The squad waded into the crowd and began swinging their poles, aiming for shins. Bolan watched the targeted demonstrators clutch their legs. Shin pain was not physically damaging but nearly unbearable.
They moved quickly, dispersing most of the crowd in less than a minute. It was the most effective riot control Bolan had ever seen. When the riot police reached the leather boys, the bikers simply stopped what they were doing and darted off into the night, the same thing they had done at the pachinko parlor.
Bolan and Ichiro watched from the top of the car for a moment, then climbed down as the crowd had obviously decided to go. There was no use in going after the bikers. Dressed as they were, there was no way Bolan could ever make any kind of identification.
"I'm impressed," Bolan said.
Ichiro's face remained impassive. "Get back into the car," he said. "We'll take you to the hospital to tend to your wounds, then on to the Oneida Station House. You should try and sleep a little now while you can. You'll be up all night answering questions."
"I want a lawyer."
"You have no rights under Japanese law, Mr. Reeves. None."
Bolan knew he was very much on his own in this one.
3
The Japanese Zen Masters teach that life is pain, and only the acceptance of the inevitability of pain brings happiness. Mack Bolan must have been a very happy man indeed.
Bolan sat cross-legged on the floor of the dingy cell, his chopsticks clattering methodically against the rice bowl as he ate to maintain his strength. It was a small local jail with only six cells, but once Ichiro had finished running his prints and ID through Interpol, he knew he'd be moved to more prestigious surroundings.
The only question that remained at this point was whether they'd try to keep him in Japan or allow extradition to any one of the hundreds of countries in which he was an actively sought fugitive. The Executioner had been a very busy man.
Trained to fight in the jungles of Vietnam, he had returned to America to find his family dead, devastated by the loan sharks and pimps of the Mafia. Unable to get satisfaction through the courts, he had taken on the mob single-handedly, dispensing final justice in the same terms that had been dealt to his family. As he had learned more and more about the nature of evil that threatened the lives and security of the decent people of the world, Mack Bolan had expanded his fight to include terrorists. No matter what they called themselves, no matter what platitudes they used to justify their mayhem, Bolan knew they were all the same — mad dogs reveling in the kill, satisfying their sinister urges with warm, innocent blood.
Not everyone found the Executioner's cause, or the methods he used to further it, noble. Because he walked beyond the bureaucratic cage of the law, there were those who thought him lawless. He'd learned to live with that long ago, but it didn't stop him from hurting. It didn't stop the loneliness. But whenever he decided to back off, whenever he thought he'd had enough and done his share, there was always someone like the old man in the pachinko parlor to remind him that there was no one to take his place. So Toshu Maruki joined the long list of those Mack Bolan would avenge if he lived beyond the day.
And the Executioner had every intention of living. He lived to kill, not through desire but through necessity. He did the job that had to be done. He did his share to rid the world of evil. Hence the name the Executioner, the last bastion between civilization and the jungle. Life is pain.
Bolan finished his rice and stood, setting the bowl near the cell door. He wrapped his fingers around the cold bars, testing their strength. If he was to get out of there, it would have to be soon. Once they knew who he really was, the security would become a lot tighter.
He was feeling pretty good. They had cleaned and dressed his wounds at a local clinic, the worst gash requiring a couple of stitches in the palm of his left hand. Ichiro had been as good as his word and had kept him up all night for interrogation. Bolan had, of course, given nothing away, for there was nothing he could say that would have made any difference. He had absolutely no idea what had happened at the pachinko parlor; all he could have done was violate Hal Brognola's trust. Mack Bolan didn't operate that way.
Ichiro had impressed him in a positive way. It was unfortunate that they were on opposite sides of this problem. During the interrogation it was obvious that Bolan was frustrating the Japanese lieutenant by confessing so little information. The man was at all times polite and respectful, allowing Bolan the specter of innocence until he'd proven otherwise. But there was something else at work, as well. Ichiro had kept him awake to see if exhaustion would make the American's tongue any looser, and also to render him too tired to attempt escape.
With any other man it would have worked, but with Bolan adversity meant strength. He would tire, but he had learned to control it to the point that exhaustion could be channeled to a crystal-clear edge of awareness that made him even tougher. Mack Bolan had learned to make a lot out of very little.
The bars may have been old, but they were still solid. Bolan turned the other way. A small cot served as his bed. It had no pillow or covers. A privy and a sink took up one corner, but they had no hardware that could be disassembled and used. There were no windows. They had taken his torn and bloody clothes and given him an orange one-piece uniform to wear. His shoes had been replaced by the Japanese equivalent of Ho Chi Minh sandals. It was obvious that Ichiro had as much respect for him as he had for Ichiro. It made for tough opposition.
As if in response to his thoughts, he heard lone footsteps clicking down the hall toward the cell area. The pace was fast, and he knew from his own studies that Lieutenant Ichiro was coming to talk to him.
His senses became immediately alert. The man was alone, and if he could jump him, he might have a fighting chance at getting out of there. Bolan moved closer to the bars and waited.
