When it flew open, Bolan glimpsed the formal dining room beyond—something from Better Homes & Gardens—then three gunners blocked the view, crowding the doorway in their rush to meet the enemy. Two of them carried submachine guns, and he couldn’t see the third one’s hands.
Instead of wasting bullets on the trio, Bolan let them have a 40 mm HE round, ducking behind the heavy wood-and-granite island as it blew, unleashing thunder in the kitchen with a storm of brick dust, plaster, ventilated pots and pans. When Bolan looked again, two of the attackers were down, the third no longer visible, either propelled back through the doorway by the shock wave or—a slim chance—quick enough to save himself.
Bolan rose from cover and proceeded toward the dining room, uncertain where he’d find Machii in the house, now that his probe had turned into a running firefight. Some commanders, in that circumstance, would lead their soldiers by example; others, a majority, would be content to issue orders, all the while intent on looking out for Number One. The samurai mind-set might help determine how Machii acted, but he couldn’t count on that to put the Yakuza boss in his rifle sights.
First thing through the door into the dining room, he saw that the third shooter had escaped, leaving a trail of blood across beige carpet and along the nearest wall, likely from trailing fingertips. With no one else in sight, Bolan went after him, the smears and splashes leading to another door six yards in front of him. There was a blood smudge on the doorknob, verifying that his quarry had passed through it in his flight from the explosion.
He hesitated at the door, listened and heard nothing beyond it. Careful to avoid the bloody knob, he eased it open, started to lean through—then jerked back as a sudden movement to his right warned Bolan of a trap in waiting.
He recoiled, crouching, and grimaced as a shotgun blast shattered the door frame, heavy buckshot pellets drilling wood and drywall. Bolan waited for a follow-up that didn’t come, while calculating odds of getting nailed if he proceeded through the exit to the corridor beyond.
A shotgun gave his adversary an advantage. Marksmanship was secondary, with a scattergun, to nerve and steady hands. If Bolan rushed the doorway, he could wind up getting peppered, and the gunner was loading double-0, at least. One hit, much less a pellet cluster, could be fatal or debilitating.
On the other hand, if he stayed where he was, it could mean reinforcements coming down the corridor or through the kitchen at his back. They might come both ways, trap him in the dining room and finish him, if they had guns and guts enough to pull it off.
Given the choice, Bolan would almost always choose attack, and this was no exception.
But he had a little something different in mind.
He fed the M320 its third helping from his bandoleer of HE rounds, angling it to his right, well past the door, picking a chest-high spot along the wall some ten feet farther on. Sheltered behind a corner of the massive dining table, hand-carved ebony, he triggered the grenade and ducked, shielding from its blowback.
As intended, it blew through the drywall like a wrecking ball, spraying the outer corridor with shrapnel, shattered lumber and a cloud of choking dust.
* * *
MACHII BLINKED THROUGH swirling smoke and dust motes, staring at the ceiling, marveling that he was still alive. If he had held his ground after the first blast from his shotgun, rather than retreating to a safer distance, shrapnel might have disemboweled him, maybe shearing off his legs. Instead, he had escaped without a wound of any magnitude, except the sudden deafness that enveloped him and a tremendous headache, throbbing in between his useless ears.
No time to lose, if he intended to survive.
Machii used his shotgun as a walking stick to help him stand, avoiding contact with the trigger as he rose. Having missed death by the narrowest of margins, he did not intend to shoot himself by accident, the ultimate indignity.
The thunderclap after his own Benelli blast informed him that he’d missed his target—or, at least, had not inflicted a disabling wound. If he had waited just a fraction of a second longer, for the raiders to reveal themselves…
Too late to think about that now. His plight demanded focus on reality as it existed at the moment, not lamenting things that might have been.
Machii thought he could survive this, but he had to keep his wits about him, take aggressive action to destroy the raiders who had breached his private sanctuary. If he had the chance to capture one of them alive, so much the better. And if not, extermination in itself would still be satisfying.
