Executioner 053 - The Invisible Assassins

by Pendleton, Don

  "You make me puke."

  Bolan heard a quick footstep behind him and braced for the blow. One Eye had returned and was now intent on striking down the gaijin for his brazenness.

  "Let me talk with him!" screamed Yamazaki, waving the henchman back. He stared at Bolan with an intensity that made the mobster seem youthful, yet possessed, mad.

  "I needed someone to whom we could dispatch the A-B and Diogene germs, somebody above suspicion," he continued. "He had to be a man who knew how to disperse them properly. Okawa was perfect for my plans. But then Shinoda tried to blackmail Okawa into working on a computer project. Therefore I eliminated him for his interference."

  "At least Okawa had the decency to do away with himself when he realized what he was involved in," growled Bolan.

  "As you have said, they were all disposable. The only thing that matters has been my plan. I shall now use the network established by Tanaga to smuggle those vials into the United States."

  Pointing arrogantly with a gloved hand, Yamazaki indicated two small glass cases that sat on a bench behind him, each filled with a number of little sealed bottles of colorless liquid. "These are phonies, of course. I have them to impress you. The genuine ones are in the laboratory here in my castle. I would not like to be too close to them! Mix their contents with a special nutrient base, and enough bacteria will breed overnight to wipe out the west coast of your country. The attack will be centered on San Diego, Los Angeles and San Francisco," he crowed. "Now you Americans can taste defeat."

  Yamazaki waited for a response, but Mack Bolan denied him the pleasure.

  "All that remains is to test our product on human subjects," said Yamazaki calmly. "Tomorrow morning we shall begin with the women. Your women. You can watch! And then it will be your turn."

  Still Bolan betrayed no reaction.

  "Take him away! And keep him isolated from the others. Until tomorrow then, Colonel."

  The bound American spoke at last. "Nuts," he said.

  22

  SO IT HAD COME TO THIS. From a dark, deserted street in Los Angeles to a dungeon deep beneath a medieval fortress in Japan, Mack Bolan had followed a descent into murderous hell.

  Yamazaki was a madman, that was for sure. In Mack Bolan's opinion he was an archetypal agent of chaos.

  The Yamazaki family line had reached a nadir of world-threatening evil. It was time to cut the line off. And Bolan would be the sword.

  Mack Bolan's job was to survive and to endure. The Executioner had been a warrior all his adult life. Indeed he had become the most effective single-man fighting force in the history of world combat, and endure he damned well would.

  Something sword-sharp and brilliant had happened to Bolan in his transformation to Colonel John Phoenix. His power to control the outcome of combat had increased in direct proportion to the sickening growth of fanaticism around the world.

  It was almost as if he grew stronger from the sheer horror of his foes, Colonel Phoenix had become a new kind of Mack Bolan, a Bolan who was revived by his never-ending attrition of the world's enemies. He came to life—big life, lived large—whenever the threat became unmanageable by any other force than Stony Man's. The terror implicit in today's world was Colonel Phoenix's lifeblood. It made him a giant among men as never before. A giant who was cool, collected, always prepared, fearsomely ready: a big calm guy who took the first shot.

  John Phoenix was a warrior who dispatched the enemy and disappeared even before bystanders had turned to look.

  Mack Bolan—Stony Man's magnificent number one—identified the psychopathic terror-mongers and he did something about them to make good men sleep securely once more.

  Bolan turned to inspect the cell. It was much like the other holding room, only smaller. The walls were as bare, and once again the place was dark. Above the door, vaguely visible, were about half a dozen pipes of varying diameters. Judging from the cell's location at the farthest end of a corridor, these metal tubes must either serve the lab or the bathhouse on the floor above.

  The tubes were just beyond the reach of his outstretched hand. Bolan jumped several times and touched each of them. One was hot, two lukewarm, and the others were cold. And they were all attached very firmly to the wall.

  He crouched in the corner, recharging his energy, drawing on hidden strengths within, searching for a weakness without as he retraced the layout of the castle in his mind.

