Ninja Assault

by Don Pendleton

  Death was on its way. But it would find Kazuo Takumi well prepared.

  * * *

  McCarran International Airport, Las Vegas

  THE FIRST THING anybody noticed at McCarran was the slot machines, more than twelve hundred of them flashing, jangling, playing vapid little tunes. No other airport in the world met travelers straight off the plane with such enticements to discard their money in a bid to get rich quick. So far, no one in history had scored a jackpot large enough to make him turn and fly back home a winner. Feeding the McCarran slots was like a rite of passage to Las Vegas proper, suckers paying their admission fee before they caught a ride downtown.

  Bolan had dropped his gear at Nellis, leaving most of Shinoda’s cash padlocked in a valise addressed to the Robert F. Kennedy Department of Justice Building. Brognola’s name wasn’t mentioned, or any specific department, but Bolan emailed Stony Man from his smartphone to set a pickup by whomever the big Fed might have on tap in the immediate vicinity. The loot should reach its destination safe and sound, but if it went astray somehow…well, easy come and easy go.

  Bolan kept twenty grand to cover his expenses in Japan and drove from Nellis to McCarran, left his hot SUV in the long-term parking lot, and caught a shuttle to the terminal from there. A ticket on the next flight headed for Los Angeles, in business class, ate up the better part of seven bills for forty minutes in the air. He’d budgeted five grand from LAX to Tokyo, nonstop, and if it ran a little over, Shinoda would be picking up the tab. The rest should see him well armed, through a dealer Stony Man would recommend, and he’d be living off the Sumiyoshi-kai from that point on.

  The language didn’t worry Bolan, as he waited for his takeoff in McCarran’s transit lounge. Most Japanese public schools taught courses in English, and Tokyo claimed the country’s highest percentage of English speakers, due to its role as a center of government, commerce and tourism. From prior visits, Bolan knew that he could find his way around the city and communicate sufficiently with locals.

  As for members of the Yakuza, he spoke another language they would understand.

  A disembodied female voice called “preboarding” for Bolan’s flight—a diplomatic way of saying that the wealthy, those who needed assistance, and those with kids could board the plane ahead of those who’d make the journey in “economy,” wedged in their seats like livestock in a cattle car. No snacks except stale pretzels on a flight this short, unless you brought your own, and no distraction from a movie that wouldn’t have the time to run its course.

  He let the first-class flyers board ahead of him, then made his way to business class and settled in. The seats were smaller here, and didn’t crank back into beds, but he had ample legroom and the drinks were “free,” in theory. The seat-back pouch in front of him was stuffed with magazines, but Bolan planned to spend the short flight resting, and to do the same for most of his air time en route to Tokyo, as well.

  Barring a dirt nap, who knew when he’d have another chance to sleep?

  He watched the passengers file past him as they boarded, some of them dressed more appropriately for the swimming pool or thrift store shopping than for travel in the public eye, all focused single-mindedly on finding seats that would leave many of them feeling cramped and claustrophobic by the time they landed in LA. Bolan turned from them to the window on his left, and took his last look at the pyroclastic flow of neon, headlights and emergency flashers along the Strip.

  Farewell to Vegas, for a while, at least. It might not be his final visit to the city built on broken promises, but he had seen enough—and done enough—for now.

  * * *

  Tsukiji, Tokyo

  KATO ANDO HAD followed Toi Takumi from his last appointment back to the luxurious apartment where he lived in Shiodome, bankrolled with his father’s money. Ando was prepared to wait there overnight, in case Toi went out again, but he’d received an urgent summons from his oyabun to meet him at another of his penthouses.

  The boss was in a mood when Ando entered. Strangers would not have imagined he was raging on the inside, from the normal bland expression on his face, but Ando knew the signs from long experience: a thinning of Kazuo’s lips, though barely visible; a tiny wrinkle in the space between his straight eyebrows; a subtle flaring of his nostrils when he breathed.

  Something was obviously wrong.

  Instead of spilling it immediately, Takumi inquired, “What have you to report?”

  Ando described Toi’s movements and apologized for failing to identify the persons he had visited. Takumi stared into the distance and replied, “I know the first one. He pretends to be a spiritual man but makes me think of Shoko Asahara.”