Crouching in the corridor, Machii tried to shout for help but could not tell if he was actually making any sound. His throat felt strained from yelling, breathing dust or both, but he was still deaf to all sound of any kind. Raising a hand to his left ear, he felt moisture and saw his fingers slick with blood, suggesting ruptured eardrums.
“Guchi no kuso musuko!”
Even as he mouthed the curse, Noboru could not hear the words.
One final shout for help, if he was shouting, and he turned back to the ruptured wall before him. One of his enemies was hiding in the formal dining room—or had he slipped into the kitchen now, hoping to come around Machii and surprise him?
That thought made him whip around, swinging the shotgun’s muzzle back the way he’d come, but no one loomed in front of him. There was no threat from that direction—yet.
He spun back toward the ruptured wall, rushed up to shove his shotgun’s muzzle through the ragged opening and triggered two quick blasts in semiauto fire. The weapon’s stock kicked back against his hip, bruising him, but the Yakuza boss barely noticed. Dropping to one knee, he peered in through the porthole, nostrils flaring at the stench of high explosives, while he tried to scan the dining room beyond.
Machii’s view was limited, at best. He saw no movement in the room where he’d enjoyed some fine meals in the past but never would again. The house was ruined for him now, another crime scene that he had to abandon, grateful that it had been purchased through a paper company without his name attached to any phase of the transaction.
Growling like a wounded animal, aware of it only through the vibration of his vocal cords, Machii rose and burst in through the doorway to the dining room. He found no bodies there, then turned to check the kitchen and discovered two of his young soldiers sprawled in blood beyond the shattered threshold. When he couldn’t think of either’s name offhand, it felt like a betrayal, but he swallowed it, one more addition to his list of sins.
He stepped around the bodies, careful not to slip on blood and fall. The kitchen was a shambles, evidently from the second blast he’d heard while he was seeking out the sounds of combat. Following the shotgun’s muzzle like a dowser with his wand, Machii headed for the kitchen’s other exit, straining dead ears in a fruitless effort to pick up on sounds that might portend a threat.
Nothing. His world was like a vacuum now, except that he could breathe.
When he had reached the door, the Yakuza boss paused again, raising a hand to touch his right ear this time. When his fingers came back clean of blood, he forced a yawn and simultaneously slapped the right side of his head, rewarded with a small pop from his ear canal. His head cleared on that side, enough to hear it when he coughed up dust.
A voice behind him asked, “Looking for me?”
* * *
BOLAN HAD CLEARED the formal dining room before Machii started firing buckshot through the blown-out wall. He’d circled through the kitchen, retracing his earlier steps, and reentered the corridor just as the mobster lunged into the dining room, hoping to finish him off. No other Yakuzas had come to intercept him there, so it had been a simple step to trail Machii, slipping back into the dining room behind as the kyodai proceeded hunting Bolan.
Checkmate.
At the sound of Bolan’s voice, Machii froze, his shoulders slumping just a little as the disappointment of his failure hit him. From the angle of his head, cocked slightly to one side, it figured he was thinking of a move to save himself—or
, at the very least, take Bolan down with him.
“It won’t work,” the Executioner told him. “You’re not fast enough.”
“You don’t know me,” Machii said without turning.
“I know enough. It ends here.”
“You plan to shoot me in the back?”
“Back, front, it doesn’t matter. If you want to turn around, first lose the shotgun.”
“If I drop it—”
“Nothing ought to happen. Let’s find out.”
Machii played it safe, tossing the scattergun away from him, off through the kitchen doorway, where it clattered on a tile floor. “Satisfied?” the kyodai inquired, showing his empty hands.
“Almost. No sudden moves.”
Any discussion with Machii was a waste of time his soldiers might be using to surround the dining room, but Bolan took the chance. Sometimes, confronting death, a predator was moved to boast or bluster, maybe even plead, disclosing intel that he should have taken with him to the grave.
Machii turned, his face deadpan. “A white man. But you’re not a Russian.”
“No.”
“What, then?”
“Someone who wished you’d been smart enough to stay at home.”
“This is the land of opportunity,” Machii countered.
