Siege
Annotation
Japanese-held businesses in the U.S are being systematically annihilated and innocent people are dying. A joint CIA-Justice Department investigation in Tokyo is turning into a house of cards — compromised by leaks, dangerously mounting tensions, and pressure from the Japanese police and Foreign Affairs. It's up to Mack Bolan to run interference.
Hounded by renegade shock troops commanded by an enemy with the ultimate weapons, power and money, Bolan follows a hot and bloody trail to a conspiracy that will destroy America's financial structure.
When the power mongers rule empires built of greed and murder, the Executioner becomes a one-man demolition squad.
* * *
Don Pendleton's
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
* * *
Don Pendleton's
Mack Bolan
Siege
The only prize much cared for by the powerful is power. The prize of the general is not a bigger tent, but command.
Law and the Court (1913)
Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr.
They say that power corrupts. I say that only the worst kind of savage would put into motion events that would kill scores of innocents. A man like that has no future, has no choice but to face the cleansing flame of his executioner.
Mack Bolan
Special thanks and acknowledgment to Mel Odom for his contribution to this work.
OCR Mysuli: denlib@tut.by
Prologue
"We're lucky this is one of the tallest buildings in the area," the helicopter pilot said into his headset as he angled his craft toward the target zone. "And we're lucky this damn smog isn't any thicker. I don't know which is worse — this time of night, or dawn or dusk."
Ross Tuley grinned. "Eric, my man, I've been listening to you bitch about LZ standards for the past ten years. Believe me, I'd be more worried if you didn't say a goddamn word."
He glanced out at the moonless night. Downtown Los Angeles was spread out below, and he could pick out Pershing Square to the southwest, fading behind them. Streetlights were dim flickers in the thick smog, leaving only the skyline to mark their progress.
"You and your glory boys got two minutes until the drop site," the pilot announced after glancing at his wristwatch.
Tuley nodded and unbuckled the seat harness, his gloved hands automatically making sure the Detonics .45 sheathed across his chest was still strapped down. "You give me the go."
"Red light above the bay," the pilot replied. "Same as always. You get a winnin' routine, you stick with 'er."
Tuley slapped the pilot on the shoulder as he dropped the headset into his seat, then went back to rejoin the crew he'd drawn for this mission. He paused in the cargo area, looking over the three men. Only Vardeman was really seasoned in this kind of civilian encounter. The other two were trained killers who had been involved in a dozen behind-the-scenes international battle zones. He waited until they made eye contact with him. "Quick in, quick out, just like we rehearsed," he said in a flat voice. "You get caught, you burn on your own. I don't want anybody playing cowboy on this operation. It goes down smooth, or it doesn't go down at all."
They nodded, looking like three-dimensional shadows against the metal wall of the cargo area.
He rolled down the hood of his ski mask and tucked it into the collar of his knee-length Velcro-sealed poncho. The ponchos were easily disposable and contained generous pockets for the hardware they were carrying into the strike. Each man wore one. Only two of them, Vardeman and Johnston, had Uzis; all had incendiaries.
Tuley rolled the cargo bay door open and glanced ahead, his eyes tearing from the wind. He waved the team forward as the target building come into view.
Dwarfing most of the surrounding structures, the building stood twenty-four stories high. Most of the lights were out in the top half of the building, which was primarily office space. Shops and restaurants made up the lower third, with a mall area on the bottom two floors. The plan called for them to achieve their objective, mingle with the residents of the building until confusion filled the hallways, then get out.
If the Japanese didn't have heavy security on the scene, Tuley thought. That was the one thing they hadn't had time to scope out properly. In addition to the usual business run by the Japanese on the top floor of the building, his information said they also received infrequent shipments of cocaine.
"Who'd have ever figured I'd be part of the team to kill Galaxy Boy?" Ellison asked, then laughed. "I swear this is one freaky fucking deal."
The red bulb over the cargo bay came on just as the helicopter glided a half-dozen feet above the building. Tuley eased out the door. Vardeman was on his tail, just as he'd been for the past three years. The rooftop came up quickly, and he slammed into it hard enough to take his breath away.
Instinct took over, rolling him to his feet as his hand found the butt of the Detonics and drew it out from under the poncho.
"Clear," Vardeman called, heading toward the fire escape door. Ellison and Johnston checked in as well, dropping the rappeling lines off their shoulders as they headed for the opposite side of the building. Glancing up, Tuley saw the helicopter already gaining altitude as it spun back toward the rendezvous point on Catalina Island.
Tuley reached Vardeman's side just as the biggest man chugged a silenced round into the lock. Sparks spit from the metal as a ragged gouge appeared in the door. Vardeman slammed into the door, and it popped open at once. Tuley took point, letting his second-in-command bring up the rear.
The empty stairwell came to an abrupt end at a locked door leading into the offices that were their target. Tuley lifted a leg and drove his combat boot through the window, tearing out the metal mesh reinforcement. He reached in and twisted the knob.
