Ninja Assault

by Don Pendleton

  Nihonbashi was Japan’s “Kilometer Zero,” official heart of the country from which all mile markers were measured. It earned that honor in 1603, with construction of Tokyo’s first bridge across the Nihonbashi River, and remained a major business district, though the heart of commerce in the capital had moved on to Hibiya. Billions still passed through the offices and vaults of Nihonbashi, and while Bolan didn’t plan to tap that golden flow this night, he did intend to put a major crimp in Kazuo Takumi’s piece of it.

  Across the street from Kazoku Investments, one block south of Eitai Dori, Bolan sat on top of another high-rise, peering through the scope of his DSR-1 sniper’s rifle. Conceived as a specialized piece for police sharpshooters, later adopted by Germany’s GSG 9 counterterrorist unit, the weapon was a bullpup design, fed from a 5-round detachable box magazine behind the pistol grip. Its stock was fully adjustable, as was the cheek piece. A spare magazine was mounted within easy reach, between the trigger guard and the adjustable fore grip. The rifle’s fluted, free-floating barrel was shielded by a ventilated aluminum hand guard and fitted with a muzzle brake. This night, it also wore a tactical suppressor, attached to the muzzle brake with a quick-release lever.

  Across the street, six Yakuza directors sat around a long gleaming conference table, manila folders stacked in front of them as they discussed whatever passed for business at Kazoku Investments. Moving money here and there, skimming the cream, deciding which firms they should infiltrate, which ones were ripe for looting to the point of bankruptcy. There’d be no passing thought for innocents caught in the grinder, only profits for the Yakuza machine.

  Six targets for a 5-round magazine. That suited Bolan well enough, since he intended to leave one witness alive.

  Hal Brognola’s file had shown him photos of the six men seated at the table, listed their rap sheets, addresses and unlisted phone numbers. Watching them through his scope, he dialed one of those numbers now and listened to the phone ring, saw one of them reach for a cell phone and respond.

  “Hai?”

  Bolan had rehearsed the phrase, knowing his accent wouldn’t pass a close inspection, but it didn’t matter. Speaking to his wireless headset, he said, “Inagawa-kai kara no go aisatsu.”

  Greetings from the Inagawa-kai.

  His first shot drilled the glass downrange and struck a target seated across from the man with the phone at his ear. Blood sprayed across the polished table from the head shot, spattering the second mobster’s face and crisp white shirt. The corpse toppled forward and struck the table with a face-plant that splashed more blood to his left and right.

  Before the others could recoil or come to grips with what was happening, Bolan cycled the DSR-1’s precision bolt and fired again, turning another face to crimson gruel, painting the wall behind the dead man’s chair with gleaming shades of red and gray.

  The crack of Bolan’s shots echoed around him, as his 165-grain bullets broke Mach 1, hurtling along at 800 meters per second despite the suppressor. No problem, since diffusion in the concrete canyon would prevent ear-witnesses from pinning down the source.

  Five shots, five shattered skulls draining their contents on the tabletop, with blood streams dribbling to the floor. The sole survivor had already disappeared beneath the table, hiding out, and Bolan left him to it as he packed his rifle and moved out.

  The message was delivered. Whether it accomplished anything was up to Kazuo Takumi.

  At the very least, it would instill confusion, maybe turn the Sumiyoshi-kai against their arch competitors, instead of hunting a gaijin. If not, at least he had disrupted operations of the family’s top money mill and laundry. For the moment, that would do.

  Until he hit the next target in line.

  * * *

  Tsukiji, Tokyo

  KAZUO TAKUMI’S SEVENTH call to Kato Ando’s cell phone went directly to voice mail, as the others had. He muttered an obscenity and was about to set his phone aside, when it began vibrating in his hand. The unexpected feeling nearly made him drop it, but he managed not to, recognized Tadashi Jo’s cell number on the screen and answered, “Yes?”

  It was rare for his first lieutenant to sound rattled, but Tadashi Jo almost sounded out of breath. “You haven’t heart the news yet?”

  “What news?”

  “Of the shooting?”

  “Organize your thoughts and speak coherently,” Takumi ordered.

