Ninja Assault

by Don Pendleton

  “And if he doesn’t come, we cancel it?” Hata challenged. “I shall let you explain that to Master Kodama.”

  Mori did not like the sound of that. “You’re right,” he said reluctantly. “We still have time.”

  The techs were finishing their work on the third helicopter, spot welding the makeshift dispersal rig’s dual nozzles to the Bell 206L’s fuselage, below the tail. First they had taken out the rear seats and replaced them with a holding tank made from an oil drum, fitted with an air compressor that would force the tank to void its contents on command, at the touch of a newly installed toggle switch. From there, the pilot simply had to follow his assigned course over Tokyo, dispensing Lord Bishamon’s judgment upon all the sinners below.

  Assuming that the hookup functioned properly.

  They had no opportunity to test the rigs, either in flight or on the ground before takeoff. There was a backup plan, of course, if any of the systems failed. In that case, Master Kodama’s divine wind would become a classic kamikaze mission, each of the selected pilots pledged to sacrifice himself as needed, for the cause.

  And they were dead, in any case, although they didn’t know it yet.

  Mori had been commanded not to tell the pilots that their master’s plan called for the stolen helicopters to be shot down by police. The aircraft had to be downed and traced back to their owner, for the pantomime to be complete. Discovery of Toi Takumi’s corpse would seal the deal, directing public outrage toward the Sumiyoshi-kai.

  Assuming that the spoiled bastard finally showed up to play his part and did not leave them stranded.

  It was not Mori’s prerogative to question what Master Kodama had been thinking when he welcomed a Yakuza brat into the inner circle of Saikosai Raito. It would take a blind man and an idiot to overlook the risks involved. Still, Toi had seemed to be a true believer and had certainly been generous with his allowance, spending dirty money to achieve deliverance.

  But now, where was he, as the deadline rapidly approached?

  Mori tried calling Toi again, and once again, the call went straight to voice mail. Muttering a curse, he dropped the cell phone back into his pocket, wondering if he should call Master Kodama and alert him to the problem.

  No.

  The very last thing Mori needed was to come off sounding weak and indecisive. He’d been honored with appointment as the mission’s supervisor, and he would not fail the master through faintheartedness. Whatever happened in the hours ahead, whether he lived or found his way to paradise ahead of schedule, Mori would stay the course.

  His comrade was right. They could proceed without the spoiled brat, if he left them no alternative. The helicopters’ registration numbers were enough to link them with Kazuo Takumi and the Sumiyoshi-kai. From there, it was a short step to indictments and a show trial, where the godfather’s denials would be useless. Tokyo’s survivors would demand revenge, and in their grief would turn to someone who had answers to their questions.

  And their prayers.

  Master Susumu Kodama’s time was coming. Mori hoped that he would be there, basking in the bright reflected glory of their Lord.

  * * *

  Suginami, Tokyo

  DESPITE THE HOUR, traffic on Kan-Pachi Dori kept Bolan from rushing toward his target as he would have done, with clear lanes all around. The semi rigs were out in force, delivering produce, seafood and other goods to the markets that would soon be open for the early trade from restaurants and groceries. Whole fleets of cars were also on the move, stacked high on tractor-trailer auto transporters.

  Kayo seemed relaxed beside him, more at ease than he had been at any time since their first meeting, hectic hours earlier. From Bolan’s view, it was as if the cop had shed some weight that smothered him—or was he simply giving up on any prospect of survival? That could be a risk for any soldier, slipping into fatalism that appeared to conquer fear, but which, in fact, encouraged reckless action that could doom a mission or a man.

  Bolan wasn’t about to push it, focused as he was—and as the lieutenant ought to be—on what was waiting for them in Nerima. He had no idea how many members of Kodama’s cult would be on hand to guard or operate the helicopters they had stolen from the Sumiyoshi-kai. One pilot each, for sure, but would they need another crew member to operate the gear they’d rigged for spraying anthrax over Tokyo? Would there be techs on hand, still working on the apparatus—and if so, were they prepared to fight?

