Bolan dropped through the hatch, checking to make sure the man was dead. He holstered the .44 and picked up the Uzi the man had been carrying, dropping his onto the floor. Ransom was beside him a heartbeat later. She didn't give the corpse a second glance. He unclipped the walkie-talkie from the dead man's waist and listened briefly to the conversation going through the channel.
The elevator came to a stop. Bolan stepped back as the door opened, covering the hallway with the Uzi. They were within the office areas now and the hallway was dark. Two men bearing weapons were the only people in sight, and they dodged away when the warrior aimed a short burst at them. The elevator doors closed again as the communications over the walkie-talkie increased.
"They know where we are now," Ransom said.
"That's fine. The ride's over, anyway." Bolan used the Ka-bar to rip off the cover of the elevator controls, then cut some of the wires. Sparks flashed and the cage came to a stop. He forced the doors open.
They hung suspended between floors. Taking the section of carpet, Bolan ducked under the floor, dropping into the hallway below. Ransom slithered out behind him.
"It's fourteen floors straight down," Bolan growled. "Think you can make it?"
She nodded and quickly moved into the shaft. He joined her, wrapping the carpet around the suspension cables. "Keep your grip loose," he advised. "Let gravity do the work. All you have to do is control it."
"I know." Her voice sounded strong.
Bolan glanced down at the darkness below as they dropped through the bowels of the building. His fingers heated up as he matched his descent with that of the woman, his greater weight increasing the friction.
Then they were down, almost so suddenly that they crashed into the car buffer at the bottom. Recovering from the impact first, Bolan scrambled toward the doors and forced them open slightly. The dimly lit interior of a parking garage spread out before him.
The Executioner led the way into the garage, letting his combat senses take full measure of the area. The smell of oil and gasoline permeated the area, shot through with the odor of disinfectants and detergents. Shadows clustered around the yard-wide support beams that became part of the low-slung ceiling.
A foot shifting on the concrete alerted Bolan, and he spun, bringing up the Uzi. Lightning flashed at him as he spotted the two men approaching through the rows of parked cars. The windshield of the vehicle in front of him spiderwebbed, and bullets screamed as they skipped over the bodywork, leaving sparks in their wake.
The Executioner's deadly figure eight took out one of the men instantly and drove the other to cover. He turned his attention back to Ransom in time to see the woman underhand a shaken at another man's face. The guard's weapon spit fire as it traced an uneven line across the ceiling, scattering broken light fixtures.
Bolan triggered a tri-burst into the man's chest, and the guy collapsed into an untidy heap. The warrior sprinted after Ransom, the hollow footsteps of their pursuers echoing on the concrete floor.
A man stepped out of the shadows, leveling a handgun at Ransom. She ducked under the line of fire, disemboweling the man with a glittering swipe of her short sword.
"Here," Bolan called as he pulled open the door of a van. He slid inside, dropping the Uzi into the space between the seats. Reaching under the dash, he hot-wired the ignition system and got the engine going as Ransom clambered through the door and picked up the Uzi. He jerked the vehicle into gear and stomped on the accelerator as four men raced into view.
The Uzi chattered through the window and Ransom leaned out and hosed the group with 9 mm parabellums. One man was hit and dropped to the ground, while the others opened fire.
Bolan reached for the woman as the windshield shattered. He grabbed a fistful of her black uniform and pulled her into the seat. He heard a choked cry of pain, then Ransom fell back on him, the Uzi dropping away from her limp fingers. Her loose weight thudded against him as he fought the steering wheel.
The van crashed into one of the support beams, coming to a sudden stop. Bolan reversed the machine, backing away to get room to maneuver. Bullets tore through the thin sheet metal of the van. Ransom didn't move. The warrior glanced at her and saw the blood covering her face from a head wound. He wasn't sure if she was breathing.
