Ninja Assault Read online

  He ran Brognola’s list of targets through his mind, deciding whether he should take them geographically, by value of the property or alphabetically. Avoiding any kind of pattern was essential, to prevent the Yakuza mobsters or the police from guessing where he’d turn up next. Shinoda would have an edge in that regard, already knowing every property he held in Vegas, but he couldn’t know if his invisible assailant knew precisely what and where they were.

  That is, until they stated falling like dominoes.

  And speaking of invisible, Bolan would have to take into account hidden cameras from that point on. Las Vegas was a town obsessed with watching: naked women, dinner shows and circus acts, the action at selected high-stakes tables in the big casinos. Vegas also watched its dealers, croupiers, bartenders, cocktail waitresses, store clerks and shoppers, drivers and pedestrians, with cameras up the old wazoo and all around the town.

  Evasion of the omnipresent closed-circuit TV cameras was not a realistic option. Neither could he wear the balaclava that had served him in New Jersey. That left working in disguise, an option Bolan very rarely used, but which he’d mastered long ago, during his one-man war against the Mafia.

  Vegas helped him there. It was a show town, serving every manner of performer from full-monty strippers to circus clowns and the Blue Man Group. Costume and makeup shops were a dime a dozen in Vegas. He went online and found one of the largest, set the SUV’s GPS for his destination and rolled out toward the next phase of his desert war.

  * * *

  Akasaka, Tokyo

  “A CHANGE?” THERE was a note of budding panic in Tago Jokichi’s voice. “What change? He hasn’t called it off?”

  “The opposite,” Toi Takumi replied, trying to project a sense of calm for Jokichi’s benefit.

  “Advance the schedule?” He blinked at Toi through wire-rimmed spectacles that made him look owlish. With his thin hair, pasty complexion and his white lab coat, Jokichi resembled a mad scientist.

  Exactly what he was, in fact.

  “The Great Reckoning may occur this week,” Toi said. “Within the next few days.”

  Another blink. “So soon? I didn’t realize—”

  “Events have overtaken us,” Toi told him, interrupting. “When the time is ripe, there must be no delays. Will you be ready?”

  Jokichi did not hesitate. “We’re ready now, for distribution on a local scale. Volume is adequate. To cover all of Tokyo, as hoped for, we will need more personnel and aerosol dispensers, or another system of dispersal.”

  “You know the limit on our personnel,” Toi said. The Saikosai Raito barely had one thousand hard-core followers prepared to make the final sacrifice. It was impossible for them to save the thirteen million citizens of Tokyo, spread over more than five thousand square miles.

  “I do,” Jokichi replied. “It’s not too late to reconsider Lake Miyagase.”

  He referred to the primary source of drinking water for both Tokyo and Yokohama, which could theoretically expand their scope of mass salvation.

  “No, Tago. Master Susumu has rejected it.”

  “But—”

  “His command is law.”

  Jokichi lowered his eyes. “Of course. I meant no disrespect.”

  “None taken. But dispersal must be on the wind. A final, cleansing gift from heaven to our people.”

  “As the master says. In which case, we require a mechanism with much wider range than any handheld aerosol device.”

  “An aircraft?”

  “Preferably more than one. It seems impossible, of course, but—”

  “For the master and Saikosai Raito, anything is possible,” Toi said.

  In fact, he had an idea already. It would require some hasty planning and some daring action, but with Susumu Kodama’s power, channeling almighty Bishamon, the god of righteous warfare, nothing lay beyond Toi’s reach.

  “Could you achieve the master’s goal with, say, three helicopters?” Toi inquired.

  Jokichi was wide-eyed now. “Three helicopters would be very useful, certainly. We would need time to mount the necessary hardware—storage tanks, nozzles and triggers—but with three, most of the city could be covered. If they aren’t shot down, of course.”

  “Don’t worry about that.”

  By Toi’s calculation, most of Tokyo could be saved before authorities knew what was happening, much less who was responsible or how to stop Saikosai Raito’s acolytes. And if defenders of the city rallied soon enough to bring down one—or even all three—of the helicopters, then what?