  Some cults, he knew, were led by individuals content to bask in adoration, leading lives of luxury and sloth, without attempting to subvert society. Kodama had been cut from different cloth, possessed by visions of himself leading a revolution that would “cleanse” society while leaving him in charge. He clearly hadn’t planned on dying in a basement, but he didn’t matter now.

  The question was: What would his people do without him?

  Would they fold on learning that their guru had been taken off the board, or would they fight to the death to realize the fantasy he’d planted in their heads?

  Bolan narrowed his focus to their mission of the moment: halt the anthrax flights, eliminating anyone who tried to stop them, and destroy the weaponized bacillus. Anything beyond that point, as far as the Supreme Light was concerned, was someone else’s problem. He would gladly leave it in their hands and get back to the job that he was meant to do in Tokyo.

  Right now, stopping the helicopters on the ground was paramount. If they took off, Bolan had no way to pursue them, much less bring them down. Metro PD had aircraft, but a dogfight over Tokyo could lead to tragedy. Even if all three choppers were shot down without dispersing any anthrax, it could be released after they fell to earth.

  The Honda’s dashboard clock told him the time, but couldn’t clue him in as to the time remaining on their unknown deadline. If Kodama hadn’t known exactly when the helicopters were supposed to fly, nobody did.

  “You want the Steyr when we get there?” Bolan asked Kayo. “I’ve got nothing else to offer you except the .308, and I don’t recommend it for the job we’re taking on.”

  “No, thank you. I’ve been trained to do with less.”

  The .38 revolver, six shots going in, and maybe extra speed-loaders if Kayo had been feeling paranoid that morning. Bolan knew he had reloaded at the safe house, but it wasn’t much to start with, even so.

  Forget it. Let it go.

  The job came first, and if Kayo felt that he could pull his weight with what he had on hand, so be it. Bolan wouldn’t waste time worrying about him, unless the lieutenant did something to jeopardize their task.

  In which case, he would cut the man loose, leave him to sink or swim.

  Harsh rules, for a harsh world. The only world Mack Bolan knew.

  * * *

  Nerima, Tokyo

  THE WAREHOUSE WAS not difficult to find. Susumu Kodama had provided accurate directions in his final moments, when the hope of rescue by his ancient god evaporated, and he realized that death was only moments in his future. He’d lacked the fortitude to craft a final lie, and now Kayo sat staring at the massive building with its peeling paint and rusting metal walls, wondering if his own death lay within.

  Had Susumu Kodama felt betrayed, that moment when he realized that giving up the final secrets of his cult was not about to save his life?

  It made no difference.

  “No guards outside,” Bolan said, “and I don’t see any cameras.”

  “There wouldn’t be,” Kayo replied. “Kodama said he thought to renovate it for a meeting place, but he ran out of time.”

  “Prayer meetings after the apocalypse?”

  “Remember, he expected to prevail. And he originally planned for the attack to fall later this year.”

  “What bumped it up?”

  Kayo had to smile as he replied, “You did. Kazuo Takumi’s troubles made him see that there would never be a better time. The bloodshed worked to his advantage, and he feared that if the godfather fell before the day of reckoning, Toi would b
e useless to him and might even leave the cult. He could not let unknown opponents finish off the mobster, without implicating him in the anthrax conspiracy. It might be years before Kodama could have found a way to blame another family for what he had in mind.”

  “That doesn’t sound as crazy as he seemed,” Bolan said.

  “He was rational enough about the plan,” Kayo granted, “but his motives were insane.”

  “Still are,” Bolan replied. “And he’s got people still on task. Let’s get in there.”

  Kayo had no need to double-check his gun. It was fully loaded, six rounds in the cylinder, and he carried enough spare ammunition to kill twelve more men besides, if he made each shot count and never missed.

  If he was still alive, after they met the enemy.

  They’d parked a block south of the warehouse, walking toward it through a light, cool rain that felt like mist. Kayo knew that he had to look atrocious, like some kind of homeless scarecrow after all that he’d been through the past few hours, but he didn’t care. Appearances were for superiors he wanted to impress, or the rare woman whom he hoped to charm. This night had been about cruel, bloody work in the pursuit of justice, and it was not finished yet. The side trip to Nerima was a detour, a distraction from the main event.

