with no need of draconian persuasion. Otherwise, he’d serve them as a hostage, root the old man out that way.
Bolan had no intention of assassinating Toi Takumi, come what may, but scaring him was something else. He was a mobster’s son, spoiled all his life on money earned from drugs and human misery. A little shake-up wouldn’t hurt him. It might even help, if his newfound religion didn’t do the trick.
Armed only with his silenced Glock, Bolan followed Kayo from his parked car to the throbbing entrance of the club, forked over some of Kazuo Takumi’s ill-gotten gains to pay the cover charg
e, and passed into the warehouse-sized interior, roaring with so-called music from a trio of competing heavy metal bands. The din was deafening, making him picture herds of deaf kids roaming through the streets of Tokyo, slack-jawed and glassy-eyed.
“You’ll know him when you see him?” Bolan asked Kayo, shouting to be heard.
“We’ll try the office first,” Kayo hollered back.
There were no guards to deal with in the club, just sweating bodies jammed together on a dance floor, gyrating and shrieking as the music battered them from three sides. Bolan trailed Kayo down a narrow echo chamber of a hallway to a private office, where the lieutenant barged in without knocking first.
Three young men stood around a desk, one of them pointing to a map of Tokyo. Their conversation died at sight of the intruders, who had shut the office door and blessedly reduced the blare of music from outside.
“Who are you?” one of the young men demanded.
Showing them his badge, Kayo answered, “Toi Takumi, you will come with us.”
The one who’d spoken first backed up a step, the others moving forward to protect him. “Why should he go anywhere?”
“Official business,” Kayo said.
“Sounds more like official bullshit.”
“I’m afraid he has us there,” Kayo said to Bolan.
“We won’t allow this,” the third young man said.
“And how do you propose to stop us?” Kayo asked.
They were quick, drawing knives and moving forward, but the Executioner had time to pull his Glock and drop them both with head shots, leaving Toi Takumi with a stunned look on his face.
“You…you…” he stammered.
“You will come with us,” Kayo told him. “One way or another.”
Handcuffs snapped around the young man’s trembling wrists, and Bolan locked the office door behind them as they passed back into screaming chaos in the showroom.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Aoyama, Tokyo
“So, you learned nothing from him?”
“There was nothing to be learned,” Nakai Ryo replied. “The man was innocent.”
“No one is innocent,” Tadashi Jo corrected him.
“Of the offense that you suspected,” Shoei Sato interjected, “this man was.”
The Four had always made Tadashi Jo nervous, even though—in theory, at least—he was their master and could order them to sacrifice themselves if necessary for the Sumiyoshi-kai. He never felt at ease while in their presence, knowing what they’d done and might do if unleashed. Even a simple conversation with them could be daunting, as they finished one another’s sentences, their faces bland, emotionless. It was one reason he had called this meeting on a busy street corner, instead of someplace with more privacy.
“I see,” Jo said. “He knew nothing of value, but you killed him anyway?”
“Examples must be set,” Tamura Min explained. “He failed our godfather.”
“And we’re no closer to the enemy than when you started,” Jo said.
Koyuki Masuda chimed in. “We believe the cop is the key.”
“The policeman?” Jo stopped short of mocking the notion. “How do we know he was from the police? Give me an hour, and I can have a dozen badges for you.”
“This one had authority,” Nakai replied. “Your man was certain of it. We assume he had experience with the police?”
“He did.” In fact, the former manager of Shiokaze, now a corpse, had been arrested ten or fifteen times, though never once convicted on a major charge. “So, what?”
“He knew a cop when he saw one,” Sato answered. “Or, as he said, smelled one.”
“So?” Jo asked again.
“If we find the policeman, we find the foreigner,” Sato said, as if it should be obvious.
“And how do you propose to do that?” Asking all of them at once.
“You know which higher-ups serve the family,” Tamura said. “Find a commander and inquire if there is someone he suspects.”
“Or give us names,” Nakai suggested. “We can make our own inquiries.”
“No!” It came out louder and more forceful than Jo had intended. “Now, of all times, you must not interfere with the police.”
Stone faces stared at him, none answering. Jo had no clue what thoughts were simmering behind those masks, but he trusted The Four to follow orders. And he had new orders for them now.
“Our godfather is troubled by another matter. It seems minor by comparison to these attacks, but it preys on his mind.”
“Speak, and the matter is resolved,” Sato said.
“You all know Kato Ando?” No reply. He took their silence for assent and forged ahead. “He was assigned to carry out a small investigation and has disappeared. Our godfather wants one of you to find him. I suggest beginning at his last known destination.”
“Which was…?” Sato prompted him.
“Saikosai Biometrics. I have the address in Akasaka.” As he spoke, Jo took a folded piece of paper from his pocket, held it out to no one in particular.
