Ninja Assault

“Call me if you think of anything that might be helpful, eh? You got my office number on there, and my cell. Work cell, that is. Nobody gets the home number, know what I mean?”

“Indeed,” Machii said.

“Okay, then. If I find out anything, I’ll be in touch. You’ll still be doing business here?”

“I will. Power should be restored within the hour, once your people clear the scene.”

The fat detective nodded, turned and waddled toward the exit, glancing at the team of electricians as he passed them, no doubt wondering how much a rush job after hours would be costing.

And the answer, as Americans would say, was plenty: triple time for labor, plus materials. Restoring power to the building was about to cost Machii three grand, with another thousand minimum on top of that, to fix and flush the air-conditioning. He had that much and more in petty cash, but he was seething over the audacity of the assault.

And he was worried that no suspects sprang to mind.

Of course, Machii had his share of enemies, but most of those were in Japan. The few he’d made so far, around Atlantic City, had been dealt with swiftly and decisively. Unless he started to believe in zombies, they no longer posed a threat.

But someone clearly did.

He nodded curtly to the electricians and the air-conditioning technicians standing with them. “It is clear now,” he informed them. “Get to work.”

A couple of them didn’t seem to like his tone, but that meant nothing to Machii. When they were as rich as he was, when they’d killed as many men and when they had a family of twenty thousand oath-bound brothers standing at their back, supporting them, he would consider their opinion.

In the meantime, they were nothing more than servants.

Machii climbed the stairs, hating the smoke taint in the air be breathed, and found his office as he’d left it. As expected, the police had asked about the bloodstain on the hallway carpet, and he’d trotted out his underling to lisp the fable of his accident. The fat detective had refrained from asking any questions on that score, being more interested in the smoke bombs from the AC duct.

Thank heaven for small minds.

Back in his office now, Machii started a more thorough search than he’d had time for while he’d waited for emergency responders to arrive. First thing, he checked his desk, found nothing out of place, and then repeated the inspection with his files. Needless to say, he kept nothing at the office that might incriminate him, guarding against situations such as this, but if he found some normal business papers disarranged or missing, it might point him toward enemies behind the raid.

When Machii found nothing to direct him in the filing cabinets, he stood back and surveyed the room, inhaling its polluted scent as if the latent fumes might hold a clue. If not to steal from him or kill him, why would anyone attack Sunrise? No other possibility immediately came to mind, and since the power blackout had deactivated all of the building’s security cameras, no answers awaited him on videotape.

What next?

He had two calls to make. The first, to Jiro Shinoda in Las Vegas, would be a deliberately vague inquiry, trying to determine whether he had experienced any disturbances of late, without alerting him to what had happened in Atlantic City. After that—and there was no escaping it—Machii had to report the raid to Tokyo. His oyabun had to be informed within the hour, or suspicion might begin to ripen in his mind. And that, above all things, was something that Machii wanted to avoid.

His hand was on the telephone when Tetsuya Watanabe knocked, then entered without waiting for a summons. “Excuse me, sir,” he said.

“You are excused. What is it?”

“Endo and his team…”

“They’ve captured the intruder?” Sudden hope flared in Machii’s chest.

“No, sir,” Watanabe said. “They’re dead.”

* * *

Tropicana Casino and Resort, Atlantic Avenue

FINDING ANOTHER CAR had not been difficult as night fell on Atlantic City. Bolan had left his shot-up Honda Civic in a multilevel parking garage at AtlantiCare Regional Medical Center, swapping it for a Toyota RAV4 whose owner played it “safe” by hiding a spare key in one of those magnetic holders, tucked under the right-front fender. Bolan switched the license plates, transferred his mobile arsenal and cleared hospital grounds within ten minutes, flat.

The Sunrise Enterprises bug went live as he was driving along Atlantic Avenue, so he’d pulled into the casino’s parking lot to listen and to read the captioned messages on his smartphone. He’d missed the number that Machii dialed, but soon worked out from the conversation that the call was placed to Vegas. That meant Jiro Shinoda, since Machii—as a kyodai—would not seek input from inferiors.

Staying alert to his surroundings, ready to depart immediately if security rolled up on him, Bolan surveyed the boxed translations on his phone’s screen.

“You have surprised me,” Shinoda said.

“There is something I must ask you.”

“Yes?”

“Please, do not question me.”

“Very mysterious.” A hint of mirth entered Shinoda’s tone. “Proceed.”

“Are you experiencing…difficulties, where you are?”

Shinoda thought about that for a moment, then replied, “Aside from the Internal Revenue, nothing to speak of. Why? Are you?”

“Something has happened, but I cannot speak about it now.”