  Any manna from on high would be dispersed on impact with the ground. More souls would instantly be saved, and if Master Susumu’s followers fell short of their intended reaping goal…well, Toi believed Lord Bishamon would still be satisfied with what they’d managed to achieve on his behalf.

  “Forgive me, brother, but I feel compelled to ask,” Jokichi said. “Do you have three helicopters?”

  “Personally, no,” Toi granted. “But I know where they are kept, and how I may procure them.”

  * * *

  KAZUO TAKUMI WAS not a believer in Saikosai Raito. He may even not have known his son had joined the sect a year earlier, rising by virtue of his zeal and wealth to serve as the anointed master’s strong right hand. But now, with the Great Reckoning drawing nearer, Takumi might serve the cause involuntarily.

  The Great Reckoning.

  Master Kodama had decreed it, Toi thought, speaking for the great Lord Bishamon, and no mere human could prevent it now. His father’s recent difficulties in America would serve as a distraction, granting Toi the freedom he required to the cause and guarantee his place beside Master Kodama in the kingdom yet to come.

  It would require finesse, something Toi had not cultivated in his life to any great degree, but with the proper inspiration he believed that he could fake it adequately. Those who served his father in the Sumiyoshi-kai were programmed to accept orders without objection or inquiry. What more natural than that the orders they obeyed, this time, should come from Kazuo Takumi’s son and rightful heir?

  “How much time will you need to fix the helicopters?” he asked Tago.

  “If by ‘fix,’ you mean—”

  “How long?” Toi cut in, not quite snapping at the man.

  “It depends upon the model. Say, two hours, minimum, for fitting all the hardware into one aircraft, then twenty minutes each to fill the tanks. We cannot test dispersion without trial runs.”

  “No.” Toi shook his head emphatically. “You have one chance at this, no more.”

  “Then, brother, we shall do our best and pray for satisfactory results.”

  Prayer couldn’t hurt, Toi thought.

  “And while you’re at it,” he suggested, “pray for guidance so that you don’t disappoint Master Susumu or our Lord.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  East Desert Inn Road, Las Vegas

  Boom Town was a gun store and pay-by-the-hour target range where shooters could bring their own weapons and ammunition, buy rounds from the house or enjoy “the full-auto experience” with rented submachine guns burning ammo at a rate that left more holes in their wallets than in their targets. Tourists and local survivalists flocked to the warehouse-sized setup, enriching its owners as they shot for macho brownie points and fumed over mythical threats to the Second Amendment.

  On paper, the place belonged to a couple of locals who swaggered around in tattoos and shoulder holsters, sporting long hair in the style of Wild Bill Hickok and directing buyers to the home defense equipment that was perfect for their needs. Their silent partner—and the real owner, in fact—was none other than Jiro Shinoda.

  Boom Town made a killing in its own right, but its secondary function was supplying arms and ammunition to the Sumiyoshi-kai in Tokyo. Jiro Shinoda’s accountants cooked the books, reporting certain weapons as “defective” and returned for credit to their manufacturers, while they were shipped out to Japan with phony bills of lading, for delivery to paper companies own
ed by the Yakuza. Each month, the shop also recorded higher ammo traffic than it logged in fact, paid all due taxes on the nonexistent sales and sent the extra rounds to Tokyo.

  For Boom Town, Bolan tried one of the new disguises he had purchased. It consisted of a light brown wig with sideburns and a matching Fu Manchu mustache, a pair of oversized dark glasses and a realistic stick-on scar along his jawline, on the right. Once he had donned the getup, his reflection in the gas station’s bathroom mirror made him think of outlaw bikers or a drifter who was going nowhere fast. When paired with an expensive charcoal suit, however, he was Vegas all the way and good to go, maybe a pit boss from the Strip concerned about his personal security.

  Appearances.

  There were three customers booking range time when he entered, one guy on the register, so Bolan dawdled past a long display case filled with pistols, waiting until the patrons got their tickets, ammunition and their earmuffs, vanishing beyond a side door where the crack of gunfire echoed.