  “Yes, I’m sorry,” Jo said. “A sniper has attacked the Nihonbashi office and killed five of the directors. Only Adachi is alive.”

  Adachi Nagaharu, that would be. One of the six directors Takumi had selected to ride herd on Kazoku Investments and ensure the constant flow of profits to his family, no matter what travails beset stock markets, East or West.

  “How fortunate for him,” Takumi said.

  “He’s being questioned by police,” Jo said. “He has a lawyer with him, Tsuda Adinori.”

  Adinori was one of several top attorneys on retainer to the Sumiyoshi-kai, skilled both in criminal and civil law.

  “He’s keeping quiet, then.”

  “Of course. But Adinori passed a message to me. Just before the shooting started, Adachi received a phone call.”

  “And?”

  “A voice he did not recognize said, ‘Greetings from the Inagawa-kai.’”

  “And you believe they are responsible for this?”

  “They are our enemies.”

  “You state the obvious. But would they strike us now, in such a public way, just when we’ve had our difficulties in America?”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not a great believer in coincidence.”

  “Who is to say they aren’t responsible for all of it? They envy us, being the second-largest family.”

  “That envy is traditional. What makes it so acute, just now, to prompt so much bloodletting in Japan and the United States?”

  Jo sighed and answered, “I don’t know.”

  “Consider it, while you investigate. Do not ignore the Inagawa-kai, but bear in mind the possibility of a diversion.”

  “Hai!”

  “Have you heard from Kato in the past few hours?”

  “No, sir. Shall I try to reach him?”

  “Never mind,” Takumi said. “I’ll deal with it.”

  He cut the link, more curious than ever as to why he could not reach his strong right hand. Was Kato’s sudden and unprecedented unavailability connected to the Nihonbashi murders in some way and to the rest of it? Rephrased, was there a possibility it could not be related?

  Takumi craved sake but denied himself the sweet relief it offered. He would stay alert, on edge, ready to strike the moment that a target was presented to him.

  And he would not grant himself the liberty of fear.

  * * *

  Kazoku Investments, Nihonbashi

  “SORRY FOR THE second call-out,” Hiromi Inoue said.

  Lieutenant Kenichi Kayo waved off the apology, scanning the massacre scene from his place near the conference room’s doorway. It did not take a supersleuth to spot the bullet holes in laminated plate glass.

  “Armor-piercing rounds?” he speculated. “At the very least, full metal jackets for such tidy holes.”

  “The rest isn’t so tidy, Lieutenant.”

  “No,” Kayo granted. “Head shots normally aren’t neat and clean, unless they use small calibers up close.”

  “We’ll have ballistics after the autopsies. If the rounds were AP, even FMJ, we may get something.”

  “Useless, still, without the weapon.”

  “Hai.”

  “When you disturbed me, I was browsing on the internet,” Kayo said.

  “For what?” Hiromi asked.

  “News bulletins,” Kayo said, “from the United States.”

  “Work, then, not pleasure.”

  “Were you aware of the attacks on Sumiyoshi-kai members in both New Jersey and Nevada?”

  “No.”

  “You should educate your
self,” Kayo chided him. “We’ve lost Noboru Machii and Jiro Shinoda, with a number of their men.”

  “Too bad.” Inoue did not sound disturbed.

  “Kazuo must be grieving for his protégés,” Kayo said.

  “Have you spoken to Tadashi Jo yet, Lieutenant?”

  “I’m looking for him,” Kayo replied.

  “Well, it seems you’ve found him.”

  Kayo turned in the direction of Inoue’s gaze and saw Tadashi Jo standing, restrained by officers in uniform, beside the elevators. With him were two younger, blank-faced men whom the lieutenant did not recognize.

  “With bodyguards, no less,” he said.

  “I’m not surprised, considering.”

  “Get photos of them with your phone, will you? I’d like to find out who they are, specifically.”

  Kayo left his underling to it, staying well to one side as he went to greet the first lieutenant of the Sumiyoshi-kai.

  “Tadashi Jo.”

  “Do I know you?”

  “How quickly they forget. I have arrested you three times,” Kayo said.

  “But never once convicted me. I don’t dwell over trivia.”