  Kayo hoped that he would live to see the first job finished, but if not, the prospect of annihilation did not trouble him. He was exhausted by the life he’d led, more so than he had ever realized before Matt Cooper showed him that solutions could be simple if you threw away the rule book. Suddenly, Kayo realized that, while he worked for the police department, he’d been handcuffed from his first day on the streets. So many rules and regulations screened the criminals from rightful punishment that chasing them became a futile exercise, subverted by impressionable jurors and appellate courts.

  It still felt alien to Kayo, raised as he had been in a society that valued order, devoid of America’s do-it-yourself vigilante tradition, but he was getting used to operating as a force outside the law. Oddly, knowing that there could be no future in it had not dimmed the raw appeal of action.

  When the end came, as it must, he would accept it as a true son of Japan.

  Nearing the warehouse, still unchallenged by security, the lieutenant drew his .38, holding it down against his thigh. Its weight in his right hand was comforting.

  Whatever happened next, he thought, was destiny.

  * * *

  THE FIRST DOOR Bolan tried was unlocked. Whatever else the members of Supreme Light planned for Tokyo, they hadn’t given much thought to security.

  Stepping inside, he left the Milkor on its shoulder sling and held the Steyr ready for whatever opposition they encountered. Bolan didn’t know whether Kodama’s acolytes were trained in combat or a bunch of nerds who couldn’t fight their way out of a paper bag. In either case, the quickest way to throw them off their game was getting in the first punch, hard and fast.

  He followed voices from the back door, down a little hallway, to the main warehouse. It was a huge place, drifting into slow decline, with cobwebs in the rafters, rusty walls inside as well as out. A forklift sat to one side of the entryway where Bolan stood, potential cover if he needed it, but he was focused on the three Bell helicopters gleaming under the fluorescent ceiling lights, a clutch of seven men gathered around the third aircraft in line.

  No takeoffs yet. They’d made it for the kickoff.

  “Want to warn them?” Bolan whispered to Kayo.

  The lieutenant thought about it for a second, then called out, “Taihoshichauzo! Mada tatte menomaede anata no te o hoji shimasu!”

  Something on the lines of Freeze, you’re busted, Bolan thought.

  And they did freeze, for roughly two, three heartbeats, then they scattered, four of them reaching for weapons as they ran. Bolan dropped one of them in midstride, not waiting to see if he pulled out a gun or a cell phone to warn other members outside the warehouse. His target hit the concrete floor and slithered through his own blood to a huddle halt.

  Kayo bagged the next one, leading with his .38 and firing once, clipping the runner as he pulled some kind of semiauto pistol from beneath his windbreaker. The would-be shooter fell, his weapon soaring out in front of him and clattering across the warehouse floor.

  Two down, and one of those remaining bolted for the first chopper in line, its door already open to receive him as he scrambled up into the pilot’s seat. The farther warehouse doors were closed, preventing an airborne escape, but that reality eluded Bolan’s target as his hands flew over the controls, flicking assorted toggle switches.

  Bolan drilled him through the head and pitched him over into the copilot’s seat, just as the chopper’s rotor blades began to turn. Without a live hand on the throttle they could not accelerate, but still spun lazily, reminding Bolan of a sluggish children’s ride.

  The other cultists died trying to run away. One of them got a shot off, as a slug from the lieutenant’s weapon drilled his chest, but it was lost somewhere among the vaulted warehouse rafters and its hanging light fixtures. No score.

  When they had seven bodies sprawled on cold concrete, Bolan turned to Kayo. “Mask up,” he advised, “and move back in the hallway.”

  Bolan slipped on his mask as he spoke, and crossed to stand behind the nearest helicopter. It was hard to miss the work that had been done, transforming the executive aircraft into a lethal crop duster. He saw the drum that would be full of anthrax spores, the pipes and nozzles rigged up to expel them, all in place. Both of the other helicopters had been rigged identically.

  He and Kayo had reached them in time.