“I’ll do it,” Masuda said, pocketing the paper without opening it.
“The rest of you, consider where this foreigner gets his weapons,” Jo ordered.
“If he’s working with a police commander, weapons are no problem,” Sato said.
“Check dealers anyway. If you require a list—”
“We know them,” Tamura replied.
“I won’t detain you any longer, then.” Jo turned back toward his Cadillac CTS-V, which was still idling at the curb outside a trendy restaurant. His guards stood waiting, one already opening his door.
Joi fought an urge to glance back at The Four, to see if they were watching his retreat. Each time he met with them, he felt as if he was handling snakes without protective gear. If one of them turned on him, he suspected, all four would join in.
For now, though, he was in command, at least in theory. They were following his orders, out of loyalty to Kazuo Takumi or to the Sumiyoshi-kai, if not Tadashi Jo personally. All that mattered was results. They took the risks, while he reaped the reward.
He did not pretend to understand the business with Saikosai Biometrics. His leader had commanded an investigation, while refusing to explain. Jo viewed the exercise as a distraction, but he only followed orders, like The Four.
And hoped his loyalty would not turn out to be the death of him.
* * *
Nakano, Tokyo
“WHO ELSE KNOWS about this safe house?” Bolan asked Kayo, as he turned onto a residential street from Waseda Dori, passing homes he ranked as working class.
“My captain.”
“Do you trust him?”
“It’s irrelevant,” Kayo said. “He won’t know that we’re using it.”
Behind them, lying covered with a blanket on the backseat’s floorboard, Toi Takumi had been silent since they put him in the car. A strip of duct tape helped with that. Kayo had already checked to see if Toi was breathing, and pronounced him fit.
For what?
They needed information from the mobster’s son, and Bolan was determined to obtain it. He had never cared for torture, knew from personal experience that it was both repugnant and counterproductive, but in a pinch he’d use a variation of the tools available to see his mission through.
The safe house had a small attached garage. Kayo keyed the opener and Bolan drove the Honda in, sat waiting while the door came down again and his companion found the light switch. Pulling Toi out of the car was easy, but he started wriggling as they walked him toward an exit to the house, kicking and squirming, grunting like an animal behind his duct tape gag.
Kayo settled him before Bolan could deal with it, produced the flexible baton once more and whipped it down across Toi’s kneecap. Grunts turned into squeals, and he collapsed, Bolan supporting his left side, Kayo on his right. They got him in the house, survived some awkward moments on a staircase leading to the basement and deposited him on a concrete floor.
<
br /> Bolan yanked off the silver tape, their captive gasping as it stripped some peach fuzz from his lips and chin.
“Who are you?” Toi demanded, all indignant. “Why have you abducted me?”
“We are in need of information,” Kayo told him.
Toi sat up, wincing at fresh pain from his knee, glaring at each of them in turn. “You won’t learn anything from me. I took an oath.”
Kayo bent down, ripping at the captive’s shirt, revealing pale skin underneath. “You haven’t been initiated,” he observed. “No ink.”
“Is that it? You think I am Sumiyoshi-kai.” Toi yelped a laugh. “You’re fools.”
Kayo frowned at Bolan and turned back to their prisoner. “What oath, then?” he demanded.
“Never mind. You’re too late, anyway,” Toi answered.
“Then it won’t hurt if you tell us, will it?”
“Do your worst,” Toi said, sneering. “My master and Lord Bishamon protect me.”
“Your master,” Bolan said. “Not Daddy?”
“Idiot gaijin! I’ve told you I’m not Yakuza.”
“What are you, then?”
“A savior to my people. Hail Saikosai Raito!”
It was Bolan’s turn to glance at his companion. Toi’s remarks meant nothing to him, but they’d clearly had an impact on Kayo.
“It’s true, then. You are a member of the cult,” Kayo said.
“Cult? Ignorant cop! It is the only true religion.”
“And we’ve come too late to interfere with what?” Kayo prodded.
“With the Great Reckoning,” Toi replied, grinning triumphantly.
“A reckoning with whom?” he asked of Toi.
“With everyone, of course. Lord Bishamon demands homage. No one escapes his wrath but the elect.”
“And you are…?”
“Chosen,” Toi said proudly. “I have done my part. Whatever happens to my flesh is meaningless.”
“Where shall this reckoning occur?” Kayo asked. “In Tokyo?”
“The seat of all corruption. Can’t you smell it? But a cleansing wind is coming, a divine wind. Kamikaze!”
It was turning into gibberish, from Bolan’s point of view, but now Kayo couldn’t let it go. “I want to know what you have planned,” he said. “You’ll tell me, or—”
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