Ninja Assault

by Don Pendleton

  “I’m wounded,” the guru replied. “I need a doctor.”

  “Yeah. Good luck with that.”

  Bolan turned to Kayo and said, “He’s all yours.”

  The Executioner heard a raspy sound from the baton, extended with a flick of the lieutenant’s wrist. Kayo’s first swing hit Susumu Kodama’s bloodied arm and wrung a cry of pain from his thin lips. The guru staggered, fell to one knee, raised his good arm to protect his head and face.

  “What is it that you want?” he squealed.

  “Let’s go with full disclosure,” Bolan answered.

  “I am a minister. I counsel and I share the truth as it’s revealed to me.”

  “Cut to the chase,” Bolan advised him. “This reckoning of yours.”

  “Not mine. Lord Bishamon demands a recompense for sin.”

  “And you make the arrangements, eh?” Kayo asked.

  “I guide my flock.”

  “We’re getting nowhere,” Bolan said.

  Kayo lifted the baton again. The guru cringed and bleated out, “It wasn’t my idea!”

  “If you blame Bishamon again—”

  “My life is worthless if I tell you.”

  “How’s it looking now?” Bolan inquired.

  “I won’t survive in prison.”

  “Think about surviving through tonight,” Bolan suggested.

  “You must protect me if I tell you everything.”

  “From what?” the Executioner queried.

  “The colonel.”

  “Colonel? What colonel?” Kayo demanded.

  “If I tell you, can you promise me protection?”

  “I can promise you will never leave this room alive unless you speak,” Kayo said.

  Kodama thought about it for a second, seeing no way out, and finally replied, “Colonel Fulian Sun. You’ll find him at the Chinese embassy.”

  * * *

  Shiodome, Tokyo

  SHOEI SATO TOOK THE news as he took everything, with no outward display of emotion. It might not have been accurate to say that he felt nothing. Who could tell, behind the stoic mask he wore in common with his two surviving comrades? At times like this, their faces might as well be carved from alabaster. What was happening inside, no one could say.

  And they would never tell.

  “How did he die?” Tamura Min inquired.

  Tadashi Jo seemed nervous, sitting in his Cadillac, surrounded by the remnants of The Four, but he replied without a tremor in his voice. “Gunshots,” he said. “First wounded, then a final kill shot.”

  “An execution,” Nakai Ryo said.

  “So it appears,” Jo stated.

  “While he pursued the task you set for him,” Sato observed.

  “He must have been careless.”

  If that stung any of them, they concealed it well. “You know this from your cop contact?” Tamura asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What else was found?” Nakai queried.

  “A pistol with a silencer, perhaps his own. Various items of equipment.”

  “No one else was killed?” Tamura pressed him.

  “No one else was found,” Jo said.

  Sato came close to frowning but restrained himself. At one level, it seemed impossible that Koyuki Masuda or any of The Four could fall in battle without slaying any of his adversaries in the process, but he also knew that none of them were supermen. They only seemed that way to men without the training or the discipline to rival their achievements. It was easy, sometimes, to believe that reputation was a shield. In fact, while it intimidated enemies and gave Sato an edge, he was no more invincible than any other man.

  “We shall pick up where he left off,” Sato announced, knowing the others would agree with him.

  “Sometime, but not tonight,” Jo said. “Our godfather requires your presence to protect him while the present difficulty is resolved.”

  “We can’t resolve it if we’re guarding him,” Nakai replied.

  “Our godfather has decided he must leave the city. He is going to the house in Shizuoka, on Suruga Bay.”

  Sato felt his companions watching him, waiting to hear what he would say. Though bound by oath and honor to obey their leader’s command, they would follow him, he sensed, if he broke protocol and told Tadashi Jo they had to first avenge their comrade. He was on the verge of saying it, could almost taste the words that would undo them all, but Sato stopped himself from speaking them. His ancestors, their history, all weighed against his friendship for a single man, whoever he might be.

  Instead of challenging Jo, he replied, “When this is finished, we will hunt Koyuki’s killers.”

  “Our godfather expects no less,” Jo said. “But first, the family.”

