Siege Page 2

  "Who set this up?" Bolan demanded, grabbing on to a berthed rowboat behind him.

  "Tuley," the man answered. He flailed weakly against the water as three small outboards closed in, filled with grim-faced Japanese youths carrying makeshift weapons. "Ross Tuley."

  "Spell it."

  The man did.

  "Why me?"

  The man spluttered, fighting against the water.

  Bolan restrained him, struggling to keep them both afloat. The poppings and crackings of the outboard motors made conversation difficult. He shook his captive. "Why me?"

  "Tuley had orders to talk to you, to find out what you were doing in Tokyo. You reacted too fast. Orders were that if you resisted, we were to take you out and worry about what you were here for later."

  One of the outboards choked and gasped as the engine died, allowing the small craft to come drifting in sideways. Two young men wielding hooked fishing knives glided toward them, yelling in Japanese. Most of it Bolan couldn't understand, but there was no doubting their intent. "What name did they give you?" he asked.

  "Belasko. Michael Belasko. We picked you up at Narita International Airport, stayed with you until you made the Shimbashi Station junction and set this up." The man's voice was stronger now. "Hey, look, guy, the natives don't appear to be very friendly. What do you say to us getting the hell out of here and figuring out what to do later?"

  Bolan didn't answer. He wondered if this had anything to do with what Brognola had called him in for. The big Fed had set the paperwork in motion that allowed the Executioner into Tokyo under the Belasko name, but the security could have been penetrated at either end of the operation, and "Belasko" himself had made a number of enemies over the past little while.

  A shadow crossed the warrior's vision, and he quickly submerged, trying to bring his captive with him. The boat hook slipped past his chin, burying itself under his prisoner's jawline. Crimson flooded the dark waters. The man twisted in pain, unable to speak because the boat hook had nailed his lower jaw to the roof of his mouth, his arms reaching futilely for his attacker.

  Bolan saw them both tumble into the river in front of him just as the familiar sounds of a large-bore rifle thundered into his ears. A fist-sized hole appeared suddenly in the chest of the young man holding the boat hook. Splinters erupted from the rowboat just over the Executioner's head, scattering across the river surface as he went down. He palmed the .45 from his waistband, knowing there was at least one sniper on the Azuma Bridge, wondering what Brognola had brought him into. But that thought dissolved as something impacted brutally against his lower ribs, driving the wind from his lungs in an explosion of bubbles.

  * * *

  "Where the hell is he?" Ross Tuley barked into the walkie-talkie. He peered through the compact binoculars hanging from his neck rather than the telescopic sights of the Weatherby, scanning the river where Bolan had gone under. Two bodies, the Japanese kid's and Ellison's, floated up, locked in a bizarre death embrace.

  "I'm looking for him," Vardeman radioed back. "For God's sake, keep your shirt on."

  Tuley dropped the binoculars and slapped the top of the stone bridge with his palm. "I want that bastard found," he snapped into the walkie-talkie, "and I want him found now."

  An old man dressed in a dark blue robe stepped forward from the crowd at the east end of the bridge, holding his hands up. "You must not do this," the old man begged in broken English. "There are women and children here who do not deserve the trouble you bring to them."

  Tuley brought the sniper rifle to bear on the old man's chest. He smiled thinly. "Don't be a hero, Hito. Come any closer and I'll blow you away. I'm already having a bad day, and there isn't a thing you can do to fuck it up more except to make me mad."

  "I got him," Vardeman's voice called out.

  Tuley turned from the old man. "Where?"

  "Nine o'clock from your position. Just got a smell of him before he dropped out of sight alongside one of those fishing boats."

  Tuley watched a flurry of activity erupt on one of the vessels as the fishermen on board picked up everything they could lay their hands on. He thumbed the walkie-talkie. "Connors, I make that your target zone." He stared across the river, seeing Connors move into position on the roof of the apartment building. Then the man knelt, leaning into his weapon, ready to ride out the recoil. "Connors, get your ass down. I can see you from…"

  Two shots banged out, echoing up from the river. Connors rolled from the rooftop and dropped onto the pier below.

