Bolan thought she was damned lucky to have got as far as she had without being hurt. "This Kuma character—is he a big guy? A very big guy, maybe late forties, with the top of his little finger missing?"
"Yes, that's right. He did that to prove his loyalty to Kakuji. Actually, it was the only way he could get close to the old boss with a deadly weapon. Two minutes after chopping off his finger he stuck the sword through Kakuji and hacked up his bodyguards. That's how he became the boss of bosses."
"Where are his headquarters?"
"He lives in a guarded penthouse on the top of the Nagana building. It's on the edge of the Shinjuku district. That's the fortress from which he runs his empire."
Bolan could only gaze at her with concern and admiration. "I hope your supervisor knows what you're up to. You get full marks for risking your fool head, I guess."
He stood up to leave. Sandy appeared to be over her fright. In fact, there was now a wistfully romantic look in her eyes.
"You're not going, are you?" She stood up, too, as if to bar the way. "You haven't told me what you're up to."
"I never said I would," Bolan replied. "But you've put a lot of this together yourself, so I'll tell you one thing. There is a connection between Red Sun and Kuma's gang. Somebody obtained photographic evidence of that fact very recently."
"Where is it? Who's got it? Would they let me use it?"
"The guy can't." Bolan stared at her intently. "He's dead."
12
IT WAS TIME to go for the jugular.
And the only place to start was right at the top—the penthouse of the Nagana building. Bolan was going to track down the leader of the Kuma-kumi in his lair.
Sandy had driven him back to the hotel in a battered Datsun borrowed from a Japanese friend. For the moment Bolan hoped his cautionary tale would make her think twice before proceeding with any more detective work. She belonged in a library, sifting through old records and correspondence, not out on the streets chasing hoods. That was the Executioner's preserve.
Bolan used a service entrance to enter the hotel. He picked up the few pieces of very special equipment that had been hidden in his custom-designed briefcase, then left by the same unwatched exit and hailed a cab to take him to the Shinjuku district.
Bolan got out at the railway station. There was no sign of the man with the gold-rimmed glasses, but still the American took a devious route through the late-night passengers milling on the concourse, through the washroom and past a buffet before he was certain that no one would be following him.
Sandy's directions were straightforward. It took him less than ten minutes to reach the Nagana building. It was twenty-six stories high, between an international airline company and a multi-floored Western-style boutique. It had lots of tinted glass, chrome, smooth stonework and was mostly used to house the dignified offices of a number of diverse subsidiaries—no doubt controlled, guessed Bolan, by the Red Sun Corporation.
He scouted the terrain.
Two guys were in a car parked across from the front entrance. The long antenna indicated they were in radio contact with other guards. Two more, in dark blue uniforms, were stationed in the brightly lighted lobby. They all looked the same: big, mean, and alert.
Bolan slipped into the alley beside the airline offices. A small driveway crossed behind the buildings, and a concrete ramp sloping down between two stout walls led to the underground parking lot beneath the Nagana building. The red glow from a cigarette gave away the position of a fifth sentry posted in the darkness.
He looked up at the apartment on the roof. The lights were on up there. Bolan could see a window-cleaning platform hanging from its hoists and silhouetted against the sky. Too bad it was secured to stay immobile at the top of the building.
He completed a full circle and stood in the shadows of a bank building. Through the big glass windows he could see one of the uniformed guards stand up and straighten his tunic before turning to watch the elevator doors open. Gold Teeth emerged, exchanged a few words with the goons on watch and headed for the front doors.
So the messenger boy had made his report. Now the big boss knew about the two interfering foreigners. Good, thought Bolan, it would save him from having to introduce himself.
He couldn't help but wonder how Gold Teeth had embellished his account. He did not appear to have any fingers missing.
A car drew up outside. A smooth operator, with slicked-back hair and a sharply styled suit, hauled out and hustled a young girl across the pavement. Bolan judged she could not have been older than fourteen. The pimp had his hand firmly clamped round her upper arm as he steered her toward the front door.
