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  "Hey," a man's voice called out. "I'm ready to give myself up."

  Bolan leveled the Beretta at the point where the voice came from. "Throw down your weapons and come out with your hands on your head."

  A MAC-10 clattered onto the pebbled rooftop. "Don't shoot, man. I'm dead serious about giving myself up. I had a ticket to ride. They canceled, not me. I didn't sign on to pull a fucking Butch and Sundance scenario." A .45 slid out next, followed by a Gerber knife. "All right, I'm unarmed. Just ease back on the trigger finger."

  "Come out," Bolan ordered. "Slowly."

  The man stepped out, his hands behind his head. He stopped when he was in full view.

  "Down on your face."

  The man complied at once, breathing rapidly and watching the Executioner's careful approach.

  Bolan quickly frisked the man and found nothing. "Get up." He kept the Beretta centered between the man's eyes.

  The assassin grinned good-naturedly. "I've got nothing to lose, cop. Twenty to one I'm outta this country before you are. This is a class operation."

  Bolan stepped forward, taking the assassin's privacy away from him with a fist knotted in the material at his throat. "We're going to talk about this operation," he said in a wintery voice. "Just you and me."

  The gunman's composure seemed to be slipping. "You're going to have to turn me over to the Japanese cops, Belasko. You and me, we both know the Justice Department's as worthless as tits on a boar hog on this assignment."

  Bolan flicked the hammer on the Beretta back with a thumb as he shoved the flash-hider hard into the man's nose. "How worthless do you think that makes you, tough guy?"

  The assassin didn't say anything.

  Bolan shook him. "I know Ross Tuley runs your team from this side, and sooner or later we're going to cross paths."

  Eyes focused entirely on the 93-R, the man said, "Tuley will piss on your grave."

  Ignoring the taunt, Bolan asked, "Has Tuley got somebody on the inside of the Metropolitan Police Department?"

  "Not so you'd notice."

  "Who?"

  "That's not my department. I'm hired help. Just like you."

  Bolan shoved the man ahead of him as they followed the roofline, training the Beretta on the guy's back as he squinted through the swirling concrete dust. Bricks and chunks of mortar shifted on the rooftop where the fire escape door had been.

  Ron Roberts forced his way through the wreckage, 45 fisted in one hand. "What happened to the helicopter?" he asked. Streaks of blood leaked from the corner of his mouth.

  "Got away," Bolan replied tersely. "Made a stop across the street to retrieve the sniper crew."

  "This one of the assholes in the hallway?"

  Bolan nodded. "Where's Ogata?"

  Roberts shrugged. "Beats me. I saw him leave the banquet room, but I didn't know he was with you."

  "I am here," the old man's voice said.

  Bolan saw Ogata come from behind one of the huge cooling units. The old man's dark suit was covered with a light film of concrete dust, and his face was ashen and devoid of expression.

  Ogata came to a stop in front of the prisoner. "This is the last man we pursued," he said as he stared at the man. He shifted his gaze to Bolan. "Why did you stop halfway?"

  Before Bolan could reply the old man launched into a whirling reverse kick that caught the assassin under the chin and lifted him from his feet. Material ripped in Bolan's fingers as he grabbed for his prisoner.

  Screaming hoarsely, the man went over the side of the rooftop, his arms flailing uselessly. Seconds later he hit the street and didn't move.

  "Son of a bitch, that's a long way down," Roberts said as he holstered his weapon and looked into the street.

  A dozen plainclothes Metropolitan Police, guns drawn, came pouring through the opening Roberts had made in the demolished fire escape. Bolan kept his eyes on Ogata as the old man passed among the policemen undisturbed, wondering if the last death had just been retribution, or a means of keeping American investigators from learning anything useful.

  * * *

  "How did De Luca get away?" Dale Corrigan asked.

  John Winterroad looked his superior square in the eye over the big desk that separated them and shrugged. "It was dark."

  Corrigan pushed himself out of his chair and walked to the narrow office window sandwiched between ranks of filing cabinets. He pulled at the slats of the shade and let in some of the premorning glow. "Bullshit. I've personally seen you take out three men in the dark back when we were field agents together."