  “The family,” they said, as one.

  “When is he leaving?” Sato asked.

  “Now. As soon as we arrive to join the escort.”

  So be it, Sato thought. He had no special love for Tokyo, preferred the countryside in fact, but running from a fight did not sit well with him. He knew Tamura and Nakai had to feel the same, anxious to find Koyuki’s killers and eliminate them—both as vengeance for a friend, and to remind all future adversaries that they paid their debts in blood.

  “We’ll follow you,” Sato said, turning from Jo and heading toward their black Lexus LS 460 L sedan.

  His two surviving brothers were beside him as he reached the car, and Sato asked, “Who wants to drive?”

  * * *

  Nakano, Tokyo

  “YOU ARE A Chinese agent, then?” Kayo asked. “A communist?”

  Despite his pain, Kodama smirked at that. “I care nothing for politics,” he answered.

  “What, then?”

  “Colonel Sun is a facilitator. He provides support. His motives are irrelevant, as long as they serve Bishamon.”

  “We’re back to that?” Bolan asked.

  When Kodama turned to him, his face was scornful. “I don’t care if you believe, gaijin. I’ve led a life of thievery and shame, until our Lord saw fit to save me from myself. Scoff all you like. I feel the same about your Jesus.”

  Bolan wondered if the guy was faking, even now, in this extremity, and didn’t think so. They were dealing with a psychopath who’d left the rails of “normal” criminality and veered into a true believer’s la-la land. What made him dangerous was zeal, combined with the resources of a ruthless government.

  “So, what’s the plan?” Bolan demanded. “Spell it out.”

  Kodama thought about it while his good hand clutched his wounded, aching arm, then said, “Why not? You are too late to stop it now. The Great Reckoning is upon you.”

  “Sounds impressive,” Bolan goaded him.

  “You mock, but I expect no less from a barbarian gaijin.” He nodded toward Kayo, said, “Your monkey understands, I think. Japan has reached the final depths of its corruption by the West, what you would call rock bottom. Since the Great War, we have been infested with outsiders, fouling everything they touch. Our so-called statesmen are a pack of whores. Our sacred culture dies a little more each day. Lord Bishamon showed me that I must act, before it is too late.”

  “And now you’re acting,” Bolan said.

  “Before the day is out, you’ll see. Thousands will die. The Yakuza’s involvement and exposure will produce a mighty uprising against the state and all the hypocrites in charge.”

  Bolan was properly convinced: Kodama either was a whack-job, or he should be nominated for an acting award. Was it even possible to fake the gleam of pure fanaticism in his eyes?

  “The plan,” Kayo said. “Since we’re too late, as you explain, what is the harm?”

  “I must admit my dream was vague, at first. Beyond conviction that a mighty sacrifice must be presented to Lord Bishamon, I was adrift until the colonel recognized my need.”

  “A communist who has no gods decided to assist you?” Now Kayo’s tone was scornful.

  “Sun was moved by Bishamon, though he may never realize it. When the
Lord places his hand upon a subject, choice is not a question any longer.”

  “Your Bishamon’s no great fan of free will,” Bolan observed.

  “Where has it taken us so far, gaijin?” Kodama challenged him. “Your own Bible depicts what happens when a feeble god leaves humans to their own devices. First in Eden, then with Noah, next with Sodom and Gomorrah, finally with Christ himself, we see that humans will not listen. They will not obey, unless compelled to. Whether that compulsion comes from leaders in the flesh, or from Lord Bishamon on high, the end result is beneficial. Blessed peace will reign when all obstacles are removed.”

  “And how’d your colonel plan on doing that?” Bolan asked.

  When the guru answered, it appeared that he was talking to himself, or to some spirit guide whom Bolan couldn’t see. “What now? Am I allowed to tell these infidels? Of course, why not?”

  He seemed to snap out of the trance, turning to Bolan with a beatific smile. “We use the tools provided by Lord Bishamon from nature, with technology supplied by man—in this case, by the Sumiyoshi-kai. Kazuo Takumi does not realize that he is aiding us, of course. That is a gift from his rebellious son, another tool of Bishamon.”