  Ando was surprised at the mention of the old cult leader, sentenced to death years earlier, after members of his Supreme Truth sect released nerve gas on Tokyo’s subway. Asahara sat in prison still, his execution stayed time and again as more of his disciples were arrested, slowly tried and locked away for life.

  “And the other, Master?” Ando asked.

  Takumi frowned, ever so slightly. “I know nothing of Saikosai Biometrics,” he replied. “Investigation may be helpful.”

  “I shall undertake it,” Ando promised.

  “First, though…”

  He listened as his oyabun detailed late-breaking events in the United States. Jiro Shinoda was among the dead, which secretly pleased Ando. He had always thought that Jiro harbored more ambition than ability, posing a danger to their oyabun, but he had kept that feeling to himself, waiting for solid evidence of treason to emerge. Now, he could put the weasel out of mind for good.

  The rest of it was all bad news, of course: great losses in Nevada and New Jersey, fresh investigations pending in the wake of bloody murder. Takumi had managed to recall The Four, before they disembarked into the midst of that impending maelstrom. And, from what the oyabun was saying, it appeared they might be needed close to home, in Tokyo.

  “You think the Inagawa-kai or Yamaguchi-gumi plan to move against us, Master?”

  “Not immediately. War is costly for all sides. But if another enemy should come in to distract us, one or both of them might feel our fruit is ripe for picking.”

  “They’ll regret it,” Ando vowed.

  “I would prefer avoidance of the conflict altogether. But without unknown enemies from overseas, we may not have a choice. Meeting the threat immediately, forcefully, shall be imperative.”

  “Whatever I can do…”

  Takumi raised a hand to silence him. “I will direct our home defenses personally, with Tadashi Jo,” he said.

  “Of course, Master.” Ando smothered the tiny spark of disappointment. Certainly, it was Jo’s place, as first lieutenant of the Sumiyoshi-kai, to stand beside his oyabun in fighting for the family.

  “Your task is more important,” Takumi went on.

  “Master?”

  “I want you to continue watching Toi. With troubled times upon us, he must not become a liability. You understand?”

  Not positively sure he did, Ando still nodded. “Hai.”

  “We must protect him from himself, if possible,” Takumi said. “But first and foremost, we must keep the family intact and strong.”

  That made more sense to Ando. If the oyabun’s spoiled brat turned traitor, Ando might be able to eliminate him, at his own discretion. Maybe make the bastard disappear without a trace and leave his father wondering. That would be cruel, but doubt was sometimes preferable to the hard truth of betrayal.

  “First, however,” Takumi instructed, “find out more about this biometrics company. Toi has no interest in science or in commerce. I wish to discover who these people are, and what they do that interests him.”

  “It shall be done, Master.”

  “Speed and efficiency, old friend,” Takumi cautioned. “For all we know, our time is short.”

  * * *

  Terminal 7, Los Angeles International Airport

  BOLAN WOUND UP with an hour to kill before his flight’s depar
ture, and he spent it watching people. Some of them looked shady, one had obviously served some time within the past few months, emerging with the jailhouse pallor that was unmistakable. Most of the passengers seemed happy to be traveling, though some—say 10 percent—looked dour, as if they’d booked one-way flights to their own funerals.

  Bolan had been mildly surprised to learn that was the airport’s number two international destination, after London, moving 1.3 million passengers yearly on eight different airlines. He was flying on United, hence his terminal, which was the airline’s hub at LAX. Like every other major airport terminal in the developed world, Terminal 7 resembled a shopping mall, complete with nine shops, several restaurants and one full-service bar packed with travelers drinking their downtime away.

  He wasn’t hungry now, but would receive two meals of some description during the eleven-hour flight. His estimate for flying business class had been precise: $4,958 nonstop, round-trip. Big corporations picked that up and wrote it off without batting an eye. Behind him, in economy, the hoi polloi were flying “cheap” at $1,380 per head, not counting fees added for baggage.