  “Not like this mess, eh? Five of your top men lost face tonight, in the worst way.”

  “I don’t appreciate your humor,” Jo told him.

  “It is an acquired taste. How did you learn of the shooting?”

  “As you must know, there is a survivor. I’ve provided him with an attorney, to prevent him being further traumatized.”

  “I doubt we’ll shoot him,” Kayo stated.

  “He’s a victim in this case.”

  “A material witness, in fact. We may detain him for a reasonable time, in furtherance of our inquiry.”

  “And the chief of police will decide what’s reasonable, I suppose?”

  “Barring a complaint from the attorney you’ve provided. Meanwhile, it occurs to me that you are listed as an officer of Kazoku Investments. What is your title, again?”

  “CFO,” Jo replied.

  “Chief financial officer. It’s lucky that you missed the board meeting tonight. Lucky for you, at least.”

  “I normally get briefings on the morning after.”

  “Not a hands-on leader, then.”

  “I have multiple interests,” Jo stated.

  “Indeed. Can you imagine anyone who might desire to murder your directors?”

  “Communists, perhaps,” Jo said. “They hate all corporations.”

  “Something more specific? Possibly more personal?”

  “Sorry. My mind’s a blank.”

  “That can’t be helpful, for a CFO. We’ll speak again.”

  “I live for nothing else,” the Yakuza first lieutenant said, then turned back toward the elevator with his flankers close behind.

  * * *

  Akihabara, Tokyo

  AKIHABARA’S NAME TRANSLATED as “autumn leaf field,” but a person wouldn’t know it, moving through the crowded streets. Nicknamed “Electric Town” after the last world war, when it served as a major shopping center for household appliances and black market contraband, nowadays Akihabara was the heart of Tokyo’s otaku culture—obsessive pursuit of video games, anime and cosplay. Condos in the district were expensive and attracted a younger crowd than certain other parts of Tokyo.

  Or, in Tadashi Jo’s case, mobsters trying to feel younger than their thirty-something years.

  Bolan was moving up the ladder of command, ready to make a move on Kazuo Takumi’s number two. Finding the oyabun himself would be a knotty problem, with his multiple addresses and no office where he regularly made appearances. Bolan possessed Takumi’s two unlisted phone numbers, but wasn’t ready yet to force the top Yakuza’s hand. Before he got to that stage, Bolan wanted the man off balance, panicked and with a sense of desperation snapping at his heels.

  What better way to spike the oyabun’s blood pressure than to take one of his bishops off the chessboard?

  It was too early for Tadashi Jo to be tucked up in his condo, and it seemed unlikely he’d be getting much sleep anyway, after the hits his family had taken since that afternoon. Instead, Bolan made for his home away from home, an office on the second floor of an expensive “maid café,” one of the trendy restaurants where waitresses were dressed as maids to serve their “masters,” commonly costumed as their favorite anime heroes or villains.

  The place was like a mini-Comic-Con year-round.

  Jo’s place—the Blushing Maid—was situated one block off Kuramae-hashi Dori. A person didn’t need a costume to go in and grab a bite, but Bolan figured what the hell, why not? As long as masks were commonplace, he might as well fit in.

  He parked behind the Blushing Maid and walked back to the street entrance. His balaclava didn’t mesh with manga, strictly speaking, but the outfits Bolan saw around him on the sidewalk were diverse and colorful enough to draw most eyes away from him, unless somebody focused on his height. Black garb, black raincoat overall to hide the Steyr AUG beneath his right arm, and he passed unnoticed through the younger folk in search of some excitement.

  And the Executioner was happy to oblige.

  The café’s inner layout was a mystery to Bolan until he cleared the threshold. Then, amid the crush of tables with a bar in back, he saw stairs to his left, two Yakuza guards who could have been in costumes of their own, grim-faced, with skinny pinstriped suits hiding their full-body tattoos.

  A hostess greeted Bolan, but he dodged her, heading for the staircase, paying no mind when she squeaked a protest at his back. The lookouts saw him coming, muttered something back and forth, bracing themselves for trouble.