Bolan powered the vehicle into a collision course with the yellow-and-black striped wooden pole blocking the entrance. The pole splintered as he roared up the incline leading to the street.
* * *
The Ginza train station was doing a fair business when Brognola arrived. Early-morning workers clustered in the waiting areas reading newspapers, comic books and business reports.
He limped across the floor to the rows of bus lockers, knowing the cane would already draw some attention, trying to keep his tired eyes open. The .38 was in its customary holster, but he'd added a .45 automatic from Ron Roberts's arsenal when he'd returned to the hotel to change clothes. The big pistol dragged at his trench coat.
The characters on the key were Japanese. He moved slowly through the locker area, searching for a match. Two rows farther on, he found it. Seating himself on the wooden bench in front of the lockers, he stretched out his wounded leg, appreciating the relief.
Four young men, dressed in leather and red bandannas, occupied a corner of the locker area, talking quietly among themselves. An endless stream of men dressed in dark suits filed past Brognola, some giving him more than casual glances. They also gave a wide berth to the leather boys at the rear of the locker room.
Glancing up, Brognola scanned the immediate vicinity, using the mirrors hanging from the wall. The tail caught his eye at once. The guy couldn't have been more obvious than if he'd been reading his magazine upside down. To the big Fed's trained eye, the man might as well have worn a sign with Cop on it.
Brognola picked up the cane and limped into the rest room at the back of the lockers. He worked his way across the slippery tile floor and took a stall, removing his hat so that it would make his tail's job of finding him harder.
The four leather boys entered first, no longer talking, walking in a predatory fashion. No one else was in the rest room. The gang spread out across the urinals, one youth taking up a position at the sink.
The big Fed stood there for a few minutes, waiting patiently. He had time on his side for the moment. Fujitsu's man would get nervous soon and begin to wonder if his quarry had simply left by another route.
The leather boys at the urinals zipped up, glanced at one another, then moved toward Brognola. The door opened and the undercover policeman entered, folding his magazine under his arm.
Brognola crouched, his head below the privacy wall of the stall, lifted his cane and stood to one side of the door, waiting. When the man reached his door, the big Fed pulled the door in quickly and wrapped a hand around the guy's tie, rattling him against both sides of the stall as he yanked him inside.
The policeman groaned as Brognola rammed him into the rear wall of the stall. He frisked the dazed man quickly, turning up a pistol, a pair of handcuffs and their key. He pocketed the pistol and the key and snapped one end of the cuffs to the man's wrist and the other to the plumbing of the toilet.
"Who put you onto me?" Brognola demanded.
The policeman shook his head. "You're under arrest, Brognola."
"Thanks, but I believe I'll pass this time." The Fed straightened his clothing. "When you see Fujitsu, tell him to start cooperating before this thing blows up in our faces. I don't have time to trip over his Boy Scouts everywhere I go."
The leather boys were against the wall when he limped out of the stall. One of them had a knife in his hand, frozen by the explosion of activity in the stall. Brognola lifted the .38 and pointed it at him. "You'd better be planning on doing your nails, sonny, or you're going to walk out of here in worse shape than I am." The youth made the knife disappear.
Safely out of reach, Brognola slid the cop's gun to him under the stall. The leather boys didn't miss the action. "I'll call some
one to get you out of there," he said as he put the .38 away and walked through the door.
Back at the lockers, Brognola unlocked the door and found a cheap briefcase inside. The briefcase was empty. Then he noticed that the top lining bulged slightly. When he pulled it back, Brognola found two computer disks. Satisfied, he closed the briefcase, then limped hurriedly to the subway train, filing in with the early-morning commuters to escape the undercover man's backup.
The car was standing room only. He grabbed the loop hanging overhead and looked out the windows. Hefting the briefcase, he wondered if there was enough information on the disks to warrant Tucker's death. Then he considered the possibility that the information the CIA man had turned up was purely wild-card material, and that Tucker's death was part of an even larger scheme. The thought left him feeling cold and uncomfortable. The image of Tucker dying in his arms wouldn't go away. He wondered where Striker was.