“That’s even more mysterious,” Shinoda said. “Are you suggesting I should be concerned?”

It was Machii’s turn to pause and think. At last, he answered, “No. I’m sure it has nothing to do with you. Strictly a local matter, but I must report it to our godfather.”

“Ah. In that case, I’m afraid that I cannot advise you further. Do what must be done, of course.”

“If you hear anything…”

“I, too, shall do what must be done,” Shinoda said.

Sly as a fox, that one. The threat of squealing to their oyabun was left unspoken, but Machii had to have known Shinoda would turn any given circumstance to personal advantage, if he could.

All mobsters were alike that way, Bolan knew, regardless of their nationality, skin pigment or the oaths they’d sworn on joining their respective rotten “families.” For all the vows of fealty, defense of brothers and the rest of it, the bottom line was always each man for himself. “Honor” was highly touted in the underworld, enforcing codes of silence and the like, but it was stained and tattered like an old dust rag, each rip another captain who had overthrown his boss, or one more witness who had squealed to save himself from prison.

Bolan listened while the two kyodai traded pleasantries, Machii clearly anxious to be off the line and on to some more pressing task. Bolan’s infinity device would transmit any conversation from Machii’s office, not just phone calls, and he hoped there would be more to hear before he had to leave the Tropicana’s parking lot.

As if in answer to that wish, a voice he didn’t recognize chimed in, asking, “Will you call our godfather now?”

“It cannot be avoided. If I do not, he will learn by other means. Delay might have been possible, if we had caught the prowler, but with four more dead…”

He left it dangling, no response from his companion in the office. Bolan pictured them, the search they had to have executed prior to calling Vegas, their reactions when they had found nothing out of place. Machii knew he had been targeted, but didn’t know by whom, or why. Uncertainty would give his nerves a workout and might prod him into reckless action.

“I will leave you to it,” said the kyodai’s anonymous subordinate.

“Tetsuya, wait. I will be sleeping at the other house tonight,” Machii said.

“Yes, sir. I’ll make all the arrangements.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, sir.”

A door closed. If Machii had more men inside his office, they stayed silent. He delayed another minute, almost two, before he dialed another number. Bolan read it from his smartphone’s screen: “0011” was the international code used for dialing outside the States; “81” was Japan’s international code; “3” was Tokyo’s area code; and the last ten digits represented someone’s private line.

The oyabun’s, presumably.

Bolan saved the number to his phone and sat back to listen in.

* * *

Sunrise Enterprises

NOBORU MACHII DREADED his next call but could not postpone it. Timing was not a problem, with Tokyo thirteen hours ahead of Atlantic City. It was breakfast time tomorrow in Japan, and the oyabun of the Sumiyoshi-kai had always been an early riser. Even in his sixties, fabulously wealthy, he maintained an active schedule, sleeping no more than five or six hours per night.

Kazuo Takumi would be awake, and probably at work, but was he ready for the news Machii had to share?

Quit stalling. Time to get on with it, said the stern voice in Noboru’s head. And he was stalling, there could be no doubt of it. Whatever happened in the next few minutes could decide his fate.

He sat in his favorite recliner, in the private office bedroom, put his feet up in a futile effort to relax, and dialed his master’s number, tapping out seventeen digits, then listening to empty air before a telephone halfway around the world began to ring.

As usual, the first ring passed, then it was answered midway through the second. Machii pictured the oyabun’s houseman and chief bodyguard, Kato Ando, scowling as he answered.

“Who is calling, please?”

Machii gave his name and said, “I need to speak with him.”

Ando grunted, a disapproving sound, then said, “Just a minute, please.”

Machii waited, as instructed, switching hands with the telephone because his palm was sweating, even with the air-conditioning back on and blowing cool, clean air. When Kazuo Takumi took the phone, his voice was deceptively soft.

“Noboru. I’ve been expecting you.”

“You have, sir?”

“Jiro called ahead. He fears you have encountered difficulties.”

Rotten sneak! Machii ground his teeth and made a mighty effort to control his tenor.

“It is true, sir. Difficulties have arisen.”

“Tell me.”

So he did, in outline, leaving out only the price his men had paid in blood. With the scrambler on his own phone, and the oyabun’s private security measures in place, Machii had no fear of law enforcement snatching his words from the air. Still, there was no reason to link himself with any killings, just in case. Police already knew about the raid on Sunrise Enterprises. There was nothing to be lost by mentioning the smoke grenades or the prowler’s escape.

Takumi heard him out, then told him, “You were fortunate to have no injuries.”

Machii bit the bullet, said, “A few employees have departed over the affair.”

“Oh, yes? How many?”

“Seven, sir.”

“Unhappy news. But you can carry on without them?”