“It’s supposed to be,” Bolan replied. “For those who play it straight.”
“Like your industrialists and your politicians? Your police and lawyers? I have simply followed their example.”
“Let’s just say I’m cleaning up one toxic puddle at a time.”
“This will not stop my family,” Machii said.
“You’re just the first step on a journey,” Bolan answered.
And his time was swiftly running out.
“My burazāzu will destroy you.”
“Sorry. I lost my Rosetta Stone.”
“My brothers. They will not forget this, or forgive it.”
“I suspect you’ve got replacements lining up. I’ll ask Shinoda when I see him.”
“Ah. Then you are truly the walking dead.”
“At least I’m walking out of here,” Bolan replied, shooting Machii through the forehead as the Yakuza hardman made a sudden, futile play for the Executioner’s weapon.
Bolan heard voices in the hallway, not too close as yet, but narrowing the gap by cautious stages. He could not have said how many voices, and he didn’t pause to puzzle over it. Feeding the M320 one more round, he also dropped the carbine’s nearly empty magazine and snapped a fresh one into place. He confirmed that the fire selector switch was in full-auto mode and made a small adjustment to the carbine’s sling, for comfort, as he edged back toward the exit from the dining room.
The plan was to lead with the 40 mm HE round, then hose the Yakuza gunners with 5.56 mm slugs as he retreated toward the rec room, going out the way he’d come in to Machii’s home away from home. It was a bold plan, risky, but the only one on tap for Bolan at the moment. He’d achieved all that he’d hoped to, and the time to split was now.
He made one small refinement to the plan before he kicked off. Rather than emerging cold and hoping he could beat them to the punch, Bolan approached the gaping wall breach that his last grenade had opened, which Machii had converted to a gun port without managing to score a hit. Edging around to give himself the proper angle, peering far enough downrange to see a Yakuza scout edging closer, Bolan fired the M320 through that gap and waited for the blast before he charged out of the dining room.
Showtime.
CHAPTER SIX
East St. Louis Avenue, Las Vegas, Nevada
Night Moves was rocking. Sitting in his office on the second floor, Jiro Shinoda heard the music from downstairs and felt it through the floor, through thick carpeting and through the lifts inside his handmade shoes that added two full inches to his height. He lit a cigarette—too late for it to stunt his growth at thirty-one—and tried to focus on the money he was making, just by sitting there, instead of letting stray thoughts wander toward New Jersey.
Night Moves was a thriving gentlemen’s club, two blocks east of South Las Vegas Boulevard—one long block beyond the northern limit of the famous Vegas Strip—and just around the corner from an all-night wedding chapel, just in case one of his patrons fell in love while watching Shinoda’s dancers do their business on the catwalk. Up and down the side street, fast-food take-out joints eliminated any need for Night Moves to maintain a kitchen. Guests were free to bring their own food with them, which permitted them to smoke under the current law, while they were swilling Shinoda’s beer and watered liquor, gaping at the naked talent.
No kitchen on the premises, no rules except the silly hands-off regulation that was honored on the main floor, for the most part, with an eye toward unannounced city inspections. If a rube wanted to play grab-ass, and any given dancer was amenable, Shinoda had half a dozen VIP suites where the private dances would be screened from public view.
And monitored by hidden cameras. Strictly for safety’s sake, of course.
Shinoda sipped from a tall glass of whiskey, still uncertain whether he was celebrating or trying to soothe jangled nerves. On one hand, any problem that beset Noboru Machii in Atlantic City was potentially good news for Shinoda, offering him a chance to shine while his competing brother suffered in the estimation of their oyabun. Conversely, if the trouble spread and flared out of control, it might turn into Shinoda’s problem, and that was the last thing that he needed when he had the rubes in Vegas almost where he wanted them.
Almost.
Merv Mendelbaum was part of that. Eliminating him had been Shinoda’s aim from the beginning, as Noboru Machii had been tasked to deal with Tommy Wolff. Of course, Shinoda had shown himself superior at strategy, making his target disappear in lieu of butchering him with a crop of rent-a-cops and hookers in his own hotel. Granted, that had a certain flare, but if the blood trail led back to the Sumiyoshi-kai, it would be bad for business.