  "Son of a bitch," Tuley breathed. Another shot scattered sparks and brick fragments from the bridge less than a yard away. Tuley dropped automatically, rolling back to cradle his rifle. "Son of a bitch!"

  "Ross," Vardeman called over the walkie-talkie.

  "Here, damn it."

  "Are you okay?"

  "Yeah, so far, though it's not from that bastard's lack of trying." He scrambled to his knees, peering warily toward his target. He saw Bolan haul himself up a pier farther down the river, a dark stain spreading across the big man's lower right side. "Somebody got a piece of him."

  "Yeah, well, he isn't moving like it."

  "I noticed. Where the hell did he get that gun? I thought he checked through customs clean."

  "He did," Vardeman said. "My bet is that he picked up one from the on-site team. There's a handful of guys down in that water who won't be needing theirs anymore."

  "Close in on him," Tuley ordered, pushing himself to his feet and trotting toward a waiting Subaru. "I don't want this guy to get away." He clipped the walkie-talkie to his belt, then clambered into the small 4×4, barely seating himself before Marashanski took off.

  Tuley tried to keep Bolan in sight as they rolled down the side road along the river, watching the man make the leap from the deck of one fishing boat to the top of another. Then the scene was swept away as Marashanski took a hard left into a covered alleyway that was scarcely large enough to allow the Subaru through.

  Tuley grabbed the walkie-talkie and keyed it up. "Vardeman!"

  "Here."

  "Do you see him?"

  "Yeah, he's still here."

  "Still moving?"

  "You got it."

  Tuley unslung the binoculars, focusing on Bolan as he made the leap from the top of the last fishing boat he'd landed on to the side of the bridge.

  "You should have stayed where you were," Vardeman said. "He's doubling back."

  "He knows the area, damn it. I figured we'd have our best shot here, where he'd be cut off from whoever he's meeting. He's heading for Nakamise Street. You can bet your ass on that. Once he gets lost in those shops, he can be lost as long as he wants to."

  "Time's on his side and he knows it. We aren't dealing with some babe in the woods on this one."

  "Yeah, I figured that from the start. I just didn't figure on the guy being this good."

  The Subaru hurtled back toward the covered alley. Tuley held on to the rifle in his lap. Assuming his quarry had taken a pistol from one of the guys below, that gave him eight shots in the .45, and he'd fired three of them. At least three of them. That would leave five. Then Tuley remembered that assumptions had left a lot of good guys dead. He gripped the rifle tighter.

  The 4×4 roared out of the alley, preceded by screams of the people standing in the street. Tuley held on to his seat, not believing his eyes when the first thing he saw was Bolan standing in the open with a pistol leveled in front of him. The merc ducked, already hearing the bullets smash through the windshield, listening to Marashanski die beside him, feeling the Subaru skid wildly out of control as the driver fell forward.

  Ten yards away, Bolan finished the .45's clip, spacing the bullets across the 4×4's windshield, knowing the passenger had ducked too soon to remain in the line of fire. He threw himself out of the way of the uncontrolled vehicle, and the Subaru smashed through the railing above the river, toppling end over end to crunch through the top of a fishing boat.

  Autofire skipped across t
he street, seeking Bolan. The warrior moved, still holding the useless .45. The wound in his side didn't feel as if it were life-threatening, but he'd learned a long time ago that death could come quietly for a man on the battlefield. He felt the sticky warmth, diluted slightly by the wet clothes, trickle down his side.

  Faces blurred past him as he ran. His feet hit the street solidly, pushing him on, propelling him up to clamber over a stalled rickshaw, dropping to the ground as autofire ripped the bright green material that covered it into tatters. His breath whooshed out of him as he hit off balance, bracing himself on his hands as he recovered. Disembodied screams and wails pursued him. An old man driving a bicycle fell to the ground, forcing him to leap over the tangle of flailing arms and spinning wheels.