Gold Teeth passed them on his way out. He said something to the man and turned to stare after the girl as she was taken inside. He was wearing a wolfish grin as he strolled over to his own car.
Bolan retraced his steps to the back of the building. There was no sign of the guard.
That made the big warrior doubly cautious. He did not believe he could get so lucky.
Pulling the Beretta—the beautiful one-handed automatic from Italy—out of its customized leather hidden under his arm, Bolan dodged across the alley and crouched behind the wall that flanked the garage entrance.
A small stone rattled on the other side of the wall. Someone's feet shuffled. Bolan froze.
Then he smelled it. The night breeze carried the scent of marijuana drifting up from the ramp. The guard had ducked out of sight to smoke a joint—anything to relieve the boredom.
Silently, very slowly, the death-shadow leaned over the top of the wall.
The yakuza sentry, a hoodlum, indefensible, was propped against the stone directly below him. His fingers were squeezed around the roach as he concentrated on getting the last few drags of smoldering grass.
His dereliction of duty was going to cost more than a finger.
Bolan lowered his arm. The cough of the gun was masked by a passing motorbike.
A spurt of blood and bone chips streaked the sloping concrete as the hood's lifeless body buckled at the knees and tumbled down the ramp.
Bolan swung himself over the wall. The guard stared up at the starlit sky with only half a face.
Tough on you, guy, thought The Executioner, but tonight is the night, every night. You should have known that.
The man in black found the key in the sentry's pocket, fitted it in the electronic lock, then ran back to slip under the opening garage door.
Half a dozen cars were parked overnight. There was a scarred metal door between two concrete pillars at the far end. It led into the maintenance area.
Bolan threaded his way through mops and pails, floor polish and drums of lubricant, then past a workbench. He reached two narrow doors at the back of the janitor's cubbyhole. The beam of his pocket-size flashlight revealed the first of the other rooms to be full of electrical panels. The second door opened into the bottom of the elevator shaft.
The elevator car was suspended about twenty feet above his head, no doubt left at the ground-floor level by Smoothie after he'd delivered the girl to his boss.
Bolan began to climb toward it. By standing on top of the inside frame of the basement doors, he could reach the floor of the elevator. A quick flash from the torch revealed a service trapdoor on the bottom, flush with the metal of the underside, half hidden by the mess of hanging cables and rods under the car.
The big man stretched out and got a grip on the stoutest of the metal bars. Then he clipped onto one of the cross-struts a rubberized retaining shackle, connected to a lightweight safety wire, almost filament thin, that he wore in a reel on his belt. Once in place, he swung out into the center of the shaft.
In one hand-pull up the wire, Bolan was hanging right below the elevator floor hatch.
The elevator doors suddenly opened with a hum and a click. Male footsteps thundered immediately above his head.
It was too late for retreat. Cables whirred and the elevator was pulled upward, taking Bolan with it. He sac
rificed the flashlight for a firmer hold with two hands. The little cylinder tumbled down the shaft in a brief frenzy of shattered light.
The elevator car shot to the top of the shaft. Must have been another message for the boss. Bolan glanced down past his feet: the well at the bottom was lost in darkness.
The elevator door opened and the occupant stepped out. The guy used a locking key of some kind to hold the elevator; the door did not shut again. There was a muffled sound as he called out for Kuma.
Well, he had not come along for the ride just to be taken all the way back to the basement again. Bolan was feeling the strain of hanging over a twenty-six story drop as he reached up to open the small trapdoor. He unhitched the safety hook and squeezed through into the elevator car.
He peered around the corner of the open door. The plushy carpeted hallway was empty. Bolan could hear the low murmur of men's voices from a room at the far end of the apartment. He ran across the corridor and through a half-open door to a large kitchen.
Bolan decided against using a walk-in storage cupboard as a temporary refuge; instead, he worked his way in behind the American-brand vacuum cleaner in an adjacent closet.
He had just closed the door when Kuma and the guard walked past the kitchen. The gangster boss seemed to dismiss his retainer with a harsh order.