  "That was a long time ago," he said in a quiet voice. He took in the shelves of books, the carefully arranged prints on the walls, the orderly fashion of the desk set. A picture of Corrigan shaking hands with the past President hung just behind the desk. "This is a nice office."

  Corrigan shook his head in disbelief. "Besides losing the major lead we had on this investigation, Vachs has filed a grievance against you for misconduct. Did you know that?"

  Winterroad shrugged. "I figured it might happen."

  "You figured it might happen," Corrigan repeated. "Don't you understand the seriousness of this?"

  "The kid was out of line. Way out of line."

  Corrigan leveled a forefinger at him. "That's your opinion. And Vachs is no kid. He's damn near thirty years old."

  Leaning forward across the desk, Winterroad said, "Harry Vachs is a punk."

  Corrigan sighed. "You say this is a nice office?" He waved at the room. "One like this could have been yours. If you'd only learn to play by the rules."

  "Some of the rules are wrong," Winterroad stated.

  "Again, that's your opinion." Corrigan took a deep breath. "This is a heavy-duty situation. I shouldn't have to tell you that."

  "You don't."

  "Then why the hell do I feel like I need to?" Corrigan shouted.

  Winterroad returned the angry stare and remained silent.

  "Aw, shit, I didn't call you in here to jump on your ass," Corrigan said in a milder tone. "I just want you to know what you're getting yourself into."

  "I know. I knew that when this assignment landed in my lap and I was told to work the angles on this one stateside. CIA activity within the borders of the continental U.S. of A. is frowned upon."

  Corrigan sat in his chair again and laced his hands before him. Winterroad couldn't help but notice how much the man had seemed to age since taking the promotion. "Alan Tucker's being stonewalled in Tokyo by the Foreign Affairs people and the Justice Department operating over there under Hal Brognola."

  "Brognola's a hardass."

  Corrigan raised his eyebrows. "You know him?"

  "We've met."

  "In effect, it seems we've been cut out of this operation by the Japanese and the Justice Department. I want us back in. The director wants us back in. As you know, some of this trouble stems from the Agency. De Luca was a prime example of that." Corrigan paused. "I'm not going to put on the kid gloves for you. You've been around the block enough times to know the score. If we don't turn up something on this pretty damn quick, we're going to end up getting a black eye, and heads are going to roll. Tucker's, mine, and maybe yours. We don't have time for the prima donna bullshit anymore.

  "I want you on this," Corrigan went on, "and I want you on top of this from now on. We need to find De Luca, or someone else who's been involved with the teams hitting the Japanese businesses here. I want you to find out who and why before it's too late to stop the walls that are going up between America and Japan. I'll tell you right now, off the record, that if you thought the Wall Street crashes of 29 or 87 were something, you haven't seen a damn thing yet." He shuffled papers on his desk and spread out a dozen folders with the sweep of his hand. "I've got breakdowns on what could possibly happen in the next few months if Japanese investing continues to dry up. We're talking about an economic panic here."

  "We're talking about a cash flow junkie going cold turkey," Winterroad said.

  "We're talking a
bout people's lives."

  "We're talking about selling the United States out one little piece at a time." Winterroad tapped the folders. "I've seen those figures for myself, and to tell you the truth, they scare the hell out of me. I didn't know other countries owned such big chunks of us. I've been just as guilty of ignoring what's in the newspapers and stock reports as the next man."

  Corrigan slumped back in his swivel chair. "Go home and get some sleep. We'll talk later this evening when I get a final analysis in on some things we've got working."

  Winterroad nodded and stood. He walked to the door and opened it.

  "John."

  He glanced back at Corrigan, who was straightening the files scattered across his desktop.

  "I'll see what I can do about Vachs's grievance." Corrigan smiled. "Chances are it'll end up in the circular file by mistake. Just leave the kid alone."

  "Do yourself a favor and find something else for him to do. Anything that will keep him away from me."

  "All right."

