NEVER SAY DIE: Mark Cole Takes On the Yakuza in His Most Thrilling Adventure Yet!

by J. T. Brannan

  But Cole felt good, the exercise doing for him exactly what he’d told Nakamura earlier – it had shaken off the jet lag and fatigue, made him alert and ready.

  ‘Thank you,’ Nakamura said to Cole as the fifth man moved off. ‘I enjoyed your display. You have fine technique.’

  Cole bowed. ‘Thank you,’ he replied. ‘Does that mean we can have our practice now?’

  ‘Of course,’ Nakamura said, moving onto the tatami. ‘I have seen everything I need to see.’

  Cole saw the confidence in Nakamura’s eyes, the glint that said he’d figured out Cole’s game. But had he figured out his real game, or just the one that he’d wanted Nakamura to see?

  As both men faced each other and bowed formally, Cole knew that he was about to find out.

  But whatever happened, he wasn’t going to go down without a battle; he owed that to Michiko.

  And then both men moved toward one another.

  The fight was on.

  9

  Kenzo Hiroshi glanced up at the lights of the Kodokan training halls, impressed that people were still training after midnight; it showed resolve and determination. But then again, the Kodokan was the headquarters of world judo, and he supposed it must house some pretty dedicated people.

  Kenzo had some experience of judo – as part of his training, he had been exposed to most of the world’s major fighting arts, and a few minor ones too. It wasn’t so much that he was an expert in any of them –the specific fighting art of his ninja clan was eclectic enough. But a true shinobi kept an open mind to all things, and he had picked up some useful bits and pieces over the years. And it was true that by knowing what tactics and techniques might be used against you, a great advantage was won over those ignorant of such matters. It was for the same reason that graduates from his school were required to learn about military and law enforcement tactics from all over the world.

  A part of him would have liked to visit the Kodokan, perhaps to observe the training there; but the other part knew that it was a risk not worth taking.

  Tokyo was home to the headquarters of many martial arts, from karate to aikido, and Kenzo would not have minded visiting any of them; there was always something new to be learned. He wondered what he might learn from the instructors at the ninjutsu headquarters in Noda City, just outside Tokyo.

  He smiled at the thought; it was open to members of the general public from all over the world, purported to be linked by tradition to the ninja clans of old. And perhaps it was; but now it was just like every other martial art, watered down for the masses and spoon fed to students who had grown up on a steady diet of television shows, movies and video games. If they knew the training that had to be endured as a true ninja, they would baulk at the mere thought of it.

  But Kenzo had never had a choice, had never known any other life. Adopted by his ninja clan when he was just two years old, he had no memories of any parents, and had never been furnished with any answers to the rare questions he had asked as a boy. That was the past, they had said; he should live in the present at all times.

  He smiled as he walked on past the Kodokan, southwest towards Koyaku Park, and his small hotel room in Iidabashi beyond.

  That was what he was doing now, wasn’t it? Reliving the past, thinking about his childhood. But sometimes such a thing was necessary – the human brain held memories for a reason, and as he’d aged, his teachers had explained how to use the past to help him, as long as he didn’t allow it to control him.

  For instance, right now he wanted to go through what he had learnt from his nighttime visit to Tokyo University Hospital, the reason he had come up to Bunkyo City. The hospital was the first emergency stop for the prime minister if he suffered any illness or problem in Tokyo, and it held the man’s medical records as well as emergency protocols to be followed in case of various crisis scenarios. They were in a locked office, within a locked cabinet, but Kenzo had gained access with moderate ease and digested the information with great interest.

  But he knew he couldn’t think too hard about that information yet – not while he was still in the open. That was how mistakes were made, when you let down your guard. If he let his mind be swamped with too many things, he might miss a passing policeman, or else the position of a CCTV camera; and one mistake would be all it took.

  And so he would wait until he was safely back in his tiny hotel room, sure he wasn’t being observed or followed; then, and only then, would he consider the strategic and tactical implications about what he had learnt tonight at the hospital, and how it could make his assassination of Toshikatsu Endo even more effective.