  Bolan moved up to the register, smiling. The guy behind it had a droopy ’stache much like his own, though he had grown his the old-fashioned way. “What can I do you for?” he asked, all smiles.

  “Can you get Jiro on the phone?” Bolan inquired.

  “How’s that?”

  “Your boss. Jiro Shinoda.”

  “Sounds like you’re confused, friend. I’m the owner here. Half owner, anyway.”

  “I guess he can’t advise you on our situation, then.”

  “What situation would that be?”

  Bolan showed him the MP-5 K on its shoulder sling, suppressor leveled at the front man’s chest. “The one where you clean out the register and crack the safe. No hinky moves, unless you want your day to end the hard way.”

  “Shit. You’re kidding, right?”

  “Not even close.”

  “You know that you’re on camera?”

  “I hope they get my good side.”

  “Okay, man. Don’t get excited. This Jimbo Shinola—”

  “Money, now,” Bolan said, cutting through the bs.

  “Sure, man, sure.”

  The register gave up chump change, about a thousand dollars, then the scowling clerk told him, “The safe’s down by my feet. I gotta stoop to reach it.”

  “Wait right there,” Bolan instructed, vaulting the display case to a perfect landing, well beyond the other man’s reach. He didn’t care about the palm print left behind, since no police department in the world had any of his prints on file. “Okay, crack it. If you come out with anything but cash, you’re done.”

  “I hear you.”

  It took less time than expected, stacks of greenbacks stuffed into a worn gym bag that rested on a bottom shelf, close by the safe. When it was full and fastened shut, he took it from the Boom Town rat and told him, “All right, turn around.”

  “Hey, man, please, don’t—”

  “Do it!”

  The guy turned, shoulders slumped in resignation, maybe thinking he should try to reach the Ruger SR9 on his right hip, but Bolan didn’t give him time to find the nerve. A long step brought him close enough to swing the SMG against his target’s skull, a solid thump that dropped the guy facedown, out cold before he hit the floor.

  Hefting the satchel with his money, Bolan walked around the counter this time, paused to switch a hanging sign on the front door from Open to Closed and let himself out into blazing sunshine. A moment later, he was on the street and rolling toward his next appointment with the Yakuza, keeping his schedule and waiting for this day to burn down in the west.

  * * *

  East St. Louis Avenue, Las Vegas

  IT WAS RISKY, coming back to Night Moves after what had happened there, but Jiro Shinoda made a point of never running scared. His soldiers had cleaned up the mess, taking Koichi Choshu and the bouncer out the back way, off to plant them in the desert ten miles west of town. The bouncer had been alive when they got to him, but it was a risk to let him stay that way, maybe deciding he should tell his story to police. So, two graves in the desert, where they’d have a lot of company, and neither one of them could cause any more trouble for the kyodai.

  Shinoda hated incompetents. They pissed him off and cost him money. Someday, he imagined, one of them might get him killed. But in the meantime, he would not be scared away from working at his office, picking up vibrations of the bass line from the music rumbling downstairs.

  Besides, lightning had struck the club already. Why should it strike twice?

  That didn’t mean he was relaxed, by any means. Four of his men were stationed on the strip club’s second floor, with two more in the main showroom downstairs. Each of them wore Kevlar under their dark suits, over their tattoos, and each carried at least one weapon locked and loaded, ready for emergencies.

  If Shinoda’s enemy returned, he would be in for a surprise. The last one of his life.

  The desk phone purred for his attention, drawing his focus from the ledger that Koichi Choshu had been working on before his brains had spattered the filing cabinets. Thankfully, there were no stains on the book itself, so Shinoda did not have to soil his hands.

  “Hello?”

  The voice that answered was excited, speaking Japanese. The caller was an underling, a cutout who controlled the men supposedly in charge of Boom Town and two other Vegas enterprises Shinoda owned, thus insulating him from any contact with the law. The cutout had bad news, of course—what other kind was there, this day?—and he applied no sugarcoating to it as he gave his boss the details.