He heard a door being unlocked, then the grating sound of the cell division bars sliding open. Within seconds he was staring into Ichiro's unreadable face. Bolan was not surprised to see that the all-night interrogation had had no visible effect on Ichiro, either.
"You leave me in a real dilemma, Mr. Bolan," he said.
"My name's Reeves," Bolan corrected.
Ichiro almost smiled. He was just out of arm's reach on the other side of the bars. Bolan moved a step closer; Ichiro stepped back a pace.
"Your identification is quite complete," the lieutenant said as he ran a hand through his closely cropped black hair. "And I'll have to say that I am aware of who and what you are."
"What happens now?"
The lieutenant pursed his lips. "That is a matter of some speculation. You see, other survivors of the bomb blast have confirmed your story about the presence of the Sonnojoi at the gambling house. So, from my perspective, you are not a suspect in this case. On the other hand, you are a wanted fugitive and you are traveling with a false passport and carrying concealed weapons in a country that strictly forbids such practices."
"Nobody's perfect," Bolan returned. "Can I have a cigarette?"
Mack Bolan rarely smoked, but he wanted the opportunity to get closer to the detective.
This time Ichiro did smile. "No, I think not, Mr. Bolan. After you are transferred, perhaps they will give you cigarettes, although I doubt that you would smoke them."
"Transferred to where?" Bolan asked.
"Hachioji Prison, a maximum-security facility."
Bolan had heard of the infamous Hachioji prison. People served their time there — all their time. It was not a holding cell. Few people lived to walk out through its doors.
The big man betrayed no emotion. Both he and his captor stared at one another. After a moment Ichiro asked, "Why have you come back to my country?"
"I can't tell you right now."
"You caused a great deal of havoc when you were here before."
"And saved a great deal."
"Yes," the lieutenant was forced to agree. "Were the Sonnojoi there to kill you?"
Bolan wrapped his hands aroun
d the bars, keeping the left one loose because of the stitches. Ichiro stepped out of his reach, and Bolan mentally put that particular game onto the back burner.
"I was quite honestly surprised to see them," he said. "I have no idea who or what they are."
"I believe you."
"You do?"
Ichiro nodded. "I do not feel that you've lied to me in any substantial matters yet. When you don't wish to answer my questions, you simply say so."
"I believe a man is only as good as his word," Bolan replied. "How come you speak such good English?"
"A cop in an Air Force town," he said. "Often as not, I'm the go-between in disputes that arise with the Air Force. We've always gotten along. That's why those goons from last night surprised me."
"And me, too," Bolan said. "They sat out there ail through the attack."
Ichiro furrowed his brows. "Interesting," he said. "I spoke to their commanding officer again this morning, and he told me that the men had apologized profusely and admitted that they were overzealous in their attempts to subdue you. Having no jurisdiction on American soil, there was nowhere else for me to take the discussion."
"You told me before that I placed you in a dilemma," Bolan said. "What did you mean?"
"In my own way, Mr. Bolan, you and I are very similar," Ichiro answered. "I am the head of what we call Special Services, which is a clean way of saying a counterterrorist squad. As you know, since the Second World War, we have not been allowed to have a standing army. So our little military unit is an offshoot of the Tokyo Police Department. I headquarter here, between Yokota and Tachikowa Air Bases, where most of our problems seem to arise. You and your exploits are not unknown to me. And I have always had the utmost respect for what you do and for the constant pain you must live under." He bowed deeply, respectfully.
"But..." Bolan helped.
The man showed him empty palms. "But I have my own duty, and like you, it is my life. My duty right now is to see that you are kept locked away until such time as your case rs handled through the proper channels. I admit to you that it is a sad duty but one that I would never shirk."
"I understand," Bolan said, and the two warriors locked eyes in mutual respect. Under other circumstances, the two men would have made a foreboding team. Now Ichiro could easily serve as the Executioner's executioner.
"I leave you now," Ichiro said. "I go to make arrangements for your transport to Hachioji. Should you want to talk about the events of last night either now or later, I will gladly make myself available."
"Are you married?" Bolan asked him.
The man nodded.
"Children?"
"I have two sons and a daughter."
"They must be proud of you," Bolan said. "You are a man of honor."
"I am a man of duty," Ichiro said. "That is not the same thing as honor. Perhaps you will find that out during your stay here."
And Bolan was left alone again.
Several hours passed in which the Executioner tried to solve the riddle of Operation Snowflake. He figured that another talk with his "friend" O'Brian, under better circumstances, might shed some light on the mystery. And then there was the matter of Dr. Norwood, whom Maruki had been so keen to protect. Who was he? Bolan wondered. How did he fit into the puzzle? Had those punks come to kill Maruki? And was the United States Air Force somehow connected with an anti-American group like the Sonnojoi?
There were questions but no answers as long as he remained in jail. Yet getting out of jail seemed nearly out of the question as long as Ichiro remained in charge. Bolan slept lightly for two hours, awakening to find they had brought him fish heads and rice for lunch.
He ate, although he had no desire to, and just as he was finishing, he heard the tramp of many feet and knew they were coming for him.