  Cole and Nakamura circled each other, unaware of the assassin strolling by outside; both were locked in a taut game of physical chess, with the first move about to be made.

  Cole reached in to grasp Nakamura’s lapel, but the man pulled his jacket free and immediately went for the dominant grip on Cole’s own. Cole responded by pawing the hand away, then they broke off and circled again.

  At Nakamura’s suggestion, their bout had become a shiai, a competitive fight to be decided by a single ippon, in the same way that samurai duels of old had been decided by one stroke of the deadly katana longsword.

  The other men in the room – Kadena and the attendant also, drawn in by the tense excitement and allowed to stay – watched intently, their eyes locked on the combatants. They knew Nakamura from old, a man who had been around the block more than a few times and knew all the tricks, a man who was as solid and unyielding as iron; but what they had just seen – and felt – of the American had impressed them greatly, a mix of aggression and technical flair that was hugely exciting. None of them could tell what would happen next.

  More attempts were made to come to grips, but both men defended successfully, each aware of the importance of gaining a dominant position – a good grip often made the difference between winning and losing.

  Eventually Nakamura smiled, shook his head and then relaxed, walking boldly toward Cole, completely open to be grabbed.

  Cole recognized that it might be a trap, but was keen to get things moving and took his standard grip, right hand high on Nakamura’s left lapel, the other grasping the back of the man’s right sleeve just below the elbow.

  Nakamura instantly took his own, right hand going even higher than Cole’s, powering through Cole’s left sleeve control to force itself round to the back of Cole’s neck while his other hand tore off Cole’s own lapel grip and seized his sleeve low, near the wrist.

  Cole was amazed at the man’s colossal strength, seemingly out of all proportion to his size, but it was too late to worry about it now – at the same instant, Nakamura turned around in a lightning fast uchimata, the big and spectacular inner thigh throw that Cole had used on Tadao in the first match.

  Instinctively, Cole dropped his hips to defend the throw; but then Nakamura changed technique, feeding his right leg down and round the back of Cole’s left leg and arching his body outwards in an attempt to trip him backwards with o uchi gari, the major inner reap.

  He almost succeeded too, but Cole was able to react quickly enough to stop the full ippon being made, twisting out at the last moment to land on his side, quickly rolling to his front and tucking his arms and legs into a turtle position to defend against any grappling attacks from Nakamura.

  Sure enough, the man leapt on top of him, looking for an opening; Nakamura tried to lever his feet between Cole’s legs to gain a mounted position, but Cole held tight for a few moments, until Nakamura went upwards towards his head.

  When Cole felt Nakamura’s arm coming round to his neck, he scooped his arm out and over his opponent’s, pulling it in tightly to his body; and then, pushing off his legs, he rolled the upper man off over his shoulder, immediately turning into a pin of his own. The men were top to tail, and Cole pressed his chest hard down onto Nakamura’s face, arms underneath the man’s shoulders, hands cinched tight onto the gi jacket to minimize his movement.

  Thirty seconds, and
he had won.

  He could feel the man struggling underneath him, and counted the seconds off in his head. Five . . . ten . . . But then Nakamura arched his back up into a bridge so violently that Cole was hauled off, although he managed to keep his grip, shuffling out to the side to reapply the pin as yoko shiho gatame, an immensely strong side hold down where his body lay perpendicularly to Nakamura’s, one arm through the man’s legs, secured to his belt, the other behind his neck and anchored to his gi, head and chest tight onto the man’s body.

  Nakamura had obviously anticipated this move though, and immediately pushed Cole’s head further down, hand deep in Cole’s collar. Without missing a beat, he hooked his free leg over the back of Cole’s neck and began to apply a choke, the bone of his forearm cutting up and across into Cole’s windpipe, the force of his leg making the top of the scissors; up with the arm and down with the leg, Cole’s neck caught in the middle, struggling to get free.