  Robbery, one man rendered unconscious at the scene, but no one dead this time. The bandit had escaped with $20,000, give or take, a pittance in the grander scheme of things. His image was preserved on video, for what it might be worth. Police were not involved.

  Shinoda thanked the caller, cradled the receiver with a hand that trembled from his mounting rage and rose to pace the office that, while spacious, suddenly felt claustrophobic. Fury spun his thoughts out of control, until he reined them in and forced himself to face the situation rationally.

  He was under siege, and the example of Noboru Machii told him he was fighting for his life. A face on video might help his soldiers find the man responsible, but that meant getting lucky when his soldiers canvassed local hotels and motels, showing the pictures around to see if Jiro Shinoda’s nemesis had rented one of the city’s 50,000 available rooms. And after all that work, he might be operating from a house, condo, apartment, or he could be living in his car.

  How was he supposed to get a handle on one man—assuming that it was one man—before the bastard struck again?

  Perhaps by luring him out into the open, where his only option was to die.

  * * *

  South Industrial Road, Las Vegas

  PROSTITUTION WAS ILLEGAL in Clark County and in Reno’s Washoe County, though Nevada law permitted the residents of fifteen other counties to permit commercial sex work under what was called a “local option.” Some Vegas hotels arranged transport for randy high rollers to desert “ranches” staffed with female livestock, but for visitors who wanted to try their luck in town, Lost Wages offered fifteen “escort agencies” pursuing business under forty different names, while two dozen massage parlors negotiated the going rate for “happy endings.”

  Hal Brognola’s file told Bolan that the Sumiyoshi-kai owned Star Escorts, also advertised in local phone directories as Midnight Angels and as Tiger Girls, all with the same office address and phone number. It was like phoning three cab companies to book a ride, hearing the same dispatcher on the line each time.

  Star Escorts and its clones were strictly out-call services, no hookers on the premises, but Bolan didn’t have a room, and he was not looking for company. He planned to shut down the operation and leave a message for Jiro Shinoda that would push the Yakuza lieutenant toward one careless move too many.

  This time, Bolan wore a beard attached with spirit gum, balanced against a bald skullcap, with the same shades to mask his
graveyard eyes. He wasn’t after money, having bagged enough to let him carry on his War Everlasting for a while yet, also knowing that an escort office dealt primarily in credit cards, over the phone. The girls—or guys—got “tipped,” of course, and gave their pimps the lion’s share, but Bolan had another kind of irritant in mind.

  Star Escorts was about to be shut down.

  He rolled in off the street, surprising a receptionist who could have worked out-call herself, and maybe did. She peered up at him, through false lashes that resembled spider’s legs, and tried to form a happy face while asking, “May I help you, sir?”

  “Be smart and help yourself,” Bolan advised. “Go home.”

  “Excuse me?” Worry and confusion clashed behind her eyes.

  “You need another job,” he said. “This place is going out of business.”

  Bolan saw her reaching for the panic button underneath her desk, and made no move to stop her. When the two Yakuza hardmen suddenly appeared, scowling as if they’d practiced the expression in a mirror, Bolan turned to meet them with a stone face of his own.

  “What the hell is this?” one of them asked.

  “Hell sums it up,” Bolan replied, raising the MP-5 K on its sling.

  He had them cold but let them try for holstered pistols anyway. Three bullets zipped into the first gunner, and the same for number two, dropping the pair at the threshold of the door behind them. The receptionist let out a squeal and kicked back in her rolling chair, sobbing out, “Please, please, please.”

  “I warned you,” Bolan told her. “Go.”

  She went, snatching her purse and bolting for the exit, bursting into sunlight and away. Bolan forgot her on the spot and stepped around the two corpses, moving deeper into Star Escorts. Another moment brought him to a room where two more women, older than the girl out front, were working telephones, one rattling off the measurements of someone she called Desiree, the other promising some john a “guaranteed good time.” They both ran out of words as Bolan barged in on them, freezing when they saw his SMG, then magically regained mobility when he stepped to one side and nodded toward the exit.