Moving through the dark rooms, he ticked them off against the checklist in his head, leaving time-delay firebombs with seven-minute settings. He kicked open doors and raced through the maze of small offices, tossing the bundles, emptying his pockets as quickly as possible. Posters and pictures adorned every room, advertisements for Galaxy Boy, the latest Japanese-produced comic book to hit the American market. They were all different, all showing the same hero battling various space creatures and villains, zapping them with his trusty ray gun or chopping at them in martial arts stances.
Without warning, a security guard stepped out of a room, leveling his Colt .38 and peering over its six-inch barrel.
"Vardeman," Tuley called, dropping to one knee. He heard the sound suppressor on the Uzi whisper softly, then a line of bloody holes chased the security guard back against a fold-out wall that collapsed beneath his weight. The team leader stood up, pitching the incendiaries onto the floor as Ellison and Johnston arrived on the scene. "Have any trouble?"
"No," Johnston answered, holding his Uzi straight up from his hip.
Tuley indicated the dead man. "This guy might have pushed a silent alarm, so watch your ass." He led the way back to the fire escape, perspiring profusely under the poncho, mask and glove
s as he held the .45 in front of him in two hands, still counting down in his head.
Another security guard was one floor down, carrying a white paper bag in one hand while holding his holstered weapon with the other, curiosity etched into his seamed face.
Tuley put two silenced rounds through the old man's chest. Then, ripping off his poncho, he dropped it onto the landing floor and charged down the stairs. The trick now was to put as much distance between themselves and the top floor as they could. He jumped over the guard's body, palming the security badge from the dead man's shirt just in case. Then he ripped the ski mask off with his free hand and dropped it onto the next floor.
The upper floor exploded in a series of booms, each one seemingly louder than the last. The building shivered from the force of the blasts. Tuley dropped his gun reluctantly and signaled the others to do the same. Five minutes later they were in a hallway ten more stories down, mixing with the crowd of confused people who wondered what had happened. Fifteen minutes later they were out of the building, watching as fire trucks and police cars lined the streets.
"Hey, Tuley," Ellison called as he peered upward with a large grin. "Now that we've offed Galaxy Boy, who do we do for an encore?"
"We go to Tokyo," Tuley replied as he turned to walk away. "Our intel has gotten wind of some hotshot the Feds are pulling in to help the Japanese Foreign Affairs people figure out who's been hitting the Jap holdings in the United States. We've got orders to intercept this guy before he makes contact, and see what kind of poop he's bringing to the meet with him."
"And if he doesn't intercept so well?" Ellison asked.
"We take him out."
Vardeman fell into step with Tuley. "One guy has the old man worried?" he asked.
"Yeah."
"Must be some kind of guy."
"His name's Belasko. Mike Belasko. He's done some on-again, off-again type of work for a handful of agencies from what intel has been able to dig up. He's strictly a loner and a pro, the kind of guy who doesn't even leave a shadow at the scene. And he's trouble."
Chapter One
Mack Bolan stared through the rain-dappled Plexiglas window of the water bus, then turned and glanced across the faces behind him, acting like an American tourist captivated by the sights. Two men, both Caucasian, both wearing sunglasses and dark suits, shifted their gazes away from him hurriedly, each finding something of interest on their side of the craft.
Satisfied that he had uncovered at least part of the force that had been pursuing him so quietly since Shimbashi Station, Bolan faced forward again. A simple message from Hal Brognola had brought the Executioner to Japan — no warnings, no details, just a quiet plea for him to come as soon as possible. The head Fed's reluctance to try for a meet outside Japan told him something big had been scheduled; the two men breathing down his neck told him Brognola's security had evidently been compromised to a degree.
He settled back in his seat, his warrior's psyche already outlining his choices of tactics. Brognola was taking care of his weapons, but until he made contact with the Justice man, he was unarmed and operating on thin papers that wouldn't stand up under the scrutiny of Tokyo police if this encounter turned bloody. And, judging from the tight-lipped features of the two men, it had every chance of doing just that.
The water bus rode low in the muddy water of the Sumida River, burdened by the large number of tourists aboard. Late-morning July sunlight left golden crescents floating on the river's surface. The pomp and many-colored splendor of Hamarikyu's waterfront gardens just a few minutes from Shimbashi Station had given way to fleets of old fishing boats in need of a new coat of paint, whose captains and mates were already at work bringing in the day's catch.
Tooting his horn, the water bus driver yelled at an overzealous fishing boat that came too close. Waves rolled under the craft, causing the tourists to grab for loose handbags and camera cases that went skidding across the wooden deck.
Bolan pushed himself out of his seat and made his way to the back of the water bus at a dead run. The vessel pitched again, and he fought to keep himself on his feet, reaching the first of the two men as the guy grabbed under his jacket. He palmed the man's face as the guy stood up, powering it into the upper set of wooden casements holding the windows in place on that side of the water bus. The man's head made a hollow thunk, and he dropped, unconscious, to sprawl across the legs of the old woman he'd been sitting next to. She started to scream, drawing the attention of the rest of the people on the water bus. The gun spilled out of the man's nerveless fingers and thudded solidly against the deck. It went off, the report deafening in the enclosed space. The bullet ripped through a suitcase held by a man across the aisle before holing one of the Plexiglas windows.
