Bolan stared down at the man. "Can we go somewhere to talk?"
"Are you with the CIA?" the man asked loudly.
Bolan put a finger to his lips. "Not exactly," he said, and the man frowned, obviously disappointed that he didn't merit the royal treatment. "Let's go somewhere," Bolan requested again.
The man shook his head. "No, no," he said. "I get no time to play anymore. We talk here. No one listen."
Bolan looked around. No one was watching them; everyone was engrossed in their own game. "You're the man who called the embassy?"
The old man flicked dark eyes toward him that were lost in wrinkles. He wore baggy khaki pants and a well-worn plaid shirt. "Yes, that was me, yes."
"Why?"
The man shook his head, his stare fixed on the tumbling balls. One fell in the payoff slot and a score of balls dropped into the bucket with a loud rattle. "Much danger," he said. "They look for us... to kill us."
"Look for who?"
"Me!" the man said emphatically. "Me and Dr. Norwood."
"Who is Dr. Norwood?"
The old man looked at him, exasperated, as one would look at a bothersome child. "Dr. Norwood, Dr. Norwood... Operation Snowflake. I am his valet and trusted assistant, Toshu Maruki." The man bowed again quickly, then went back to his game. "So, you will save us and give us asylum?"
"Tell me about the cocaine," Bolan said, his mouth very close to the man's ear.
Maruki looked at him quizzically. "Co... caine?" he said slowly, thinking hard. "What is co... caine?"
Bolan stared at him. Could there be some mistake, a mix-up of words? He knew for certain that he wasn't going to get anything sensible from Maruki. "Where is Dr. Norwood?" he asked.
The man looked at him again and he stopped feeding balls into the machine. "Please, Mr. Reeves. They are very powerful. Will you save us? Will you please to save us?"
"I'll do my best," Bolan said, the man's plea sounding strangely hopeless. He looked around again. The whole front of the building was plate glass, affording him a good view of the street. An Air Force jeep had pulled up farther down the block. Three APs sat in the open vehicle, despite the steady drizzle. "But you're going to have to tell me where I can find Dr. Norwood."
The old man searched Bolan's eyes. Apparently satisfied with what he saw there, he said quickly, "Fujikyu Shrine. We go from here?"
"The sooner, the better," Bolan said, and the old man bent to pick up his bucket of balls. Bolan stopped him. "Leave them."
As they started back down the aisle, a leather boy like the one Bolan had seen on the street came in the front door. Bolan immediately turned toward the door at the side of the building but was blocked by another black-clad biker.
Bolan reached for his Beretta just as the punk at the door pulled the .12-gauge Remington pump from behind him and fired into the building. All at once six armed bikers pushed their way into the building and opened fire.
Pandemonium broke loose with the first shot; old men screamed and ran back and forth in the enclosed room. As Bolan went into a crouch, he tried to drag Maruki down with him.
The punks ran through the building firing indiscriminately. Pops like a string of firecrackers flashed throughout the room, filling it with the smell of gunpowder. A man staggered past them, blood oozing between the fingers that held his face. Pachinko machines exploded, showering glass and ball bearings over everything.
Maruki, confused and frightened, broke from Bolan's grasp and tried to run. Bolan jumped up to grab him, but he slipped on the steel balls that littered the floor and went down hard.
Punks were at both ends of the aisle. Bolan couldn't get a clear shot in the confusion. There were too many innocents in his line of fire. That didn't bother the enemy gunmen who hammered away in obvious enjoyment. Maruki screamed as his chest exploded. The small Japanese man was dead before his body fell on Bolan.
Bolan got to his feet. A shotgun came up behind him. He wheeled and fired as the punk ducked away. And then everything stopped — deathly quiet. Within thirty seconds it was over.
Then Bolan saw why. One of the bikers had tossed a large satchel into the room as his friends scattered. It had to be explosives!
"Run!" Bolan screamed and knew instinctively that he couldn't reach the bag before it went up. Several aisles separated him from the now shattered plate-glass window. He threw himself at a machine, knocking it and the one behind it over as he fell into the next aisle. Pain shot through his arm, but he jumped up and crossed to the next aisle the same way. Another aisle and he had reached the window. Cut now in several places, he jumped through the window, coming down hard on glass in the street outside.