  If Colonel Yamazaki had been banished, then executed, what had happened to the other seven of the Jonin clique? Perhaps that is what Manutsu had intended to tell him—that the legendary Jonin had no power left except through Hideo Yamazaki.

  No doubt his lordship intended to resurrect the Jonin Circle, presumably in his own image, once he had struck his first terrible blow. Tanaga's pipeline into California was efficient enough to transport the deadly vials. The guy had smuggled himself in and out successfully. Two small containers should prove no problem, even if he was no longer alive to escort them.

  There was a sound at the doorway. Bolan glanced up to see the toad-like guard back on duty already, peering in through the small barred opening on the door. The creep was taking a personal delight in the fate of the brawny foreigner locked up in solitary confinement.

  The guards evidently were not going to check on him as frequently as they had in the earlier cell; confident that he was not going anywhere, they only peered in through the small window every four or five minutes.

  Bolan wondered where in the castle grounds their training center was, and if it held a modern armory.

  He was also intrigued at what part hypnosis—saimin-jutsu, as Yumoto had called it—played in their preparation. Tanaga had undoubtedly been reprogrammed from the volatile enthusiasm of his terrorist days into a ninja assassin by some kind of mind-control system. Bolan could recall the black burning coals that were Tanaga's eyes. Yamazaki's eyes glittered with the same fire of self-righteous madness.

  It must be put out.

  Once and for all.

  Bolan heard the low buzz of conversation in the passageway. He crept to the door and sneaked a look through the bars.

  One Eye had come down to check on the guard detail personally. He was showing Toad Face the American's gun. Evidently he had not got rid of it as ordered—he was keeping the Beretta as a trophy. The two men chuckled over the prospect of using their prisoners as live subjects for Lord Yamazaki's experiments, as One Eye loaded the weapon, probably with cheap copycat 9mm slugs, and tucked the automatic into his sash.

  Bolan had no doubt that in a few moments the man with the milky eye would appear at the window to gloat. Maybe it was time to wipe that smile off his scarred face. Time to tear a leaf from the ninja's own book of tricks.

  Bolan stood directly under the pipes, jumped and caught a firm hold and swung himself up in one fluid movement. He twisted around to lie horizontal between the pipes, with his arms and legs hooked over the metal casings to maintain his precarious balance.

  In less than a minute he heard someone lean against the door to check on him. There was a sharp hiss of indrawn breath as the jailer stared in dismay at the empty cell.

  The key rattled in the lock, and the door was thrown open. One Eye marched in. Toad Face was right on his heels.

  One Eye sensed the danger from above. He was instinctively drawing his sword and turning as Bolan dropped on top of the pudgy guard behind. They went down in a heap. One Eye's weapon was clear of its scabbard, and he wasted no time in swinging the blade.

  Bolan heaved the befuddled Toad Face around, using his fat body to block the other man's blow. The steel edge of the samurai katana sword sliced through the fat one's collarbone, slashing deep into his chest cavity. Toad Face's eyes popped wide open with the double shock that he was dead, and that he had been killed by his own superior officer.

  One Eye tried to drag his sword free from the corpse. In that split second, Bolan grabbed the front of the hardguy's robe and pulled him off balance. As One Eye fell forward, his face m
et Bolan's forehead coming up—hard.

  One Eye dropped on his ass, seeing stars. The Executioner was not in a forgiving mood. He ripped out the dead Toad Face's sword and rammed it under One Eye's ribs.

  Both of the Japanese retainers were now leaking sticky red puddles on the flagstones.

  Bolan put his foot against One Eye's chest and tugged out the sword. He removed Toad Face's belt, with its two shaken stars hooked on it.

  The shaken throwing stars were palm-sized, made of flat steel and were the color and texture of circular saw blades. They might come in very useful.

  Bolan then stripped Toad Face of his torn black woolen shirt. He removed his own dirt-caked denim shirt and put on the collarless black ninja garment. Although it had been worn by a much bulkier individual, its material fitted him tightly. With his own black pants, Bolan now looked like a ninja himself, except for a black mask.

  He felt comfortable complementing the several black-suited ninja he was about to do battle with. He would be even more comfortable with one more important item.