  Within seconds Cole could feel the light going hazy, his vision blurry; the pain across his throat was intense, the urge to vomit nearly uncontrollable; but somewhere inside, he knew a choke – which cut off the air supply by constricting the windpipe – took much longer to apply than a strangle, which cut off the blood supply to the brain. A good strangle could render a person unconscious within five seconds if done by an expert; a choke could often take ten times longer, if the person being choked could take the pain and not tap out – the tapping of the opponent or the mat which signaled concession.

  So Cole recognized that he still had a chance, and knew he wouldn’t give in – couldn’t give in, if he was to achieve what he came here for tonight.

  He considered, momentarily, using the pressure points of marma adi to affect a release; but he didn’t want Nakamura to think he had won unfairly, or else he would get nothing out of the man anyway. Better to lose honestly than to win dishonorably.

  Cole could hear the gasps around him as the observers wondered how long he could hang on for before he gave up or passed out, felt Nakamura tighten the hold even more, the bone of the forearm sinking deeper into his windpipe, the leg crushing down even harder. All he needed was space, just a tiny bit of space; if he found only an inch, he could exploit it and escape.

  And then it came, his vice-like fingertips forcing a small gap next to Nakamura’s forearm; then his hand was through, then his own forearm, and suddenly the pressure on his neck was relieved and he took a huge gulp of air before twisting out of the position entirely, coming back up to his knees, Nakamura doing the same.

  From the kneeling positon, both men took their grips again and returned to their feet, recommencing the standup game that was the cornerstone of traditional judo. Cole had thought about using wrestling or Brazilian Jiujitsu on the floor with Nakamura, but understood that such tactics wouldn’t be appreciated by his opponent, or by the observers; the Kodokan was the home of judo, and to use anything else would be disrespectful, and therefore detrimental to Cole’s own aims. It would be better to throw Nakamura cleanly, if he could manage to do so.

  But he had demonstrated to Nakamura that he could hold his own on the floor, an aspect of his game that the man perhaps hadn’t recognized until now.

  The action started again soon after they were standing, Cole attacking hard with an inner leg reaping throw that was merely a feint, a move that forced Nakamura to move his leg back out of the way and therefore unbalance him for a fast seoi nage shoulder throw in the opposite direction.

  But Nakamura was faster than Cole had hoped, and blocked the throw by dropping his hips, then moving out to the side and dropping to the floor, one leg outstretched behind Cole’s ankles to trip him backwards, hands pulling down at the same time.

  Cole realized what he was doing and stepped over the legs at the last moment, ready to follow Nakamura down to the floor for more groundwork. But Nakamura pushed himself away, getting rapidly back to his feet.

  The men circled each other again warily, both respecting the other’s ability; Cole was sure that Nakamura had seen through most of his own ploys during the initial five fights, and was disappointed that nothing seemed to fool him.

  But there was one more trick up his sleeve, and as they circled each other, waiting to come to grips, Cole went through the scenario once more in his mind, clarifying what would happen.

  He prayed it would work; if it didn’t, he was out of options.

  They took up grips again, and Cole used his body language to display an opening for the same tai otoshi body drop that Tadao had used earlier. Nakamura sensed the opening and reacted, going for the throw, the technique better than Tadao’s, more effective.

  But still Cole managed to step over the technique, bringing his left leg up in the uchimata counter he had used earlier – and not just on Tadao, but on two other fighters as well, showing Nakamura that it was one of his favored techniques, knowing Tadao would work out a counter to this counter, just like a good chess player thinking several moves ahead.

  And so when Cole moved in for the counter throw, he wasn’t at all surprised to see Nakamura move to defend it and launch a counter of his own.

  But Cole never completed the inner thigh counter; instead, he immediately turned to face Nakamura, twitching his leg out and to the side, sole of his foot propping against Nakamura’s ankle, body weight thrown to the left as he trapped his opponent’s leg in sasae tsurikomi ashi.