The second man had his weapon in hand by the time the Executioner moved on him. Bolan reached for the automatic as the man pulled the trigger, jamming his little finger between the hammer and the firing pin, feeling flesh tear. Using his weight and forward momentum, he slammed the man back into his seat, grabbing a handful of hair as he lifted his knee into the man's face. Cartilage snapped, and the man went down without a word.
Pandemonium broke out behind him as the rest of the passengers realized what was going on. Bolan didn't hesitate. Still on the move, he jammed the captured .45 into the waistband of his jeans, under the loose folds of his knitted sport shirt. He broke through the small door to the rear of the water bus, moving up on deck.
The people manning the speedboat had spotted him. One man pointed him out from the prow, yelling, but his words were torn away by the confusion and the wind. Bolan paused a moment to take stock of the situation as fishing boats tried to avoid the swerving water bus.
The speedboat closed in. The pilot kept winnowing his craft between the boats, closing the gap to less than fifty yards. The two other men had assumed prone positions and shouldered automatic weapons. A sudden line of fire behind the water bus threw water over Bolan as the 5.56 mm tumblers chewed into the rear hull.
Glancing over his shoulder, the Executioner saw the Azuma Bridge coming up and knew from his map book of the area that access to Umamichi Street would give him at least two more options than he had at present.
Bullets tore into the back of the water bus, which started a whole new wave of screaming. Bolan dived over the side, knowing his evacuation of the craft would pull the attackers away from it. He hit the water off balance, turned and twisted by the water bus's speed and the churning wake created by the fishing boats. He opened his eyes and found himself surrounded by brown murk.
The speedboat zoomed by overhead, the screw turning the water foamy white as it passed. Bolan stroked for the shore, seeing the fishing nets spread out before him only seconds before touching them. His fingers pulled at the rough hemp, feeling the accrued slime come away on his palms. He charted the speedboat's course, watching the white line slowly curve back toward him for another pass, slower now.
Putting aside the questions of who the men were, why they would attack him and how they knew where to find him, the Executioner reached for the large folding knife he'd recently purchased and flicked out the largest blade. Lungs near bursting, the warrior sawed quickly at the thick hawser rope holding one end of a fishing net, then kicked out across the murky river when the last strand had parted. The speedboat cruised through the choppy water only yards away. He swam harder, tugging the heavy net after him. He stuck the knife between his teeth and hauled on the thick hawser with both hands, forcing it to the surface, giving it up to the whirling screw of the speedboat as the sandy taste of the river filled his mouth.
He heard a muffled thump, then the propeller yanked the rope through his fingers. He released it and broke the surface, gasping for air, twisting his head to watch the speedboat go out of control.
One of the men had fallen from the boat and become twisted in the net. He was dragged along until the hawser drew tight between the speedboat's forward momentum and the fishing berth's heavy immobility. The man screamed just
as the speedboat caromed off the pilings and exploded into a fireball of gasoline that spread across the river's surface.
Bolan swam after the man tangled in the net, knowing the guy would drown unless he was able to cut himself free. Screams and yells of rage dogged him as the fishermen came to renewed life, piloting their vessels toward him, scrabbling around their stained decks with grim proficiency. Sunlight glinted off knives and boat hooks held tightly in their callused hands.
Bolan dived, following the bedraggled end of the hawser that floated on the surface, letting his fingertips guide him down into the murk. The trapped man wriggled and squirmed against the constricting strands of the net, eyes bulging when he saw the Executioner. The warrior reached for the net, and the man's hands slid through an opening to close tightly around Bolan's wrist. The guy tried to speak, his face pleading.
The blade was dull, but the strands of the old frayed net parted quickly.
Still holding the knife, Bolan reached out and seized the man by the collar, pulling him upward.
When the two men broke the surface, Bolan had to struggle to keep the man up, combating his captive's fear and poor motor control. He shook water from his eyes and locked an arm around the man from behind.
The fishing boats had ringed the area, and a hundred questions were being tossed back and forth. Bolan watched them all, backpedaling toward the flaming wreckage of the speedboat smeared against the piling. More people had gathered there, pointing excitedly. He couldn't help but wonder if there were more of the unknown assassins within their ranks. "Talk," he commanded gruffly, "or I'll put you back under."
The man waved a trembling arm in front of his face, weakly managing to lock onto Bolan's forearm at his chin. He hacked and coughed and spit out water. "I'll talk, I'll talk. Just don't let me go down again."
Bolan swam backward, watching the perimeter. The water bus had come to a final stop on the other side of the river. People were milling about on the deck in a state of confusion, some of them covered with blood. The driver was slumped over the wheel, the Plexiglas in front of him blown away.