Siege

by Don Pendleton

"Maybe later," Bolan told her with gentle smile. "Right now I have to find someone I'm supposed to do business with."

  She took her hands from him, wrapping her hands around her upper arms. Her long aquamarine fingernails matched her outfit. She tilted her nose into the air. "Shanna help you find this person. Maybe it's worth something, big man?"

  Bolan didn't hesitate. The club took up the bottom three floors of the building, and the large crowd made a search by him impossible to do without being noticed by the management or the people who might be looking for him. He took a roll of yen notes from his pocket and peeled off enough to encourage the woman without paying so high that she would talk about it to anyone else.

  She took the yen with a bright smile that was no longer completely artificial, then made the money disappear somewhere inside the waistband of the skirt. "Who you look for?"

  "Shigeru."

  Her eyes narrowed. "Are you a friend?"

  "No," Bolan replied honestly. If the bar was a frequent hangout of Shigeru's as Morressy had said, the staff would have a good idea of who met him here and who didn't. "We have some business through another friend." He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together in a more universal language.

  "Ah." She nodded in a way that let Bolan know it wasn't unusual for Shigeru to conduct at least part of his clandestine business on the premises. "You come. Shigeru on third floor." She led him to an elevator secluded in one corner.

  The doors opened and they squeezed inside with five other people. Bolan towered above the other occupants of the elevator cage and drew attention. No one was speaking English. He understood bits and pieces of the conversations going on around him, but the lack of full understanding made him uncomfortable.

  "When you through with business," the woman said as she turned from pressing the third-floor button, "you come back to Shanna, okay?"

  Bolan nodded as the cage started up.

  Chapter Eight

  The elevator hissed to a stop on the third floor, and the door opened onto a huge dance floor, a polished rectangle that glistened under the rainbow-colored lights that flickered on and off in a controlled sequence mirroring the music being played. Four mirrored globes spun and flashed over the corners of the dance floor. Couples writhed and shimmied to the disco songs that were still popular in Japan despite their extinction in the United States.

  It took ten minutes of diligent searching to locate Shigeru. The man was long and lean, dressed in a black blazer with wide lapels and a crimson shirt, his hair swept straight back from a wide forehead. Gold chains twinkled at his throat, and a row of four diamond earrings glistened at the bottom of his mutilated ear. He sat at a table near the wall of windows overlooking the street below and whispered to his hostess. They both laughed, and he slid his left hand farther down the low-cut dress she wore until he firmly gripped her breast. Her mouth made a false O of appreciation as her eyelids fluttered shut for a moment. She stroked his wrist.

  A big man with a drooping mustache bisecting an acne-pitted round face sat to Shigeru's right. He was beefy and broad and looked uncomfortable in the suit he wore.

  Bolan loosened the button on his blazer as he stepped forward to permit instant access to the Taurus. Floating candles in a small bowl centered on the table gave off an uncertain light that flowed across the faces of the three people who looked up at him. Shigeru's flat, dark eyes gleamed like a cat's. The hostess kept glancing at Bolan, then back at Shigeru questioningly.

  "Who are you?" Shigeru asked. He released the woman and settled farther back into the round booth.

  Bolan placed a thin sheaf of yen on the table near the floating candles and tapped them out with a forefinger. "I'm a businessman looking to make a deal."

  Shigeru licked his lips. "I don't know you."

  "You wouldn't." Bolan indicated the fan of yen. "But you know these."

  "It isn't so very much."

  "This isn't a big deal. Less than five minutes' worth of work. I need some information."

  The hostess reached out to touch the money, and Shigeru slapped her hand away. Smiling, she reached down under the table and whispered something in his ear that made him laugh. The guard on the other side of Shigeru never took his eyes off Bolan.

  "What do you want?" Shigeru asked as he pushed the woman off.

  "You forged passports for the men killed down by the Sumida. I want to know who hired you to do the work."