  The change of throwing direction was so fast that it took Nakamura entirely by surprise, and Cole pulled him cleanly over his ankle prop, the man given no chance whatsoever to react.

  Cole heard Nakamura’s back hit the tatami mats hard, driving the wind from him, and he knew instantly that he had won.

  Ippon – the killing blow.

  There were gasps of surprise and shock from the small crowd, then clapping and cheering; for whoever this American was, judo was judo, and they had just witnessed a masterclass in the art.

  Nakamura himself staggered gingerly to his feet, hand on his back and a smile on his face.

  ‘Clever,’ he said, nodding his head in appreciation. ‘Damn clever.’ He bowed low to Cole, who returned the gesture, then extended a hand in friendship. Cole took it and they shook firmly.

  ‘Okay,’ he continued, ‘you can ask your questions. Anyone who can do that is okay by me. Now let’s get out of here. I’ll take you to a little bar I know. You’ve earned it.’

  Cole nodded his head in thanks, adrenaline still coursing through his body, joined now by relief that he was one step closer to his goal, and one step closer to his daughter.

  He hoped the information that Nakamura had would be worth his efforts.

  10

  ‘So you really don’t know where Mark is either?’ asked President Abrams.

  Bruce Vinson rubbed his chin as he considered the president’s question, disconcerted to find patches of stubble there. A British Army officer for many years, first in the Parachute Regiment and then in the Special Air Service, he could only imagine the dressing down he would have received if he’d turned up at morning parade with such a poor shave. But, on reflection, it was a miracle that he’d had time to shave at all; with Mark Cole on vacation, he was hard at work fronting both the Paradigm Group and Force One.

  A retired Oxford don, he had also served with Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service before moving to the United States after a liaison job between SIS and the CIA, where he had stayed ever since.

  With the backing of the US government, Vinson – an independently wealthy man and a well-respected academic – had last year bought the Paradigm Group from its founder, Hugh Miller. He had relocated it to Forest Hills, and set about making it the leading think-tank in the country – a mission which had succeeded admirably. The luxurious – and well-protected – location of the new Paradigm Group headquarters also acted as the front for Mark Cole’s counterterrorist organization, Force One. The two groups operated hand-in-glove, and everything had been running smoothly.

  Until now, it seeme
d.

  Abrams had briefed him on the problem with Colonel Manfred Jones, but it was a problem of which he had already been made aware as soon as Miley Cooper had been injured; the Paradigm Group was not one of the world’s leading civilian intelligence gathering organizations for nothing.

  Such a situation was delicate, to say the least. And it didn’t help that Cole was on vacation.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know,’ Vinson said apologetically. ‘Normal procedure would be for Mark to have given us the particulars of any trip he might make during his vacation time. But he has failed to do so in this instance. He’s gone. Vanished.’

  ‘Has he really gone away?’ Abrams asked. ‘Maybe he’s at home, not answering the door, the telephone. He’s had a rough time of it lately, he’s probably still injured from China. Do you think he’s okay?’

  ‘He’s not at home,’ said Vinson emphatically. ‘I’ve had people inside already to check.’ At Abrams’ look of disapproval, he merely shrugged. ‘Ma’am, it’s my responsibility to look after the organization, and that includes its people too. Cole should have let me know where he was going, and he didn’t. A little breaking and entering is hardly worth getting worked up about. He didn’t make it easy for my guys though – security at his place is pretty tight. But,’ he continued, ‘the bottom line is that he’s not there. And there’s no evidence to suggest where he’s gone. I do have men checking his computers, as well as any unit at Forest Hills he might have accessed, maybe we’ll learn something there. If I do, I’ll let you know immediately. I wouldn’t get too worried though, he’s only been off the radar for a couple of days and you know he doesn’t like to play by the rules. And he can definitely look after himself.’

  ‘I know that, Bruce,’ Abrams said. ‘I just wish we could let him know about what’s happening.’

  Vinson nodded in understanding. ‘You’re right, he needs to know – the appointment of Jones, however temporary, could have serious consequences.’