  In the doorway lay the Beretta where it had fallen in the fray. Bolan retrieved the compact weapon, though there was no sign of its special elongated holster. The full-automatic piece felt uncommonly light in his hand compared with the AutoMag he'd left in the States. Holster or not, he was now back in business.

  He strapped on the belt and tucked the gun into the right-hand side. Then he hoisted one of the katana swords and plunged that into his belt, too. It was grim attire once more, but it made Bolan feel alive.

  The regiment that protected this evil place seemed divided in two: the colorfully costumed sentries were the regular household retainers, no doubt as deadly as they were decorative, while the smaller detachment of black-clad ninja were headquartered here between bloody missions beyond the castle walls. And, out on the streets, Yamazaki had been able to call on another army of muscle: Kuma's gang. Every one of them was willing to sacrifice his life for the self-styled Lord of the Red Sun.

  It was little wonder that no one had ever penetrated this forbidden circle and lived to tell the tale.

  He heard someone running to investigate. The second jailer, Toad Face's companion, raced in through the open doorway. He was stopped dead in his tracks, literally. Bolan put such force behind his blow at the speeding man's face that he broke the guy's neck.

  Bolan seized the bunch of keys from the gurgling corpse, then checked the corridor outside. It was empty. He would have to move fast. He hurried to the far end of the corridor to free the others.

  Suki did not seem surprised to see him. She had observed the colonel in action and was confident he would get the better of the guards.

  Bolan spoke to Sandy. "You remember the way back to the garage?"

  "Yes—I think so."

  "Give Mrs. Naramoto a hand with the professor. Easy now ... it isn't far. Suki, you and I bring up the rear.' '

  The scientist nodded at Bolan as he clambered uncertainly to his feet. For the first time he seemed confident that he understood what was going on. "I told you so," he said to his wife as Suki translated. "It's the Americans. I knew they'd come."

  The four fugitives made painfully slow progress up the first flight of stairs. They could only go at the pace of the professor, who found the steep stone steps a tiring climb.

  "I'll have to leave you at the next landing," Bolan whispered to Suki. "Look after the others."

  She nodded, accepting the responsibility.

  "See if you can hot-wire Nakada's car. If not, you'll have to make a break for it on foot. Get well clear of the castle, okay?"

  Again Suki nodded. She knew the colonel had a score to settle. And she knew that nothing was going to stop him.

  Bolan slipped away from them.

  Suddenly the door at the side of the passageway opened. Through it stepped Nakada and his evil female driver. "Phoenix—"

  Suki spun around at the sound of Nakada's startled cry.

  "Get away!" Bolan ordered the startled Sandy. One or other of them had to get out to warn Paul Ryan. But Sandy froze. Suki ran back toward Bolan.

  Nakada had no time for the quaint courtesies of samurai combat—he attacked Bolan like a savage warrior.

  Suki ran straight past Bolan, launched herself and landed feet first in the driver's ribs.

  Nakada's fingers hooked for a lethal attack. His arm flew forward like a snake striking. Bolan sidestepped, seized Nakada's wrist and swung him into the wall. He had twisted so savagely that Nakada's shoulder separated.

  The female driver never recovered from Suki's first assault. She tried to catch her breath, but Suki's knuckles dug deep into her solar plexus. The woman struggled to avoid the rigid edge of Suki's hand that smashed down across her throat. She failed, fell and cracked her head against the floor.

  Bolan stole one quick glance at Suki: she was taking care of business without his help.

  Nakada cursed and, despite one arm dangling uselessly from its socket, aimed a kick at Bolan's groin. Bolan's hand cupped behind Nakada's ankle and he flipped him backward. Nakada hit the cold flagstones hard. He was out for the count.

  The driver was struggling to her feet. Suki delivered another punishing chop that drove her back to her knees. Before Bolan could stop her, the young policewoman felled the driver with a blow that would have dropped an ox.

  Suki frisked the unconscious body and produced the car keys. Then she pulled the Luger from the driver's shoulder holster and silently offered it to Bolan. He patted the Beretta tucked in his belt and shook his head. "No, you take it. Now get out of here, all of you!"