  The smooth smile melted from Shigeru's face quickly, leaving only a chiseled grimace in its place. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  Bolan made his voice graveyard still. "It's your choice, guy. You can take the money, or I can drop the message in the ears of a few people on the streets. Either way something starts to happen and I find out what I need to know. If you take the money, you might get to live."

  "Who told you this?"

  "Does it matter?"

  "Whoever told you I was involved in that was lying."

  "Those men have a price on their head," Bolan said. "I'm willing to bet the man who helped them get the passports they needed to get in and out of Tokyo probably has a price on his head as well."

  "You have no proof."

  "How much proof do you think the people you do business with need?" Bolan saw droplets of perspiration glisten on the man's forehead.

  Shigeru spoke in Japanese. The big man sitting beside him reacted instantly. A long, slim-bladed stiletto appeared in his hand from a sleeve of the jacket and streaked for Bolan's hand on the table.

  Bolan moved his hand slightly, and the needle point of the knife slid by harmlessly to bury itself in the table. He thumbed back the hammer on the pistol as he slid it from his waistband. The guard froze when he saw the muzzle come level with his chin, his hand still locked around the quivering knife. "The ante's been raised," the Executioner told the guard. "Are you in or out?"

  Eyes smoldering with fury, the guard took his hand from the knife.

  The dancers kept gyrating out on the dance floor. The density of the flowered walls around the booth kept people in the adjoining booths from seeing what had happened. The hostess bit the fingers of one hand as she quivered in silent terror, and Shigeru had a sick look on his face.

  Bolan ripped the stiletto from the table as he sat down across from the guard, the Taurus out of sight. "Keep both hands on the table," he instructed the men. He put the yen back into his pocket. "Tell him if he moves his hands from the table, he'll be the first man I kill."

  "Takei understands English," Shigeru said.

  Bolan faced the man. "There will be no hesitation."

  The guard nodded. "Pray I do not find you again, Westerner." His voice was ponderous and threatening.

  "Maybe I should kill you now and save myself the worry." Bolan kept his face neutral and watched the big man blanch. "You need to get yourself a more experienced guard, Shigeru. One who knows when to keep his mouth shut. Otherwise this guy is going to get you killed." He faced Shigeru, keeping the Taurus centered on the guard's stomach. "Who arranged for the passports?"

  "Hosaka contacted me three months ago and told me to have them ready. That is all I know. I was not told who would be using them, or why the men were coming into Tokyo. I…"

  Something flashed toward Bolan and his combat reflexes took over, forcing him farther back into the booth. A razor-edged shaken skimmed by his face, barely missing his eye as it clipped a lock of hair from his temple.

  Takei, the guard, scrambled under his jacket and withdrew a huge revolver. The dance floor erupted into sudden pandemonium as three figures dressed in black from head to toe forced their way through the dancers. Glittering swords flashed in black-gloved hands as the ninjas cleared the slower moving people out of the way. Blood splashed onto the polished floor, and screams ripped the air as the recorded music came to a scratchy halt.

  Shigeru hadn't been quick enough to avoid the throwing stars. One had embedded in his broad forehead and left him sprawled lifeless on the table, his eyes staring blind
ly upward as if seeking what had killed him. The hostess had dropped beneath the table and started screaming.

  The Executioner shot Takei as the big man tried to level the .357 in his hand. The guard still managed to get one shot off as he died. The large-caliber bullet exploded padding from the booth in a brief snow flurry.

  Semiblinded from the foot-long muzzle-flash of the Magnum, the Executioner vaulted over the back of the booth as the three ninjas closed in. He spilled over the flowered wall, crushing the table of the booth behind his. He got to his feet, maintaining his grip on his gun as the first ninja leaped after him. Squeezing the trigger in rapid-fire, he put three rounds across his adversary's chest before the man could land. The body came down awkwardly, sword spinning from nerveless fingers.

  When the warrior looked back for the other two attackers, there was no sign of them. People scattered before him as he moved out with the Taurus at his side. Blinking his eyes didn't help clear the spots dancing in his vision. The darkness of the club would give the ninjas another advantage.