On the downside, Mendelbaum’s vanishing act meant that he could not be declared dead for a period of years without a body to support that claim. Meanwhile, his widow and the various vice presidents of Goldstone Entertainment were engaged in grappling for control of Mendelbaum’s empire, smiling in public, quietly subverting one another anytime they saw an opening.
At heart, Shinoda knew his oyabun was disappointed by his choice of tactics, subtler than Machii’s, but with a potential long delay in ultimate success. Shinoda had been brooding, worried that he might be forced to sacrifice a pinky in atonement, until he’d received Machii’s call sketching the trouble in Atlantic City. Naturally, it had been Shinoda’s duty to alert their oyabun, soften the blow of hearing it direct from his New Jersey kyodai.
What was a brother for, if not to lend a helping hand in time of need?
A phone purred softly but insistently beside him, on his desktop. Glancing at the lighted button on its base, Shinoda discovered that the line engaged was one reserved for sources of significant intelligence. Caller ID and his own memory told him the call originated from New Jersey, within Atlantic City’s “609” area code. That narrowed down the field to three potential callers, any one of whom was worth his time.
Shinoda lifted the receiver. “Hai.”
“Hai, Sensei.”
He recognized the voice immediately as belonging to his mole inside Noboru Machii’s Jersey crew. The same man had briefed him on the raid at Sunrise Enterprises, earlier that day, and on the loss of life involved.
“What news?” Shinoda inquired, without preamble.
“Noburu Machii is dead.”
The unexpected statement shocked Shinoda and excited him at the same time.
“What happened?”
His informant told the story without frills, apologizing three times in the process for his lack of further details. It was plain enough for any child to understand, except for who had done the deed. That troubled the kyodai, on his own account, but was of no immediate concern.
&
nbsp; “Thank you for keeping me informed,” he said at last.
“Should someone call our godfather?” his caller asked.
“Leave that to me,” Shinoda replied. “Sad duties should be carried out by one of a more elevated rank.”
“Hai, Sensei.” And with that, the line went dead.
Two small clocks on his desk told Shinoda the time difference between Las Vegas and Japan, not that the hour mattered in this instance. News this grave—and as potentially prodigious for himself—could not afford to wait.
Pressing a button on the phone’s base to engage his scrambled line, he began to dial.
* * *
Joint Base McGuire-Dix-Lakehurst, New Jersey
THE GARDEN STATE once claimed three military bases sprawling over 42,000 acres in New Jersey’s two largest counties, Ocean and Burlington. The bases had included Fort Dix (US Army), Naval Air Station Lakehurst and McGuire Air Force Base. They had been consolidated in October 2009 and given the cumbersome name that most personnel automatically shortened to JB MDL.
Bolan was expected when he completed the drive from Atlantic City, sixty-six miles southeast of the base. He had explained his plan to Stony Man, emailing from AC, and they had run with it from there, pulling the necessary strings—through Hal Brognola in Washington—to make him welcome briefly, and arrange a flight to Nellis Air Force Base, north of Las Vegas. That meant he’d be spared the hassle of discarding weapons in New Jersey and collecting more upon arrival in Nevada, and it also saved him time on booking a civilian flight, with any stops at “travel hubs” along the way.
It still remained to be seen what kind of “welcome” he’d receive at JB MDL, but Bolan took for granted that the basic military courtesies would be observed, and he did not intend to linger on the base a moment longer than required to catch the next plane headed west.
Two guards—one army MP and one naval SP, shore patrol—checked Bolan’s fake ID and verified that he was listed on their clipboard, while an airman from the Air Base Ground Defense watched from a nearby guard shack, ready with a panic button and a range of weapons if the meet-and-greet went sour. It didn’t, and within two minutes of arrival, Bolan cleared the gate, hewing to the directions he’d been given to a hangar on McGuire’s part of the base.
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