  He spent part of his dead time looking up the contact Stony Man had recommended for his hardware needs in Tokyo. His name was Kota Yuko, and he was a pawnbroker in the Roppongi district, with a shop two blocks from the former Azabu Police Station, no longer functional. Yuko had not been warned of Bolan’s coming, but a code phrase was provided as a form of introduction.

  “Watashi wa machi ni atarashīdesu,” translated to “I am new in town.”

  To which Yuko should answer, “Anata ga enjo o hitsuyō to suru baai ga arimasu.”

  You may need assistance.

  That assistance would be furnished in the form of weapons, ammunition and related items, at a price to be negotiated. After their transaction was completed, Bolan did not plan to see Yuko again. The dealer, for his part, would know that future business—and, indeed, his life—depended on his personal discretion.

  A robo-voice announced arrival of his plane from San Francisco. It would be refueling, undergoing all the normal preflight checks, cleanup and stocking of its larder prior to boarding. Say another twenty, thirty minutes, anyway. Bolan began a set of breathing exercises, helping him relax in preparation for the long nap in his window seat, awakened only twice with any luck, for “gourmet meals” he could have bagged at any supermarket chain in town.

  And when he woke the third time, during their approach to Tokyo’s Narita International Airport, the last phase of his mission would begin. He’d be on foreign, hostile soil, squared off against a twenty-thousand-member private army, and some forty thousand Metropolitan Police.

  Long odds, indeed, but Bolan had his own advantages. Surprise was one. The Sumiyoshi-kai might know someone was coming to upset their rotten apple cart, but they had no idea who they were looking for, or how many opponents were involved. Each day, flights from thirteen major American cities touched down at Narita International, each airliner disgorging two or three hundred passengers. It was impossible for either Yakuza or the police to shadow every visitor arriving on a given day, and passing time increased their number exponentially.

  Bolan’s other great advantage was the nature of the man himself. He was a warrior, pure and simple, on the surface: savage when he had to be, but also capable of mercy; cold as glacial ice when choosing and eliminating targets, but with a crusader’s zeal. No Yakuza still living had experienced what Hal Brognola once called the Bolan Effect, but some were about to.

  Whether they’d be living afterward was open to debate.

  * * *

  Over the North Pacific

  CLOUDS SCREENED THE vast ocean fifty thousand feet below, but Shoei Sato didn’t mind. He’d flown this route before, more than a dozen times, and knew that there was nothing to be seen. No archipelagos, no lonely atolls, no great reefs—nothing but water, from Japan to the United States.

  The only novelty about this trip, so far, was turning back. It was the first time he had been dispatched to do a job, then summoned home without completing his appointed task. That did not bother Sato either, since he would be paid in any case, but it suggested danger waiting for him back in Tokyo.

  No problem. He lived for danger: the excitement of it and the compensation he received for making rich men’s troubles go away.

  He glanced around the plane’s passenger cabin, marking each of his companions in their window seats. The good thing about flying on a private jet was that they all got windows, but that only helped if there was something to be seen.

  Sato did not believe the difficulty in America had magically resolved itself. Barely a week had passed since his last visit to the States, killing the gaijin in New Jersey with his whores and pitiful security. Since then, from what he heard—and he heard everything—his master’s operation in Atlantic City had been decimated, and Nevada had been lost, as well. Sato and his three brothers of the sword had been dispatched a second time, to find the enemies responsible and take them out.

  But now, without a word of explanation, they were turning back.

  Clearly, the oyabun had changed his mind, but why?

  In normal circumstances, Shoei Sato would not care. He had been trained to follow orders without asking questions, and that regimen had never bothered him before. Even this day, it would be an exaggeration to say Sato was concerned. But he was curious, a trait that could be perilous.

  Some explanation, doubtless, would be offered when they landed back in Tokyo. Whether Tadashi Jo told them the truth or not was something else entirely. Sato understood that masters withheld information from their servants as a matter of routine, but he was paid to risk his life and spill the blood of others. In that trade, disclosure—though, perhaps, not full disclosure—was essential.

  He could kill a man, woman or child without compunction, without knowing why or even knowing names, but information was required in certain cases to complete the task efficiently. If Sato was assigned to stage an accidental death—one of his specialties—it helped to know whether the target drove a car or was a pilot, if he swam or skied, if he enjoyed skydiving or kept vipers in his home as pets.