* * *
"Is she alive?" Akemi asked as he stepped out of the small temple.
"So far," Bolan replied. He held Ransom in his arms.
"Come inside," Akemi said, moving back into the temple.
Bolan followed the man.
"Put her there," the Japanese said when they entered the room where he'd treated Bolan.
The warrior knelt, placing the woman gently on a mat. She moaned softly, shifted, but didn't wake up. He sat beside her, tucking his legs up under him. He unleathered the Desert Eagle and laid it beside his thigh. Fisting the material of his shirt, he pushed it against the wound in his side, struggling against the sudden rush of pain. His hand felt slick and warm as he attempted to help the clotting process.
Akemi returned within moments, kneeling as he set a pan of water near Ransom's head. He spread first-aid equipment to the other side, then lit candles. The warm yellow glow filled the room.
Blood stained the woman's features, hanging in clumps from her hair. She breathed deeply, tried to sit up, then passed out again.
"What happened?" Akemi asked.
In terse sentences Bolan outlined the assault on the Hosaka offices. When he finished, Akemi shook his head and continued his ministrations.
"I tried to tell her it would come to this," the man said. The woman's face was almost clean now. Bolan saw the erratic rip along her left temple where a bullet had skated across her skull. "She felt she had no choice, and in truth, perhaps she did not."
"What does she know about what's been going on?" Bolan asked.
"You would have to ask her."
Bolan's voice was harsh. "Look, I don't know what loyalties you two have for each other, but it's almost gotten her killed. Whatever you know, I need to be told."
Akemi looked up, his features placid. "You speak of loyalties, and here you sit, wounded, in perhaps graver risk than Michi is. The only thing pushing you into this is a loyalty for a country that forces you to hide in shadows."
Bolan didn't say anything.
Akemi turned his attentions back to his patient. He mixed an evil-smelling powder into the water and made a poultice to put on her temple. "Yes, I know the kind of man you are. My life was not always devoted only to this temple. You are a man of passion, of fierce loyalties, who has a need to make things as morally right as you can. These are the things that have involved Michi in the present affair, though on a much smaller scale. Still, the passions are the same and fill the whole person. Though you fight for ideals of differing sizes, you fight no harder for yours than she does for hers."
"She's out of her league."
"Ah, yet you think you have the ability to take on armies by yourself? Surely you have realized that is what is involved here."
"I don't know everything that's involved."
"Neither does Michi."
"I need what she knows."
"Then talk to her. Perhaps she needs what you know, as well." Finished with the poultice, the man looked at Bolan. "You have already been won over to her cause in some respects."
"How do you figure that?"
"You brought her here, to a place of safety for her rather than taking her back to your compatriots where she would not have the freedom to continue her fight."
"Maybe I didn't have a choice about it."
"Maybe you did not."
Dropping the subject, the warrior asked, "How is she?"
"I believe she has a concussion. Combined with her own frenzied state of mind these past few days, I think that is what is keeping her unconscious. We will have to keep watch over her the next few hours. After she has some rest, I think she will recover well."
Bolan nodded. "I need to make some phone calls."
"There is a rain slicker by the door."
The warrior forced himself to his feet. "I'll be back." He took the rain slicker and let himself out into the night. Dawn stabbed gray fingers through the eastern sky. Morning life stirred in the marketplace as shopkeepers prepared themselves for another day.
He dropped change into the pay phone and dialed the number of the hotel where the Justice team was staying. He heard Ron Roberts's voice come on the phone, and the click of phone-tapping devices a moment later. He asked for Brognola, counting off the seconds on the tracing effort.
"I can't help you, buddy," Roberts said. "And you can bet this line's wired."
"I heard them come on. Tell Hal I'll be in touch." He broke the connection, then he went back to the temple because there was nowhere else to go. Yet.