  Sandy was still standing awe-struck. She was feeling a chill deep inside. In the flickering lamplight she saw John Phoenix only as a tall warrior in black, gun and sword thrust into his belt, and he looked like the deadliest ninja that had ever lived.

  "Okay, let's go," ordered Suki. "Good luck, Colonel."

  Bolan watched them retreat down the dimly lighted tunnel toward the garage. The professor was still trying to explain his garbled delusions to his wife. Bolan was not too concerned. Suki would watch out for them.

  He moved quickly back in the direction of the guards' quarters. There was no time to look for a safe way through the maze of underground passages that riddled the rocks beneath Shoki Castle. He was making directly for the laboratory where he knew the original vials were kept, even if it meant fighting all the way through hell to get there.

  23

  FROM BEHIND A DOOR came the muffled sound of tipsy laughter and the sharper clink of a bottle. Bolan shrank back in the shadows. The door handle rattled. A shaft of smoky light spilled out and a man emerged.

  Bolan ducked farther back into the nearest available entrance. There was nowhere else to conceal himself. The small cubicle he had stepped into was a double doorway designed to keep moist warm air in the bathhouse. The silenced machine pistol in hand, he eased open the inner door.

  He had his bearings now. There should be an exit on the far side of the baths. Bolan peered into the large clammy room.

  A row of showers was arranged along one side for bathers to wash themselves before immersing their bodies in sunken cedar-lined tubs. The steaming pools were large and rectangular, and the water's surface was almost flush with the tiled floor.

  Only one man was actually enjoying a late-night soak in the tubs. Bolan walked boldly into the bathhouse.

  The solitary bather gripped the edge of the cedar planking and rose to protest the intrusion of a fully dressed man.

  Simultaneously a gong reverberated through the halls outside. Someone, somewhere, had tripped over a body. The alarm was being sounded.

  He had to work fast now.

  The far door opened and one of the ninja gang ran in. Bolan shot him before he had taken three paces. The ninja fell on the tiles and slithered upside down to the very edge of a pool. His head and shoulders fell back into the water. The jets in the cedarwood underneath the surface started spouting red-stained water around the he
ad. It must have been a head.

  Bolan took cover when a second black-attired bodyguard appeared. The newcomer looked incredulously at his fallen comrade. The original bather was already fleeing the bathhouse.

  "Your friend's taking a drink," explained Bolan to the ninja . "Care to join him?"

  Chest hit. Dead center.

  The man staggered and toppled sideways into the mist-enshrouded pool. Bolan ran past him for the open door.

  Half a dozen of Yamazaki's men were racing off toward the cells. He watched the last of them turn at the far end of the corridor, then Bolan ran the other way.

  He found a guard on duty outside a locked door with the sign of the grinning skull on it. The guard was visibly troubled by the clanging of the alarm.

  Trouble exploded in his face. In the form of The Executioner.

  Bolan fired twice at very short range. The first shot blew the sentry back against the wall. The second shot was just to stop his squirming.

  Bolan spun a wheel on the door and tugged open the heavy metal access. There was a shout behind him. From within the doorway, Bolan snapped off one more shot. The bullet tore through the leading on rusher's throat, then the mangled metal slug cart-wheeled into the face of the man behind. By then, Bolan was slamming the door.

  He found a length of piping to wedge into the wheel lock on the inside of the door.

  Crazed men hammered on the outside. Bolan turned to view a small changing room with lockers and benches, and beyond, visible through a window in a far door, the glaringly lighted laboratory—the innermost secret of Shoki Castle.

  He guessed the small antechamber to be a decontamination room. He would not be able to proceed without fulfilling certain protective procedures. He pulled a white suit from a row of protective suits, gloves and helmets that were lined up on hooks.

  Bolan took off his belt and put aside his gun and sword, then stepped swiftly into the one-piece asbestos garment and pulled it up over his shoulders. He grabbed a helmet made of ceramic and metal with a clear glass visor and a breathing filter at chin level and secured it in place over his head. Gloves next, tucked tight under the sleeve fastenings. Then he retrieved his sword.