  He stayed with the glass wall overlooking the street at his back to limit the number of directions they could come at him. Screams of the injured and frightened people made hearing almost impossible. Some of them had crowded toward the elevator while others took the stairway on the other side of the room.

  Glistening steel whistled at his head from nowhere. He blocked the keen edge of the ninja sword with the barrel of his pistol, saw sparks fly as metal met metal and felt the automatic wrenched from his grasp. The ninja stepped back and swung again.

  Bolan went down, landing on his hands as he kicked out with his feet. His boots caught his enemy in the stomach and sent the smaller man spinning away. The Executioner got to his feet instantly, but the darkness had swallowed his attacker and his gun.

  Emergency lights came on and washed away some of the blackness, showing him the Taurus lying in the open only a few feet from him. He went for it, fisting the stiletto in his pocket he'd taken from the guard. Movement alerted him, and he held himself back from the pistol as one of the ninjas stepped out of the darkness and made a throwing motion. Two shaken skated across the floor in front of Bolan, but the third stabbed into his thigh. He threw the stiletto underhanded as the black-clad figure rushed at him with the sword.

  The stiletto caught the ninja in the throat and sent him staggering back. He dropped the sword as both hands clutched at the knife.

  Bolan retrieved the Taurus, not pulling the shaken from his leg until he had the pistol safely in hand. He fired once, putting a round between the eyes in the oval slit of the ski mask. The ninja went over backward. The Executioner dropped the throwing star to the floor as he searched the darkness for the remaining man.

  A smoke bomb exploded in front of him with a loud pop as running footsteps came at him from behind.

  Bolan threw himself to one side as he jerked his eyes toward the attacker. The ninja was on top of him before he knew it, knocking them both to the floor. The warrior rolled, evading the sword as it flashed down at him to stab the floor. The ninja was on one knee, working the weapon with both gloved hands as he pursued the Executioner relentlessly.

  Unable to bring the Taurus into line for a shot, Bolan lifted a leg and caught the man in the head with enough force to send his attacker sprawling. Head reeling from the impact with the floor, the Executioner forced himself to stand, squaring off against the ninja.

  A gloved hand snapped forward and sent spinning death at Bolan. The Executioner ducked to one side as he brought his weapon into target acquisition. The parabellums drove the ninja backward, making the body jerk as each round scored in the throat and chest area. Some of the bullets passed through the man's body to fracture the glass wall behind him.

  Reflected light from the whirling mirrored globes suspended over the dance area created a strobe effect. The glass shattered behind the ninja as the Executioner's final round pushed the man through the weakened area. The figure pitched over backward silently, spilling through the sudden opening.

  Aching, the pain in his side a roused and angry beast, Bolan changed clips in the automatic as he walked forward. Blood trickled down his injured leg. The screams had diminished behind him, pierced by the strident wailing of police and emergency vehicles that pulsed through the shattered glass wall. Whirling blue cherries gleamed in the street below, flashing over the man who was spread-eagled across the crumpled top of a luxury car surrounded by people.

  Bolan knew with a grim certainty that Shigeru hadn't been the target of the attack. The man had only been the bait. But he was still confused as to who had been the intended victim. No one was supposed to know about him, but it seemed he was the only one who didn't know why Brognola had called him to Tokyo. Unless someone had been covering the chance of the mercenary force from the Sumida River trying to get in touch with Shigeru again. And Hosaka's name had turned up once more.

  A harsh, authoritative voice sounded behind him. Bolan turned slowly to face a handful of men in Metropolitan Police uniforms with drawn guns centered on his chest. The authoritative voice called out again.

  He didn't understand the language, but the meaning was clear. Slowly he laid the Taurus on the floor and moved away from it with his hands locked behind his head. One of the men came forward and forced him to his knees, pressing a gun to his temple.

  * * *

  "Do you ever get tired of living in paradise, Mr. Picard?" Senator Robert Dawkins asked.