“Certainly. I’m taking measures as we speak.”

Measures to run and hide, that was, where he would have better security.

“What of the project?” Takumi asked, all business.

“It’s proceeding well, sir. I anticipate a breakthrough later in the week.”

“That’s excellent. I shall expect another call when all of it is finalized.”

Meaning Machii should not call again until he had good news. The kyodai nodded, feeling slightly foolish when he realized his master could not see him.

“I shall definitely be in touch, sir.”

“I look forward to it with anticipation. Goodbye.”

And the line went dead.

Machii was not sure if he should feel relieved or apprehensive, maybe some of each. His boss had not raged at him, but that was not the oyabun’s style. If he wanted you dead, he would smile to your face, then make arrangements for your execution when it suited him. A soldier who displeased Kazuo Takumi might be left as an example to his comrades. Other targets of his anger simply disappeared.

Machii knew he was not safe yet. To secure himself and his position in the family, he had to correct the problems that beset him. First and foremost, he had to find out who had dared to move against him and eliminate the threat. When that was done he could proceed with taking over Wolff Consolidated.

Which, of course, included a casino in Las Vegas. That, under the old plan, would have gone to Jiro Shinoda, but Machii had other plans for Shinoda now. He would not forget being stabbed in the back.

And he would not forgive.

* * *

Azabu, Tokyo

AZABU WAS THE richest neighborhood in Tokyo, home to celebrities and business moguls, living side by side with foreign embassies. It bordered the Akasaka business district and upscale Aoyama, where fashion was everything. Aside from the Roppongi entertainment district, most of Azabu was relatively quiet, considering its placement in the world’s most crowded city. One-bedroom apartments in Azabu started at 700,000 yen—call it $8,500—per month.

That had no impact on a man who owned seven high-rise apartment buildings.

Kazuo Takumi kept large suites in five of those buildings, and smaller bolt-holes in the other two, sometimes spending a month or more at one apartment, other times shifting each night, if he believed that staying in the same place might involve some risk.

Above all else, he took no chances where his safety was concerned.

This day he had awakened at his second-favorite home, on Block 8. City addresses in Japan did not depend on street names, but on numbered blocks. Within each block, buildings were numbered by their age, with “1” assigned to the oldest, and so on to the newest structure. Thus, Takumi’s present home, however briefly, sat atop building 12 on Block 8, with a view of traffic gleaming on the Sakurada Dori freeway.

He was troubled by the two calls from America. Jiro Shinoda had been on the line as soon as he had finished speaking with Noboru Machii in Atlantic City, voicing his concern, twisting the knife in a transparent effort to advance himself. That was unfortunate, but nothing unexpected for a relatively young, ambitious big brother. Bad blood would separate them now, a fact Takumi had been conscious of when he informed Machii of the call from Shinoda.

It was always best to keep subordinates at odds with one another, constantly competing for their master’s favor, rather than agreeing to conspire against him while the master’s back was turned.

Machii’s call had been more troubling. Seven men lost, and police would now be on alert to watch him, if there had been no surveillance previously. An attack was bad for business, all the more so when its source was unidentified. Noboru would be working urgently to solve that problem, knowing that his very life depended on it, but the crime lord wondered now if his Atlantic City kyodai was equal to the task.

Machii had disposed of Tommy Wolff, using the agents he’d supplied, but now the takeover of Wolff Consolidated would be stalled until Machii solved the riddle of his latest difficulty. Should that drag on much beyond Wolff’s funeral, Takumi was prepared to send more men around the world to lift the burden off his kyodai’s shoulders.

And, if necessary, they would lift his head at the same time.

Machii had a short window of opportunity in which to prove himself. And when that window closed, it would descend upon him like the blade of a katana in a ninja’s hands.

After victory, he thought, quoting a proverb from his youth, tighten your helmet strap.

The moral: premature excitement over great success might cause a careless man to drop his guard before the war was truly won.

Takumi never quit, never let down his guard. As for Machii…

The Yakuza crime boss decided he would send another team, four of his best this time. His private jet was always ready on a moment’s notice, and the flight from Tokyo to Atlantic City International Airport was fourteen hours long. If they arrived in time to help Machii, fine. If not, at least they would be on-site to begin the cleanup process.

Put things right before it was too late.

Meanwhile…

Takumi had his own concerns at home, completely unrelated to the situation in America. His son and heir apparent had not grown into the man Takumi hoped would run his empire when the time came for him to depart this life. In youth, Toi had been frivolous and spoiled—his father’s fault, of course, as it had to fall on any father. Lately, he had grown more serious, but also more distracted, as if no part of the family business inspired him in the least. The thought that Toi might try to leave the Sumiyoshi-kai appalled Takumi, but he could not rule it out.