  Winterroad closed the office door behind him and walked to Corrigan's secretary. He gave her an honest smile as he patted the slim young woman on the shoulder. "Do you still keep antacid tablets up here for Corrigan?"

  She smiled at him with lights dancing in her gray eyes. "Sure do."

  Winterroad noticed the single yellow rose in a white vase in one corner of her desk. "Things getting serious between you and the boyfriend?"

  She shrugged. "Maybe, but you know I still only have eyes for you."

  He tapped her under the chin with a scarred knuckle, noticing, not for the first time, how kissable her lips looked, then remembered she was young enough to be his daughter. Feeling even more depressed, he walked to his desk in the bullpen and locked up the drawers. He didn't want to go home to the empty apartment he maintained near the Wolf Trap Park Farm for the Performing Arts, but he cared even less to stay here. He looked around the bullpen, realizing for the first time in a long while how much he would miss it if events forced him out of the Agency. He had given a lot to his country, and he couldn't help but wonder how much he had left to give. And wasn't it strange how the right things to do could so easily turn out to be wrong things?

  His phone rang and he considered walking out on it, but couldn't because he never had. "Hello?"

  "Good morning," Sacker's unforgettable voice said.

  Winterroad froze, not knowing what to say. He glanced back through the glass walls at Marie, who was talking on her phone and smiling. "You realize this phone could be tapped," he said.

  "Rest assured that it isn't."

  Winterroad didn't miss the double meaning that the man still had other friends among the Langley staff.

  "I think it's time we talked."

  Winterroad took off his hat and twirled it on his finger. Corrigan's words still rested uneasily in his mind, sifting through the economic dilemmas nesting like malignant tumors in the information assembled on Japanese investing. He couldn't help thinking that doing the right thing might only amount to doing something a man could live with. He said, "Where do you want to meet?"

  "At Wolf Trap in, say, an hour and a half. That way you'll have time to go home, shower and dress. Wear something casual and dump the shoulder holster. Use an ankle rig if you feel naked." Sacker's voice was calm and confident. "I'll bring breakfast."

  "You're in town? You must still have balls of iron."

  Sacker chuckled, and it sounded as chilling as ever. "Some things don't change, no matter what else does. Be sure you come alone." The connection broke without warning.

  * * *

  "Shoji Kokan was the only guy they tried to take out," Bolan said. He stared at the glossy pictures of the dead men Brognola's team had put together. There were dozens of them scattered around the hotel room, more than one shot of each, some taken before they had been killed. "Why, with Hosaka just as available, and clearly in a higher position in the consortium?"

  Brognola sat on the sofa studying the latest pictures of the dead men. He moved the Polaroid snapshots with a forefinger as if they were pieces in a puzzle. "Maybe they considered him to be the greater threat," the big Fed suggested.

  Moving on to the wall where they had used masking tape to adhere the faces at eye level in almost straight rows, Bolan glanced at each in rapid reflection. "How was Kokan's security here in Tokyo?" he asked.

  "We can't even say for sure he was in Tokyo that long before the meet," Tucker replied.

  "The Agency had a team on him?"

  "They've had a team on ail of the consortium's big guys," Tucker replied, "but it hasn't done a lot of good. Most agents are too damn conspicuous to go poking around everywhere these guys go, and they can't hang very close without tripping over Metropolitan Police or Foreign Affairs people."

  "Did we get anything on the team that hit our hotel rooms last night?" Bolan asked.

  "Bear's still working it," Brognola replied.

  "They're strictly street talent," Tucker added.

  Bolan looked away from the wall. "Yakuza?"

  "Maybe."

  "Any idea who they were assigned to?"

  "No."

  The CIA agent's answer was too blunt, but Bolan let it pass. "There's only one tie with the Yakuza we know of," he said. He looked at Tucker and Brognola. "Saburo Hosaka."

  "You're barking up the wrong tree, Belasko," the CIA man said. "Saburo Hosaka has no interest in this consortium at all."

  "That you've been able to determine," Bolan said.

  Tucker shrugged.

  "Maybe he has an interest in seeing the consortium fail. Have you considered that?"