Bolan was up, staggering in the rain, his Beretta covered with his own blood. Old men were staggering through the doors and windows, trying to get away as motorcycles roared off down the narrow street.
Bolan ran, trying to put as much distance between himself and the building as he could. He got no more than ten steps when the concussion from a monstrous explosion knocked him to the pavement.
The entire building burst open with a loud whomp and a rush of wind as a flash of bright orange and black lit up the dull sky. A million ball bearings shot like bullets from ground zero. People on the streets fell, torn to shreds as the deadly pellets lit up the night, sparkling brightly, ricocheting off streets, lampposts, cars and surrounding buildings.
Bolan lay on the ground with his head covered. Within seconds the pachinko balls began falling from the sky like metal rain, clicking loudly on the streets and cars, bouncing as they hit the pavement. And when all the noise stopped, Mack Bolan rolled over and checked himself for damage.
He was cut up pretty good, blood oozing thickly from a large gash in his left hand. He took out a handkerchief and wrapped it around the wound. All around him people were moaning and checking themselves for injuries. Some were standing, trying to help others to their feet.
The entire building housing the pachinko parlor had collapsed; small fires burned in the rubble. Several cars were overturned nearby, and one of them had burst into flames. The dead lay everywhere. The innocent victims. It was always the same.
Bolan was trying to stand when he heard the roar of an engine. He turned to see the jeepful of APs driving toward him. Where were they when the fighting had been going on? he wondered. Bolan quickly stuck the Beretta back in his holster and stood as the jeep stopped right beside him.
"You guys are a little bit slow. I..."
"Shut up!" one of them yelled, and they were out of the jeep, pressing around him. Someone grabbed his arms, and as he twisted to throw the man off, the side of his head exploded in a brilliant white flash from the force of a billy club.
Bolan dropped to his knees, teeth clenched with the blinding pain. He raised his head and looked directly into the muzzle of a .45 automatic.
"Kill him," the master sergeant said.
2
The tech sergeant grinned and primed the .45 with a loud snap. The Executioner barely had a second to appreciate the irony of being gunned down in an alien land by representatives of the country he had given so much of his life to defend.
And then a siren broke through his thoughts.
"Son of a bitch!" the master sergeant said, and Bolan turned his head, looking through the legs of the men surrounding him to see a Japanese police car screech onto Nishi-Ginza, its pale blue cherry throwing light into the drizzly sky.
"Grab him," the master sergeant said, and the men jumped to take Bolan's arms. "We'll take him with us."
Still weak and disoriented from the blow to his head, Bolan was no match for the APs, who twisted his arms hard behind him.
The police car pulled up beside them as the master sergeant walked up to Bolan. He was a big man, six foot four or five, with a nasty scowl etched permanently on his face. The name O'Brian was written on his name tag. Mack Bolan memorized everything about him.
"Keep your mouth shut tight," O'Brian said, then reached into Bolan's jacket to ret
rieve the Beretta. He found Bolan's .44 AutoMag — Big Thunder — in the side holster below it. "Lookee here," he told the other two. "This boy's got him some hardware."
The Japanese police were out of their car, and a clean-cut detective wearing a suit was barking orders in Japanese to his uniformed squad. One man jumped back in the vehicle and frantically put through a call on his radio, and two others ran over toward the building to try to help the survivors.
"Let's go!" O'Brian yelled, and Bolan's captors dragged him toward their jeep.
Bolan made a quick decision. "No!" he yelled loudly. "What are you doing?"
"Damn you," O'Brian rasped as he threw a sharp elbow into Bolan's stomach, causing him to double over. "Get him in the jeep, quick!"
"Wait," the plainclothes cop said in perfect English. "What's going on?"
He hurried over to the jeep, a look of concern crossing his face as he took in Bolan's condition.
O'Brian stepped between the cop and Bolan. "Master Sergeant Tom O'Brian, Yokota Air Police," he said in an officious tone.