Worse than the personal insult, of course, would be the blow Takumi suffered in the eyes of other godfathers when he could not control his only son. It would be viewed as weakness, and he could not argue with that judgment. Toi’s abdication, if it happened, was a threat to the whole family. Better if he had not been born, in fact, than to run off pursuing other friends and goals entirely foreign to his upbringing.

That was a problem for another day, however.

Reaching for the intercom beside him, Takumi summoned Kato Ando and greeted him with curt instructions. “Call The Four,” he said. “They must be ready to depart within the hour.”

“Yes, sir,” Kato replied, and left the room without a backward glance.

* * *

Atlantic Avenue, Atlantic City

BOLAN’S INFINITY TRANSMITTER was not hampered by the scrambler on Machii’s telephone, because it picked up conversation from the office, not the phone line. There were pros and cons to that: he only heard the kyodai’s side of the discussion, had to guess what he was hearing from the other end, but Bolan still had contact when Machii cut the link and called out for his flunky.

“Tetsuya!”

A moment later, Bolan heard the second now-familiar voice, reading the captions as his smartphone carried out translation.

“Yes, sir?”

“Are we ready to get out of here?” Machii asked.

“As ordered, sir. The limousine is downstairs, waiting.”

Bolan twisted the RAV4’s ignition key and pulled out of the Tropicana’s parking lot, turned left and drove southwestward, back toward Sunrise Enterprises. There was traffic, sure, but it would slow Machii’s getaway as much as it did Bolan’s progress, thirteen blocks to cover from the huge casino to the office building where he’d killed three men that evening.

Machii had disposed of their remains, presumably, since he hadn’t been carted off for questioning. It didn’t pay to underestimate the Yakuza, either in terms of their ferocity or their efficiency. The Yakuza served as the planet’s oldest criminal syndicate—older even than the Chinese triads—and survival spanning some four hundred years meant they had learned a thing or two along the way.

Bolan was approaching Windsor Avenue when he saw a black stretch limo turning into traffic on Atlantic, headed in the same direction he was going. That saved him time and inconvenience, since he didn’t have to box the block and come around Machii’s crew wagon. All Bolan had to do now was maintain visual contact with the limousine until it dropped the kyodai at the “other house” he’d mentioned in his office. Bolan couldn’t eavesdrop on the limo’s passengers, since they had left his bug behind, but he could follow them all night if necessary, until they found a place to roost.

In fact, it didn’t take that long. At Washington, the limo took a right-hand turn and traveled past the Margate City Historical Museum, then hung a left on Ventnor Avenue and followed that until it crossed the JFK Bridge and became Route 152, skirting the Atlantic coast of an unnamed barrier island. It was marshy ground, with serpentine canals or rivers winding through it, trees along the north side of the highway, beaches kissed by breakers to the south.

Bolan trailed his quarry past the Seaview Harbor Marina, then watched the limo turn northward, on to a two-lane access road that disappeared from view around a curve. He dared not follow it too closely, so drove on two hundred yards, until he found a place to turn and double back.

Machii’s ride was long gone by the time Bolan returned to where they’d parted company. It was a gamble, trailing him, but still the only way of finding out exactly where he’d gone. Nosing into the two-lane access road, he braked and pulled a pair of night-vision infrared goggles from the bag of tricks beside him on the shotgun seat, and slipped the straps over his head, then killed the RAV4’s lights.

The goggles let him see for fifty feet without another light source, but a half moon rode the sky this night, extending Bolan’s vision to fifty yards or more. He’d have to take it easy, keep from edging off the road and on to marshy ground, but there’d be ample warning if another car was headed his way, and he’d show no lights of his own unless he stepped on the Toyota’s brake pedal.

The drive in seemed to take forever, but the dashboard clock—light dimmed until it was barely visible—told Bolan he was making decent time, all things considered. Stealth took longer than a mad charge toward the firing line, and that was what he needed now.

He spent ten minutes on the looping access road before he spotted lights a quarter or half mile farther on. The vehicle had come to a stop in front of a large, two-story house, not quite a mansion, but the next best thing for its surroundings. Open fields and marsh surrounded it, making a foot approach more dangerous, but that would clearly be the only way to go.

Bolan stopped a quarter mile out from the house, switched off the RAV4’s dome light prior to opening the driver’s door, and then went EVA. Standing in moonlight, he removed the goggles and surveyed his target through a pair of field glasses that brought the place up close and personal. He saw two gunmen on the front porch, covering a driveway that branched off the access road, and figured there’d be more in back, watching the alternate approach.

Machii doubtless thought that he was safe out here, away from everyone and everything.

The Executioner had plans to prove him wrong.

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