  "No, but how the hell would Saburo Hosaka have the resources to do everything that's been done in the States?"

  "He wouldn't need them if he was working with someone," Bolan replied.

  "Still, Saburo isn't the type to cross his father."

  "You don't think he is."

  "What are you driving at, Mike?" Brognola asked.

  Bolan pointed at the two covered walls. "On one hand, we've got Caucasian teams of ex-CIA and Air America guys. On the other, we have definite links to the Yakuza. We can choose to pursue the CIA connection, or we can move on the more homegrown one. I'm betting on the Yakuza because this is their turf. They don't have to operate here without being noticed like the ex-Agency teams do."

  Tucker wasn't smiling. "Those men wouldn't exactly be called high-profile."

  "No, but they're used to the hit-and-git method of strikes." Bolan looked back at the collection of photographs. "No, the answer, at least part of it, is on the streets."

  "And that's one area Fujitsu wants us to stay out of," Tucker said. "The emotions are running high in Tokyo at the moment. It might not be long before Americans and Europeans are attacked in the streets."

  "He's right," Brognola added. "The President's getting ready to ask American citizens to come home as soon as possible until we can get a handle on this situation. And you can bet our stay in-country is going to be curtailed before long, as well."

  Someone knocked at the door. Brognola levered himself to his feet with the cane and limped over to it. His free hand was on the butt of his .38 as he peered through the peephole. "It's Roberts," he said as he unlocked the door.

  The Justice agent came into the room and gave Brognola a manila envelope. "From Interpol," he said. He glanced up at the photographs. "Redecorating?"

  Bolan ignored the man's grim humor. "What about Michi Ransom?"

  "She dropped out of sight while Fujitsu ran our guys through the wringer."

  "What about her hotel room?"

  "The desk clerk said she checked in yesterday morning, but she hasn't been in since."

  "So she obviously has some place to go when she runs to ground," Bolan said.

  "Why are you interested in the Ransom woman?" Tucker asked.

  "She's another common link between East and West in this operation."

  "She's just a reporter."

  "Who has a u
nique way of killing a story," Bolan assured the CIA man.

  Brognola slit the envelope open with a thumbnail and extracted the contents. "Take a look at this," the big Fed said, holding the packet out to him.

  Bolan examined the corpse's face. "Who am I looking at?"

  "The guy who tried to put Tucker and me on ice yesterday morning."

  The warrior flipped through the reports, leafing through mug shots from Interpol, and secondary data supplied both by Interpol and Kurtzman from Stony Man. The last arrest noted was for transporting cocaine to Hawaii, and the name of the probable trafficker he worked for at the time was Saburo Hosaka. He closed the file and gave it back to Brognola. "If the Ransom woman turns up," he told the big Fed, "I want her followed if we can arrange it. Nobody is to talk to her. Just keep an eye on her until I get in touch with you."

  Brognola nodded. "Where are you going to be?"

  "In the streets," Bolan said as he pulled a brown bomber jacket on over his turtleneck. He took up the handles of the suitcase containing his blacksuit and the Desert Eagle. "I'm going to rattle a few cages of my own and wait to see who fails out."

  "You're not going out there like some goddamn vigilante," Tucker growled, stepping in front of him. "That's only going to make matters worse."

  Bolan's gaze was pure ice-blue penetration. "I came over here because I was asked to do a job," he told the CIA agent. "Evidently the rules I was supposed to play under have been rigged against us, so it's time to throw in a few new rules. Mine."

  Tucker reached for his pistol.

  Bolan had the Beretta out in an eye blink.

  Tucker left his weapon holstered and pulled his hands above his shoulders. He locked eyes with Bolan. "Is this the kind of operation you're running, Brognola?"

  The big Fed sat down on the sofa. "I've got two dead agents on this thing so far. I could have lost some more today. I don't give a damn what it takes, but I want a handle on this operation now."

  "You got him, Ron?" Bolan asked.

  Roberts pulled his .45 and leveled it at Tucker. "Yeah, I got him."

  Slipping the Beretta back into the shoulder rig, Bolan moved out. The next battleground would be defined by the Executioner.