Bolan eased the door open a fraction. Kuma, dressed only in a short silk robe, was concentrating on what he could find in the refrigerator. Shinoda's photographs had been misleading: Kuma was not simply bigger than his fellow countrymen—the ex-sumo wrestler was enormous.
The bulky giant found some cold meat, bit off a chunk and padded back to his inner sanctum.
Kuma was going to need some persuasion to tell Bolan what he needed to know.
A thin sliver of light still shone from behind the refrigerator door. The Japanese gangster had not shut it properly. Bolan opened it a little more for greater visibility. He selected a broad-bladed chef's knife from the wall display. He placed it gently over the stove's biggest element and turned the knob to high. As he was closing the big refrigerator door, Bolan noticed a plate of puffer fish sitting on the top shelf. Kuma evidently enjoyed the dangerous delicacy of fugu .
The American nightfighter set out to explore the next room.
It was Kuma's office.
The whole apartment was sumptuously furnished with heavy imported pieces. A gleaming rosewood desk stood close to the darkened window, probably so that Kuma could look out over the streets of Shinjuku and feel a sense of his own respectability.
There were a few papers on the desktop blotter. He saw a newspaper clipping held down by a weighty paper knife. It was a photograph torn from a Tokyo daily. Bolan recognized one of the men posed near the side of the group: it was Professor Naramoto, who had so recently drowned. At the other end of the line, ringed by a red felt-tip marker, stood the younger man with the glasses who was featured in Shinoda's snapshots. Bolan folded the picture carefully and tucked it in his pocket.
He could not risk using the gun. Anything might happen, and he wanted Kuma alive. Bolan undid his belt and extracted the short doubled loop of braided wire that it concealed. He paused for a moment to center his concentration, then stepped back into the passage.
He waited outside the entrance to the lounge. A contented grunting came from the room. Bolan risked a look.
The girl had been tied down, and most of her was hidden by the vast bulk of Kuma's body. He lay on top of her, hips rocking, as he forced himself into her.
Suppressing cold fury, Bolan crossed the room in six silent steps. The garrote was looped round Kuma's throat in a fraction of a second. The Executioner jammed his knee into the gangster's kidneys and gave the wire a savage jerk.
Kuma collapsed backward, his fingers scrabbling to find a hold on the thin band of metal that choked off any hope he might have had to bellow for help.
Bolan plucked his knife from its sheath as he kept hold of the garrote, and he moved slightly to slash the girl's bonds.
Kuma had fought too many bouts to lose on the first strike. A leg as thick as a tree trunk swept Bolan's feet out from under him. The knife flew uselessly from Bolan's hand. The fat man fell on him, pinning the American to the carpet. Kuma was still choking, more with rage than from the loosened garrote. His eyes were bulging with an uncontrollable fury.
Bolan managed to roll slightly to one side as a hamlike hand chopped for his throat. He took the blow on his shoulder.
The girl stood naked, a bewildered expression on her face. Her open lips were like a red wound. Bolan, his shoulder throbbing with the pain inflicted by the heavy hand, hollered quick instructions to the girl.
"Run. Get the hell out of—"
His words were choked off as Kuma locked a rippling forearm around Bolan's neck, squeezing with the power to kill. Bolan kicked out with his legs but could gain no leverage.
The Executioner, battling for breath and fighting for his life, saw the girl grab a tablecloth to cover her nakedness and run to a door. She had obviously understood his instructions.
Bolan, short of oxygen, felt the blood pulsating in his head. With a violently strong upswing, he brought his right forearm and wrist in a thrust over his shoulder, to jab at the greasy giant's eye. He drove his forefinger behind him into the socket. Kuma howled in pain and Bolan wriggled free.
His battle strategy already mapped out, the big guy leaped across the room and grabbed a brass poker.
Kuma saw the poker—but only with one eye—as it came lancing across his face.
When Kuma came to, he found he had been tied securely to the heavy teak dining table by the same cords he had used on the girl. He shook his head groggily.