"Lieutenant Ichiro, Special Services, Tokyo Police," the smaller man said. "What's going on here?"
O'Brian was much taller than Ichiro and he moved closer to the man, trying to intimidate him. But Ichiro stood his ground, hands on hips.
"This man is an airman from the base," O'Brian said. "We've suspected him of terrorist activities and followed him here tonight. He may have caused this explosion. We're taking him back to the base for questioning."
"Those weapons..." Ichiro said, pointing to Bolan's guns.
"Found them on him," O'Brian said. "Thanks for your help. We'll take it from here."
"This is a civil matter, Sergeant," Ichiro said. "I'm sure you understand that this goes beyond your jurisdiction."
"You can take that up with the base commander," O'Brian said. "We'll cooperate fully with civilian authorities."
"I'm not with the military!" Bolan said, and the AP on his left punched him hard in the ribs.
"Stop that!" Ichiro said, pushing past O'Brian to stand before Bolan. He opened Bolan's jacket enough to see the combat harness and then looked at the cut on his hand.
"We must go," O'Brian said, nodding toward the APs, who started to pull Bolan closer to the jeep. "We'll question him and send you a complete transcript."
"I'm a civilian," Bolan argued. "My passport's in my back pocket."
"Hold it a minute," Ichiro said, but O'Brian nodded to his men to continue.
"Stop now, or I'm placing you all under arrest!" Ichiro demanded, his face set rock solid. He walked up to Bolan and reached into his back pocket, pulling out the passport that Hal Brognola had obtained for him.
Bolan could hear sirens in the distance, coming closer fast. A small yellow fire engine skidded around the corner and pulled up in front of the demolished pachinko parlor.
O'Brian moved to within inches of Ichiro, but the Japanese lieutenant ignored him as he looked at the passport.
"We're taking him now," the AP said through clenched teeth. "Get out of the goddamned way."
Ichiro's leg flashed out quickly, his foot slamming O'Brian in the knee. The big man buckled like a penknife and dropped to the ground. The cop looked at the other two APs.
"You have fifteen seconds to pick that man up and get out of here — without your prisoner," he said coldly. They looked at each other for several long seconds as more emergency vehicles arrived. O'Brian, one hand on his knee, used the side of the jeep to try to struggle to his feet. "Now! And you can be sure that I will contact your CO to discuss this situation," Ichiro told them briskly.
Bolan broke from their grasp, his head starting to clear. He turned and made an effort to memorize his captors' name badges and faces. One was Jeffries, a California blondie who looked as if he'd played football. The other was a tall black named Prine, who had a red scar on his left cheek.
They helped O'Brian to his feet and into the jeep. Bolan glanced around quickly, looking for an escape route, but four more police cars, along with ambulances, had arrived, and uniformed cops walked both sides of the streets. He'd never make it.
As Jeffries ground the jeep into gear, O'Brian, his face strained in pain, glared at Bolan. "You're meat," he said, pointing a stubby finger. "Both of you," O'Brian continued as he turned his icy gaze on Ichiro.
"Leave the weapons," Ichiro said. O'Brian tightened his lips and reached down to the floorboards to toss the Beretta and the AutoMag to the lieutenant one at a time.
The jeep slid off as confusion settled on Bolan again. What was that all about? Why had they been at the pachinko parlor to begin with, and why didn't they stop the leather boys? Bolan wondered.
Reality flooded back as Bolan felt the snap of a handcuff on his right wrist. Ichiro fixed the other cuff to his own left wrist. He stared up at Bolan with dark, unreadable eyes.
"Everyone wants you, Mr. Reeves," he said without inflection. "I've got you."
"Me and about a hundred yen will get you on the bullet train," Bolan said.
Ichiro looked at him hard. "Did you do this?" he asked, gesturing toward the demolished building.
"No," Bolan said firmly. "A bunch of punks riding motorcycles and dressed in black leather came in shooting and then left the bomb as a little going-away present."
"How do you explain your weapons?"
"It should be obvious that your streets are unsafe."
The man's face remained impassive. Only the corners of his mouth turned down for just a second to register his irritation. "The truth will get you a great deal further in this world, Mr. Reeves."