  Knowledge was power, in its way. And ignorance could kill.

  Sato was not afraid of death. He had no more belief in any kind of afterlife than in the basic goodness of humanity. Still, he was in no hurry to explore the final mystery himself.

  When he—when they, The Four—received their new assignment, he would ask specific questions, couched in terms that let Tadashi Jo know the information he requested was essential to completion of the task. Jo, as first lieutenant of the Sumiyoshi-kai, was wise enough to know that soldiers needed preparation in addition to their skill and weapons.

  Preparation was a weapon, possibly the most important of them all.

  The long flight to America might well have bored another man. Returning midway through the trip might add frustration to the boredom, making tempers flare. Sato felt none of that, and recognized his stoicism as another sign that he was not entirely “normal.” Coupled with his total lack of conscience, whatever that was, and his tolerance for pain, it made Shoei Sato a special kind of warrior.

  Not unique, the other three were proof of that, but very special all the same.

  In Tokyo, The Four would prove themselves again, and make their master proud.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Terminal 1 South Wing,

  Narita International Airport

  The airport was chaotic, as expected. Bolan claimed his check-through bag and saw no evidence that it had been disturbed, besides the normal scuffs and scrapes that baggage handlers left on most luggage. He joined the sluggish human river bound for Immigration, with his passport and arrival card in hand.

  The documents revealed nothing about himself. The name they bore was “Matthew Cooper,” tagged to an address in New York City that did not exist. He had nothing to declare for Customs. Cooper’s reason for the flight to Tokyo was business, otherwi
se unspecified.

  Appearances were everything in brief encounters with authority.

  From there, Bolan moved on to get his rental car. Matt Cooper had a Honda Stream on hold, a compact five-door minivan in silver, right-hand drive, and bought the full insurance package just in case. His bags went in the backseat, and Bolan found his way onto the Shinjuko Expressway, joining swarms of traffic for the fifty-minute drive to Tokyo.

  Roppongi was southwest of downtown Tokyo, in the Minato district. Best known for its nightlife, Roppongi was the place to go for watching gangsters and celebrities. Pachinko parlors and illicit gaming rooms alike fleeced visitors, which guaranteed that pawnshops also did a thriving trade.

  Kota Yuko’s establishment was relatively modest, for the neighborhood. Its signage promised fair deals, spelling out the terms in half a dozen languages. Its windows, covered with protective grates, displayed musical instruments and jewelry, leather and wicked-looking knives.

  Inside, there was a musty smell about the shop that spoke of age and hand-me-downs. Bolan spotted the white-haired owner from his photo in Brognola’s file, making his way past cases filled with cameras and watches, toward the register. Kota Yuko glanced up at his approach and asked, in English, “May I help you?”

  “I am new in town,” Bolan replied, in fairly decent Japanese.

  Without missing a beat, Yuko said, “You may need assistance.”

  “Hai,” Bolan agreed.

  Yuko beckoned to an assistant, issuing instructions in a tone that sounded rude but seemed to have no adverse impact on the younger man. That done, he turned to Bolan and said, “Please to follow me.”

  They left the main sales floor, passed through a storage area, then downstairs to a basement where Yuko unlocked a smaller room and stepped inside. Bolan followed into the dealer’s armory. He was surprised by the diversity of weapons on display, from pistols to grenade launchers and a QJG-02 heavy machine gun manufactured by Norinco, out of China.

  Bolan browsed, selecting what he needed, starting with a Steyr AUG assault rifle. For greater range, he chose a DSR-1 bolt-action chambered for .308 Winchester rounds, with a custom suppressor included. Pistol-wise, he took a Glock 22, the .40 S&W model, with a threaded muzzle and suppressor of its own. For heavy punches, Bolan picked a 40 mm Milkor multiple grenade launcher, together with a mix of HE, buckshot, smoke and incendiary rounds. A case of Russian RGD-5 frag grenades joined the arsenal, and a tanto dagger topped it off, leaving cash enough to fill the Honda’s tank and dine out for a week or so, if Bolan stuck to fast-food restaurants.