"Okay, Mr. Big, you're going to answer some questions." Bolan kicked the fat guy's foot. It produced a grunted response. "See this picture?" Bolan leaned forward. "Who is this guy? What happened to Professor Naramoto? Why was Ken Shinoda killed?"
Kuma sneered, spat at his attacker. The wet missile missed Bolan and hit the carpet.
"No time for samurai heroics, Kuma," Bolan said. "I'm heating up a little something for you in the kitchen."
There was fear in Kuma's eyes; he was a man who recognized Bolan as a master. Bolan could see the terror of the unknown reflected there, and he turned away from the immobilized fat man and went to the kitchen.
The element was glowing orange red; the knife blade was the same color. He picked the knife up with a wad of rags and returned to the lounge.
The blade glowed like a branding iron. Its hot light stabbed before him, penetrating the air, pulsing toward the stubborn slob.
Kuma's chin had sunk to his chest. His lips were compressed as if in anticipation of the pain to come.
"Yeah," said Bolan, "this is happening to you, Kuma. And it's going to get worse." The blade sizzled against the bristles on the man's oily chin rolls.
Yet Kuma gave no sign that he was willing to talk about anything. Bolan bent lower. "Let's start off with your connection with Red Sun."
Kuma judged the gaijin was within range. He looked up, spat again. This time it was red, bright red.
A spray of blood hit Bolan as the rubbery tag that had once been Kuma's tongue bounced off his shoe. The big fighter—the capo di tutti capi of Nippon—had bitten off his own tongue rather than talk. Rivulets of crimson dribbled from the sides of his mouth.
Bolan was cool, calm and enraged.
As he returned to the kitchen, Bolan understood that the gang war this would ignite might be explosive enough to dislodge the answers that he wanted. Bolan opened the refrigerator door.
The blood-drenched Kuma tried to keep his mouth clamped shut as Bolan walked back toward him.
"You cheated me, Kuma." Bolan slapped the yakuza chieftain hard, hard enough to make Kuma open his mouth to spit out more blood and gulp for air. "Here's something to shove in your mouth!"
In his other hand Bolan carried one of the cold clammy fugu fish. He rammed it between the gangster's parted
lips.
The yakuza boss spluttered, trying to spit' out the deadly creature. Bolan brought his hand up under the other man's jaw, forcing Kuma to bite down on the toxic puffer fish. "You should always chew your food before you swallow it."
It took only a matter of moments for the poison to work. Kuma writhed, coughed, then with a convulsive shudder he died. Once again his face was tightlipped.
Bolan went back to the kitchen to clean himself of the blood and fish parts disgorged by the dying Kuma. He made sure he had the newspaper clipping, then Bolan walked out onto the small penthouse patio at the rear. A broad ledge ran along the side of the building. He moved onto it and strolled along to the window-washer's platform. It took a moment to figure out the controls.
He calmly released the platform and let himself down to the ground.
13
SHE OPENED THE DOOR as far as the chain would allow, saw it was the man she knew as John, then shut it again to remove the security lock. Bolan was pleased to find that Sandy was at least taking the basic precautions.
"What time is it?" she yawned, ushering him quickly inside. She wore a lightweight wrap with a bold Japanese ideogram embroidered on the back. With her hair down and no glasses to overshadow her gray green eyes, she looked very different.
"Early. It's early."
She did not ask him where he had come from or why he had shown up again at this hour. Sandy assumed there were certain rules to follow if you got mixed up with a special investigator.
Bolan handed her the newspaper clipping in exchange for another cup of her slightly bitter tea. He pointed to the face which had been ringed in red. "Recognize him?"
"No," Sandy shook her head slowly. "No, I don't. But that one there—third from the left—that's Professor Naramoto. There's no mistaking him. He had an accident in his homebuilt lab when he was just a schoolboy; it left him with that streak of white hair."
Bolan touched her shoulder. "How do you know all this? You can't have found out all these details from old documents in libraries."
Executioner 053 - The Invisible Assassins Page 8