  “Explain,” Kayo ordered.

  “Shall I?” Still holding the smile, Kodama cocked his head to one side, as if listening. Whatever voices spoke to him, they seemed to give assent. “All right, then,” he continued. “You may be familiar with Bacillus anthracis.”

  “Anthrax,” Bolan said, feeling the small hairs prickle on his neck.

  “In this case, weaponized anthrax. Your government, gaijin, abandoned its production long ago, or so we’re told. The Russians waited longer, but have now supposedly destroyed their stockpiles. Thankfully, my friends in China are not so shortsighted. They destroy nothing that may have future use to them. That is, I think, the benefit of living in an ancient culture. It is easier to take the long view.”

  “You have anthrax,” Kayo said, with a stunned expression on his face.

  “From the supply provided, we have reproduced the spores in quantity. It’s relatively simple. Dry the spores, mill them to the smallest size attainable. I will not bore you with the science—which, in truth, I barely understand myself. Dispersion was the final difficulty, but young Toi has solved that for us. Like a flight of angels, we shall soar above the city and dispense justice from Bishamon.”

  Stone crazy.

  “You have aircraft?” Bolan asked him.

  “I do not, but Kazuo Takumi does—or, rather, did. They have been pressed into the service of our Lord.”

  “You follow that?” Bolan asked the lieutenant.

  “Takumi has helicopters. Three of them, I think,” Kayo said.

  Bolan turned back to the guru. “Where are they now?”

  “Oh, no. I can’t make it too easy for you, can I?”

  “You want to take this?” Bolan asked Kayo.

  “Gladly,” the lieutenant said.

  “The clock’s running. I’ll meet you upstairs.”

  * * *

  Tsukiji, Tokyo

  IT SEEMED ALMOST too easy to Kazuo Takumi, leaving his established life behind. He knew that it was only for a short time, while his enemies were hunted down and finally eradicated, but it still seemed to him that the act of fleeing Tokyo should feel more…what? Significant?

  Running away was dangerous. It damaged his prestige, no matter how he tried to put a normal face on his evacuation of the city. Friends and foes alike would understand that he’d been driven from the capital by adversaries who’d outwitted him—so far, at least. Financial losses were inconsequential, when compared to the erosion of his hard-earned reputation.

  Still, embarrassment was better than the grave.

  He’d given up on Ando, now convinced his loyal retainer had to be dead, along with Koyuki Masuda. That was a double shock, losing one of his oldest friends and one of The Four within a single day. More proof that it was time for him to slip away and plan the next phase of his life-or-death campaign at a safe distance from the battlefield.

  Tadashi Jo had brought in the remainder of The Four, as ordered. Takumi supposed the three survivors were not pleased about it, but he trusted them to honor their commitment to the Sumiyoshi-kai and to himself as their oyabun. With them beside him, and the other soldiers he was taking to his home away from home in Shizuoka Province, Takumi believed he would be safe enough for the time being.

  Long enough, at least, to find out who was plaguing him and settle it.

  He had reached out to Toi, but could not contact him. Three unanswered calls were all that he allowed his spiteful son. Whatever happened to Toi, the child had brought upon himself. If he was lost, Takumi would feel something, he supposed, but the long-standing rift between them had convinced him Toi would never be his heir. He had to think about Tadashi Jo now, and ask himself if there was someone better suited to command the family when he was gone.

  Or did it even matter, after he was dead, what happened to the Sumiyoshi-kai?

  That thought felt almost blasphemous. Takumi had invested half a century—his whole life, as it were—to the defense and service of his clan. He would continue that tradition until he drew his last breath, but beyond that…what?

  No matter.

  Everyone was waiting for him now. They had six cars downstairs, enough for everyone and all the weapons they’d brought out of hiding for the journey to Suruga Bay. It seemed foolish to keep them waiting any longer, all of them at risk each moment that they spent in Tokyo from that point on.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Nakano, Tokyo

  Kayo got the answers, but it took a while. He came out of the basement looking weary, bloodstains on the sleeves of his white shirt. “There is a warehouse in Nerima,” he said, on his way to the kitchen sink. “Near Toshimaen, the amusement park. Kodama rented it last month. It’s large enough to serve the helicopters as a hangar.”