"What is truth, Lieutenant?" Bolan asked as the man walked him back toward the smoking ruins. The fire fighters were busy pouring water onto the small blaze; emergency workers were already digging through the rubble looking for bodies. The continual arrival and departure of ambulances assured Bolan that the wounded were being taken care of.
The street was filled with glass and fragments of wood. Loose ball bearings were still tripping people, and Bolan had to watch the ground to keep from slipping. He saw an arm somehow balanced atop a street sign; he saw a foot, still in its shoe, lying in the gutter. And he saw a hat, a red Phillies hat, and thought about an old man named Maruki who had known all about Operation Snowflake but had no idea what cocaine was. The old man's last words had been a plea for help, a plea that Bolan hadn't been able to respond to.
Ichiro called his people together and then directed Bolan into the back seat of the small police car. Two of Ichiro's men took the front to drive them away.
The lieutenant turned to study his captive. He looked young, Bolan thought, but he knew that looks were often deceptive. His face was pleasant and unlined; a quick intelligence showed in his eyes. Bolan determined to take it easy with this one. He was smart — and no punk.
"I don't know who you are," Ichiro said to him, "or why those men wanted you so badly. But if you had anything to do with the tragedy here tonight, you will never leave my country again. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?"
Bolan nodded. "I didn't do it," he said again. The other man nodded quickly. "I am taking you to see something before we go to the station."
Only the squawk of the radio broke the silence as they drove in the direction of the base. Bolan watched as electronics stores and gift and tailor shops slid by his window, their neon colors running together on the wet glass.
They reached Yokota's main gate within minutes, but a large-scale demonstration of some kind blocked off the entire six-lane street skirting the huge complex that had housed much of the Japanese Air Force during the Second World War.
"You can thank this crowd for your arrest," Ichiro said. "I arrived so quickly at the scene of the bombing because we were working crowd control."
The car pulled up to the fringes of the demonstration, and Ichiro dragged Bolan from the vehicle. "Up," he said, indicating the police car's roof.
The men, still handcuffed together, scrambled up onto the roof of
the car, standing to get a good view of the demonstration. Several police vans stood on the outskirts of the crowd that Bolan estimated numbered one thousand.
"What's going on?" Bolan asked the cop.
"They protest." Ichiro shrugged. "Do you see anything that seems familiar to you?"
Bolan quickly scanned the crowd. It was dark, but the pole lights on the chain-link fence that walled off Yokota kept the area well lit. There were many people, young mostly, shaking their fists and pushing against the gate. They carried signs denouncing the American presence in their country and shouted many Japanese slogans in unison.
Then Bolan saw them, a group set apart from the rest, about thirty strong. They all wore black leather, with black helmets and a red circle over their hearts.
"There," Bolan said, pointing. "The ones who attacked the parlor were dressed like that."
Ichiro nodded. "They call themselves Sonnojoi, those who 'repel the barbarians and revere the Emperor' and we suspect that they're an offshoot of the Red Army, although we haven't been able to crack them yet. Unfortunately, they seem to generate violence wherever they go. Look."
He pointed. The leather boys had shoved their way through the chanting crowds up to the gate to within inches of a contingent of Air Police standing at parade rest on the other side with their billy clubs behind their backs. The black-clad youths began jeering at the APs, trying to make them lose their composure.
"What are they protesting?" Bolan asked.
"Americans," Ichiro said. "Your presence on our soil. The war was a long time ago. They think it's time for you to stop treating us like a conquered nation."
"And what do you think?"
"I am a policeman, Mr. Reeves. I just keep the peace."
The bikers produced several pairs of wire cutters and tried to cut through the gates. Others poked sticks through the mesh to keep the APs back.
Ichiro bent down and spoke quickly to the man with the radio in the front seat. He stood again.
"Now you'll see how I feel about lawlessness," he said.
As if on signal, the back of the police vans opened and riot police came pouring out, all of them wearing helmets with long visors. They carried large rattan shields, which covered most of their bodies, and long poles.
Code of Dishonor Page 2