  Bolan mumbled something that was vaguely close to Japanese, causing the watchdog on his left to lean a little closer, frowning, asking, “What was that?” He choked on Bolan’s rigid fingers, left hand knifing up into his larynx, and went down, gasping in vain for air. The other man was a little quicker, reaching for his pistol, but the Steyr’s muzzle stopped him, prodding at his navel.

  “Upstairs,” Bolan commanded, adding “Ni-kai” from his phrase book, just in case the Yakuza gunner was short on English. Something worked, because the shooter turned, scowling, and started climbing toward the second floor.

  * * *

  Minato, Tokyo

  THE CHINESE EMBASSY in Tokyo was a seven-story blockhouse guarded day and night by uniformed police outside and by crack soldiers of the People’s Liberation Army once you cleared the gates. It was a drab building, nothing to recommend it from an architectural standpoint, but art did not concern Susumu Kodama as he approached the embassy on foot, past demonstrators chanting for some cause he did not recognize.

  Kodama showed his pass three times in all: first to a clutch of Tokyo Metro Police officers outside the embassy gates, next to a pair of Chinese soldiers wearing QBZ-03 assault rifles slung across their chests, and finally to a plainclothes security guard whose jacket barely concealed his QSZ-92 service pistol. Kodama was passed through each checkpoint in turn, escorted from the last one to the office of Colonel Fulian Sun, representing China’s Ministry of State Security.

  Colonel Sun was a short man, heavyset, stopping just short of what a Westerner might call roly-poly. He wore no uniform, preferring finely tailored suits from Punjab House in Hong Kong. His thinning hair was slicked back from a round face with a double chin, tufted with a goatee that seemed more accidental than precisely planned. A pair of wire-rimmed spectacles framed eyes like slivers of obsidian.

  Kodama and the colonel bowed across Sun’s desk, in lieu of shaking hands. Sun waved his guest toward a chair facing the desk, and sank into his larger chair positioned on a hidden riser to provide a sense of dominance.

  “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Colonel,” Kodama stated.

  “I was surprised to hear from you so soon.”

  “That is the reason for my visit. We are going to advance the schedule.”

  Sun’s moon face tilted slightly to the left. “Adv
ance it?”

  “Move it up.”

  “I understand the word. Why change it now?” he asked.

  “We have an opportunity,” Kodama replied, “that I’m reluctant to ignore.”

  “Explain.”

  He ran it down: the Sumiyoshi-kai’s surprise dilemma, war in the United States, now spreading to the streets of Tokyo, facilitating Toi Takumi’s grand betrayal of his father and the Yakuza.

  “And this inspires a change of plan, because…?” Sun queried.

  “The public will be focused on corruption and the mayhem it produces when we strike. It sets the stage. Salvation follows rampant sin.”

  “I wonder how much of this dogma you believe.”

  Kodama wondered that himself, sometimes. “Motives should not concern you, Colonel,” he replied. “You desire disruption and deniability.”

  Sun nodded, a procedure that compressed his second chin. “That’s true, of course. But if, through no fault of your own, you should be captured…”

  “You will not be implicated,” Kodama assured him. “If my goal was martyrdom, I would select a better path than being killed in prison by some triad soldier working for your ministry.”

  “We understand each other, then.”

  “From the beginning to the end, Colonel.”

  “And is there anything you need, in aid of your accelerated schedule?” Sun asked.

  “Nothing. The material you furnished has produced—what do the Americans say? A bumper crop? The final preparations for dispersal are in progress, using vehicles linked to the Yakuza.”

  “An interesting twist,” Sun granted, not quite smiling.

  “You shall not be disappointed.”

  “I sincerely hope not. If we’re finished now…”

  Kodama’s escort led him back the way he’d come, out to the street. He passed unnoticed by the demonstrators, wondering how many of them would still be alive the next day.

  * * *

  The Blushing Maid, Akihabara

  THE CLOCK WAS RUNNING. Bolan knew the café’s hostess had to have seen him take down the lookout, even if diners were preoccupied or thought it was part of the joint’s floor show. She could be on the phone by now, either calling upstairs to warn her boss, or bringing reinforcements to the scene. The least likely scenario: a call to the police.