  “He has the anthrax there?”

  “It’s what he said,” Kayo answered, while he washed his hands. “I don’t think he was lying, at the end.”

  Bolan could hear the doomsday clock, already counting down, but still he asked, “You want to shift them out of here?”

  Kayo grabbed a dishtowel, shook his head. “It does not matter now.”

  “How far from here to where we’re going?”

  “If we had a helicopter of our own, three miles,” Kayo said. “Driving, closer to five.”

  “Did he give up a schedule?”

  “No. The goal is sunrise, for its symbolism and the early traffic, markets opening and the produce deliveries. He was not sure how soon the helicopters would be ready.”

  That made sense. Kazuo Takumi’s birds would be the corporate variety, not equipped for aerial application of anthrax. Some work would be required to modify them for delivery. If he could catch them on the ground…

  He spent five precious minutes with his arsenal, preparing for the strike, loading the Milkor’s cylinder with six incendiary rounds. Incinerating anthrax spores would do the job, but there was still a risk of personal exposure in the process, breathing in an ugly, agonizing death while they were wiping out the strain. He had no source for hazmat suits, offhand, but did have an idea.

  “Do you keep any of those masks around?” he asked. “The ones I see so many people wearing on the street?”

  “Perhaps,” Kayo said. “I’ll check.” Tossing his towel on to the counter, the lieutenant left him for a moment and returned bearing a small box with a label Bolan couldn’t read. The lieutenant opened it, revealing cheap surgical masks with elastic ear loops.

  “Good to go, then,” Bolan said, as he replaced his weapons in their duffel bags. “Unless you want to sit it out.”

  “After I’ve come this far?” Kayo asked, slipping on his jacket. “Before I hang, I still hope to accomplish something.”

  “When we wrap this up,” Bolan said, “I can likely get y
ou out of here.”

  “No, Cooper-san. I chose the path, and I will see it through.”

  There wasn’t time for philosophical debates, and Bolan understood the Japanese concept of duty. It had been a major break for the lieutenant when he’d jumped the rails to join Bolan’s crusade, but he had no intention of avoiding the responsibility for what he’d done. Whatever followed after—if there was an after—he seemed ready to accept it, even if that meant the gallows at the Tokyo Detention House.

  Bolan hefted his duffel bags and left the kitchen, passing through the living room. Kayo followed him and locked the door behind them as they stepped into the night. Darkness concealed most of the city’s rank pollution, but it couldn’t mask the smell. Bolan found it incongruous that a society obsessed with cleanliness would foul its air so badly that the simple act of walking down a city street required a special breathing apparatus, but he had no time to dwell on it. An urgent cleanup job was waiting for him, and if Bolan showed up late, thousands would die.

  No pressure, right. Just do or die, and make damn sure you got it right the first time.

  He slid behind the Honda’s wheel, Kayo in the shotgun seat, prepared to navigate. “Go south from here,” the lieutenant said. “On Waseda Dori we turn west and follow that, perhaps three miles, until we reach Kan-Pachi Dori. Turn north, then, and it will take us to Nerima.”

  “Simple, right?”

  In the dashboard light, Kayo smiled at Bolan, the first time since they had taken Toi Takumi. “Do not worry, Cooper-san,” he said. “I won’t lead you astray.”

  * * *

  Nerima, Tokyo

  “TOI SHOULD BE here by now,” said Shinzo Mori. “He’s already half an hour late.”

  “Nigegoshi,” Keizo Hata said, smirking.

  “Cold feet, my ass,” Mori replied. “I’ll warm them for him with a blowtorch if he leaves us hanging here.”

  “Don’t worry,” Hata said. “They’re still making adjustments to the final helicopter. Even if he doesn’t show up, we can go ahead without him.”

  “And do what?” Mori demanded. “Send postcards to all the TV stations, telling them the Sumiyoshi-kai released anthrax? You know we need police to find him with his father’s aircraft. It is his final contribution to the reckoning.”