A contingent of six officers in crisp blue uniforms and white gloves escorted him from his cell. They handcuffed his hands behind him and put manacles on his legs. Bolan thought about trying to break free before they chained him, but with so many he couldn't have been sure of success without causing some degree of bloodshed.
He was surprised when Ichiro didn't show up in person to escort him out, but Bolan figured the lieutenant must have more things to do than guard one prisoner. They stopped at the booking cage on the way out, and after signing some papers, picked up the bagful of personal effects, including his guns.
He was taken out the back door and led toward a police van like the ones he had seen at the demonstration. Two men climbed in the back with him and ran the manacle chain through loops on the van's floor to hold him there securely.
When they drove off, the men in back with him were all smiles. They shook hands and slouched on the bench seats, smoking cigarettes. This didn't sit right with Bolan. There was something odd about the whole setup.
He tried to question them, but they apparently didn't understand English, so he just sat back and waited. They only drove for twenty minutes before stopping, and Bolan was sure by this time that something out of the ordinary was going on.
They opened the door to the van from the inside and hustled him out. He walked into bright sunlight in the middle of a residential neighborhood. They had pulled up in front of a house that sat by itself at the end of a cul-de-sac.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"Please, sir," said one of the cops who he had thought couldn't speak English. "Come this way."
Bolan walked with the man, taking small steps because of the leg chains. They led him into the house after sliding open the wood-and-paper doorway that opened onto a living room. Only the cop carrying the bag with Bolan's personal effects came in with him.
The man unlocked Bolan's handcuffs, then gave him the key to the leg irons. As Bolan sat on a cushion to spring the lock, the man opened the bag and dumped everything on a table, including the Executioner's weapons and combat harness.
"Someone will come for you at seven o'clock," the man said.
"And what if I'm not here?"
The cop shrugged. "Do what you want," he said.
Bolan was confused. "What's going on?" he asked again.
The man just smiled and walked out of the house, sliding the door closed behind him.
Bolan quickly unlocked the manacles and leaned over to pick up his Beretta. It was loaded. He ran to the front door and slid it open. The street was empty, the police van was nowhere in sight.
4
Bolan sat cross-legged on the tatami floor and used his finger to push the small papier-mâché figurine that wobbled before him on the low Japanese table that was the only piece of furniture in the room. The figure represented a monk of some kind and had a rounded bottom so that, no matter how he pushed it, it returned to a standing position.
The toy had been waiting for him there at the house, and somehow he felt it had been meant as a gift. It, like everything else, made absolutely no sense.
Bolan looked at his watch. It was almost seven. He hadn't been back long. After being dropped off by the mysterious police — if that's what they were — he had gone through the bag containing his belongings and found his tattered clothes. He'd put on his trousers, then changed into a cotton yukata he'd found in the house. He was sure it had been meant for him.
The tsuyu, or plum rains, had been falling all day and he had been forced to wear a pair of wooden clogs to make his way through the muddy streets to try to find out where he was.
The house was protected by a tree-lined hairpin turn that was impossible to see unless one was looking for it. The neighborhood was blue collar, and probably all of its inhabitants worked for the same company. The houses were uniform and traditional — wood and paper. He had walked barely five blocks before running into the long stretch of chain-link fence that defined Yokota Air Base. He wasn't far from where he had started the night before, and for some reason that seemed appropriate.
He'd found a shop and purchased a tour book to try to find the place where the old man had told him he'd find Dr. Norwood, b
ut Bolan couldn't find a listing for a place called Fujikyu, or for a Fujikyu Shrine. It was possible he'd misunderstood Maruki, but Mack Bolan was a man used to listening carefully, and he had committed the name to memory.
He'd thought about putting a call in to Hal Brognola, but he had nothing to relate to the man. Besides, with at least a fourteen-hour time difference it would be the middle of the night in D.C.
So Bolan, a man of action, was forced to play the waiting game. As he sat in the house of delicate rosewood and sliding paper walls, with the monsoon rains tapping on the wooden shingles, he couldn't help but feel that he had been drawn into the midst of a block puzzle, and that one missing piece provided the key to the construction of the whole framework. But he was playing the puzzle under someone else's rules, and the Executioner didn't like that. He knew that the secret to staying alive lay in controlling the situation. Bolan confused was Bolan in mortal danger. He'd wait — for now — but the weapon that was his body was tuned and ready, and he'd take the initiative at the very first opportunity.
He didn't have to wait long.
At precisely 7:00 p.m. a sleek Honda sports car roared up in front of the house. It was a model the Japanese didn't export to the United States. The car looked like a Porsche and, from the sound of the engine, was capable of the same road performance.
Bolan uncoiled his lanky frame easily, glancing down at the Beretta in his hand. He moved quickly through a sliding panel, then out the back of the house and around the side to view the front, his bare feet sinking into the wet ground. The rain had slowed to a drizzle.
A slim man in a dark suit with long hair got out of the car and walked easily up the stone walk to the door. Bolan came around behind him.
"Hold it right there," Bolan said in English, hoping the man would understand. "Hold your arms straight out from your body."
The man did as he was told, moving slowly without looking back. Bolan quickly backpedaled to the car and glanced in to make sure that the driver was alone.
Code of Dishonor Page 3