Ransom was under a thin blanket when he returned, her breathing deep and regular. Akemi knelt by her head, patiently watching her, his face unreadable. He looked up at Bolan's approach.
Black comets flamed in Bolan's vision, and he struggled to keep himself upright. He reached into the pocket of the blacksuit where he had placed the anti-inflammatory tablets the emergency room doctor had given him. Tossing four into his mouth, he chewed them dry.
"Your wound needs tending."
Bolan nodded, stripping out of the harness and the blacksuit. Taking the water basin Akemi had been using, he sat with his back to a wall and started cleaning the wound.
"Allow me." The Japanese took the basin and got fresh water.
"How is she?"
"She sleeps." Akemi's touch was gentle, soothing.
Bolan leaned his head against the wall, closed his eyes and fought to make the pain go away. "Hosaka will be looking for us," he said. "I don't know how much help my people will be able to offer."
"Did they see Michi?"
"Yes, but she was masked."
"Maybe it will be enough." Akemi rinsed out the towel. "You believe Yemon killed Saburo?"
"Yes."
"It does not surprise me, but it will certainly make your quest harder. Joji Hosaka will not take the death of his son lightly, and I am sure Yemon will not volunteer the information of who actually killed Saburo."
Akemi went on. "You are in a war, a very terrible war with people who should be allowed to simply kill each other. The problem is that, should any of them win, the effect on the rest of the world could be devastating. And there are many sides to it, each interested only in furthering its own goals."
"What are you talking about?"
"I cannot say any more. You need to talk to Michi."
"And if she won't talk?"
"Then I will be forced to carry a heavier burden."
The man's words didn't sound promising. Bolan tried to sort through the few facts he had. Joji Hosaka was putting together a consortium for the benefit of Japanese business in America. Someone else with access to American mercenaries and ex-CIA agents was out to stop him, as well as discourage continued Japanese growth in the United States. And where was Yemon Hosaka now that he had killed his brother? Who commanded his loyalties?
"You have trusted me this far," Akemi said. "If you would be willing to trust me still further, I have a place where you and Michi can be safe."
Bolan considered his few options. "All right."
"Michi will need care, and I do not want to i
nvolve anyone else in this unless it becomes necessary. You need care yourself, but you have been in this position before. I feel you are strong enough to handle your own health, but she will require aid for a day or two."
"For as long as I can."
"With everything that has happened of late, events will have to take their own course before you can plan your next move."
"I know." Bolan watched the candle flame dancing lightly on the sleeping woman's face, wondering what secrets her mind held, and if the information could help him put everything together. Then, with his hand curled around the butt of the Desert Eagle, he dropped into a much-needed sleep.
* * *
"It was one of the American agents who killed Saburo," Yemon said as he followed his father through the crowd of rescue workers gathered around the office building.
Joji Hosaka shoved a yellow-slickered fireman out of his way, earning a scowl from the man until he saw who had pushed him. The fireman moved away and bowed. "Do you know the man's name?" Kiyosha Ogata was a reed-thin figure in black at his father's side.
Hurrying to catch up, jumping lithely over the fire hoses, Yemon said, "I think he's called Belasko." He watched his father give the old man a look and saw Ogata nod in immediate response.
"Why did you not call me when Saburo asked you to meet him?" his father demanded.
"I didn't think it was important enough to bother you with, Father." Yemon almost collided with his father as the man came to a sudden stop. "And he had asked for me, not you. Even though he's your son, he's also my brother. I've; helped him before when I was able."
"And tonight?"
"I had no opportunity." Yemon returned Ogata's flat black gaze, knowing he had never been able to lie to the man. Still, Ogata would never mention his suspicions without the proof necessary to back them up.
Joji Hosaka froze one of the ambulance attendants with a look. "I want my son brought to me," he ordered. "I do not want him taken to a morgue to lie there until the butchers start on him."
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