  The Milkor’s maximum effective range was four hundred yards. He didn’t need the launcher’s reflex sight from thirty feet, but Bolan used it anyway, taking no chances. Starting with the farthest chopper first, he slammed incendiary rounds into each aircraft’s fuselage, exactly where the drums of anthrax nestled in their burlap cradles, and he blew them all to hell. The ruptured fuel tanks helped, ensuring that no stray spores managed to escape.

  Bodies were roasting in a lake of liquid fire as Bolan turned away, trailing Kayo back along the hall and out into what passed for fresh air in Tokyo. From the outer threshold, he emptied the Milkor’s remaining three rounds, whipping the warehouse firestorm to a fever pitch of heat.

  Retreating toward the Honda, Bolan didn’t know whether Kodama’s zealots had a backup plan for the Great Reckoning or not, and it was none of his concern. Police could handle anything the cult dreamed up from this point on. He had another job to finish.

  And Kazuo Takumi’s clan was bound to make it difficult.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Shizuoka Prefecture

  Kazuo Takumi normally enjoyed the drive from Tokyo to his retreat in Shizuoka. Counting all the highway’s twists and turns, it totaled eighty miles or more. It was a scenic drive, once you escaped the urban sprawl of Tokyo, passing Mount Fuji and Lake Kawaguchi, then rolling along the coast to reach Suruga Bay. He liked to watch the scenery unfold, play tourist and forget about his business for a weekend or a holiday.

  Not this time.

  This time, he was running from a fight—something he’d never done before.

  During the past two wars he had engaged in, Takumi had spilled no blood with his own two manicured hands, but he had stayed in Tokyo, at risk, to plot their tactics, call the shots. He had emerged victorious from one of those wars, while the other had been a bloody draw, maintaining what he’d held before the shooting started, gaining no new ground.

  This time was different.

  Takumi still had no idea who he was fighting, or the reason they were waging war against the Sumiyoshi-kai. It baffled him, and that was almost…frightening.

  He checked his watch against the long familiar landscape. The Audemars Piguet Prestige Sports Collection Royal Oak Offshore Chronograph confirmed that they were thirty minutes out of Tokyo and making decent time, approximately halfway to their destination. Nestled in the backseat of his
limousine, surrounded by Tadashi Jo and The Three—he already had plans to make it Four again—the oyabun felt reasonably safe. Security, however, hinged upon identifying and destroying his still faceless enemies, before Yamaguchi-gumi or the Inagawa-kai began encroaching on his turf.

  Those plans, he took for granted, were already in the works. Vultures were quick to smell a free meal, even when a wounded lion still had fight left in him yet.

  “Music,” Takumi said, to no one in particular. Jo used the limo’s intercom to reach the driver, and a moment later, they were treated to the lilting tones of bamboo flutes. The oyabun did not recognize the tune, but found the music soothing to his nerves. Whether the limo’s other passengers enjoyed or hated it was none of his concern.

  Takumi had initially refused to wear a pistol on the drive from Tokyo, but finally, reluctantly, heeded Tadashi Jo’s suggestion that it might be necessary and, in any case could do no harm. Unlike most of his troops, the clan leader had the necessary license and permit to carry firearms, renewable at three-year intervals under prevailing law. His chosen weapon was a Glock 25 chambered in .380 ACP, with fifteen rounds in its staggered box magazine. He carried no spare magazines, certain that if he could not do the job with what he had, after all of his soldiers failed, then he was meant to die.

  He listened to the dueling flutes and tried to let their music carry him away. It worked sometimes, when he was troubled by some difficulty with his business or his arrogant, rebellious son, but this time there were nagging voices in his head, demanding his attention, asking questions.

  Where was Kato Ando? Who had killed Koyuki Masuda? What was Toi involved with, that had cost the lives of two crack killers sent to find him? Thinking of his son’s involvement with the damned Saikosai Raito cult brought heat into Takumi’s cheeks. If he learned that Susumu Kodama had set his dogs on Kato and Koyuki, there would be no place in all Japan—no place on Earth—for the so-called guru to hide. He always paid his debts, and he was looking forward to that one.