  Picard moved forward easily, seasoned to the rolling gait of the yacht. He handed the younger man a glass of wine and toasted him as they looked out over the Caribbean. "Please, Senator, call me Philip. All my friends do." He smiled gently.

  Dawkins nodded. "Call me Bob." He yawned. "Excuse me, but even with the recent senatorial meetings, I'm not used to getting up this early." The senator cut a trim, boyish figure in his white shorts set, deck shoes and sailing cap. With his unruly brown hair, hazel eyes, square-cut features and soft Southern accent, he had a presence television cameras treated very well.

  "I love the mornings," Picard said as he stared out over the glimmering emerald depths of the sea. Gentle swells lapped against the fiberglass hull of the sixty-foot yacht. The sun was still a crimson ball in the eastern sky, and somewhere below it was his private island. "I feel challenged by every sunrise I see to go out and do something different every day. Breathe in that salt air." He breathed in deeply as an example.

  Dawkins laughed as he glanced up at the full sails above them. "How can a man who owns his own chunk of heaven feel challenged? What could there be left for you to want?"

  "A great many things," Picard replied. "Would I be getting too personal if I asked how old you are, Bob?"

  "No," Dawkins answered. "In fact, it's a matter of public record. I'm forty-two."

  "I'm a quarter of a century older than you are."

  Disbelief filled Dawkins's features. "You don't look it."

  Picard knew it and took pride in the fact. Part of it was due to his full head of white hair, and part of it was because he took care of himself. Exercise had been a part of his life even before the sometimes grueling existence he'd had in the Agency. He'd made love to a beautiful young woman the previous night until the small hours of the morning before getting back up at 5:00 a.m. to start his day with Dawkins. And it had only been four months since he'd killed his last man hand-to-hand. He sipped his wine and studied his guest over the rim of the glass. "Some men my age might be content to park their butts on a fishing boat to while away their golden years, but I'm not. I still look for those challenges out there, the same way you do. Only I've got enough experience behind me to temper my pursuit of those challenges with patience."

  "So what could a man who seems to have everything possibly want?" Dawkins asked.

  "Power," Picard replied.

  Dawkins's smile this time was tainted with uncertainty.

  Picard clapped the man on the back to reassure him, wanting to pursue his game one step at a
time. "I don't think we're so very different there. Take these senatorial meetings you've been engaged with these past few months concerning the trade agreements the United States currently has with Japan. You began as a junior senator who just wanted to get involved. Now you're chairing the committee. I'd say you've done very well for yourself all things considered."

  "I've been lucky," Dawkins said. "After Senator Deichart had his heart attack four months ago, they could have chosen anyone to chair that committee."

  Picard recognized the disarming manner as being as fully affected as the Southern accent. "Not just lucky," he said. "You've been skillful enough to maneuver yourself through some tricky situations these past few months to get yourself where you are."

  "Maybe it was just time for another strong politician from Alabama to take a stand in Washington." Humor glinted in Dawkins's hazel eyes.

  "My boy," Picard said honestly, "you've done more than just take a stand. You've carved out a chunk of the Capitol terrain for yourself."

  Dawkins sipped his wine as he watched the sails.

  Picard knew the man hung on every word he said and was playing his current audience like a member of the media. The senator had learned to shine in the public eye over the past few months. "You're good in front of a camera," he told Dawkins in a quiet voice. "Actually, you're more than that. I've seen perhaps a handful of people who were better in live interviews than you are."

  "Don't you think it's time to introduce me to your company, Philip?" a feminine voice interrupted.

  Picard turned to find Cherie standing behind them. She was blond, had a curvaceous figure that stressed the red bikini she was wearing this morning and had an earthy sense of humor that never failed to delight and amuse him. Her one disturbing habit was her ability to walk up on him without being seen or heard.

  "Yes," he replied. "Bob, I'd like you to meet Cherie Amsterdam. Cherie, this is Senator Robert Dawkins of Alabama."

  "Nice to meet you, Senator," the woman said as she smiled and extended her hand.