  He landed in a shoulder roll and came up into a screaming forest of arms, legs and bodies.

  "Over here!" someone yelled. More voices picked up the cry.

  Bolan guessed there were at least a half-dozen armed men on his backtrail, but he had no time to check. Bullets kicked off the wrought-iron patio of the apartment above his head, driving the frightened people around him to the ground and leaving him exposed. He ducked into the first alley he came to, scattering the metal trash cans behind him. He bounced off the walls with his hands and headed into the next alley, which would keep him headed in the direction of Kaminarimon Gate.

  Darting back out onto the main street, he saw the large and ornate Kaminarimon Gate less than twenty yards away. People moved in a constant flow in both directions through it, dressed in conventional suits and business attire as well as the white robes of the Shintoists going into the temple at the end of the street. He pressed a hand to his side, then pulled it away to gaze at his bloody fingers. Ripping off a sleeve of his shirt, he folded it and tucked it inside his waistband as a pressure bandage.

  A man cradling a CAR-15 sprinted around the corner, looking both ways, paying no attention to the people that scattered from him. Pressing himself back against the alley wall, the Executioner reached for the broken mop handle that jutted up from a nearby trash can. He swung its three-foot length in a short arc by his leg to get an idea of its weight. Then he froze, listening for the quick steps of the approaching man, hearing even more coming up the alley after him. He tightened his grip, waiting until the man drew even with the corner of the alley and swung.

  Chapter Two

  "Papa Hosaka is a real ball buster," Alan Tucker said as he signaled for the right-hand turn that would take the car toward the underground garage of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs building. "He's been screaming since the first that he's the victim of an American conspiracy, and that the CIA people heading the investigation — meaning me — are doing nothing more than staging an elaborate cover-up."

  Hal Brognola shifted his unlit cigar from one side of his mouth to the other as Tucker expertly cut off an oncoming car to make his turn. He caught the younger man's attention and lifted an eyebrow. "Are you?"

  The CIA man laughed good-naturedly.

  Brognola decided he liked the sound. It made the prospect of working with Tucker easier to accept. When the President had suggested pairing him with someone from Langley, he'd almost turned the request down — until he looked at the reports that crossed his desk immediately after his conference with the Man.

  Tucker moved into the lane for the underground garage. "The front office warned me about you."

  "Yeah?"

  "Yeah."

  Brognola chuckled. "And what did they say?"

  "That you were the most tight-fisted, uncompromising, distrustful son of a bitch to ever jockey a desk at Justice. That pretty much sum it up?"

  Brognola crushed the wet cigar into the gleaming, unused ashtray, enjoying the look of dismay that flashed across the CIA man's face. "Pretty much," he replied, relaxing back into the seat.

  "They also said you were a good man to depend on when the going got rough. And that you could be counted on to get the job done right in the clinch."

  "The people in Langley must be getting generous of late."

  Tucker laughed and moved up one more space in the line through security. "They are where you're concerned. I was told to stay on the level with you concerning everything I do while we're together."

  "You'll excuse me if I pause for a guffaw of disbelief."

  "Guffaw if you want, but I'm being honest here."

  "I've never known the Company to run anything on the level with an outside agency in ail the years I've been associated with them."

  "Me, neither, and I've been involved in some shit-storms." Tucker smiled, looking younger than the early thirties Brognola had him pegged at. The CIA man was lean and good-looking, with a nice, even tan, capped teeth and unruly dark brown hair. He looked as if he'd be more at home on a tennis court or as a news anchor. He looked comfortable in the expensive suit he wore.

  "Them telling you that only means one thing," Brognola said as the shadow of the underground garage slid over them. "Either you're telling me that to make me feel good and get me to open up, or…"

  "Or they're telling me that because they know I'm the highest profiled member of the Tokyo-based team and they plan on keeping me in the dark with you."

  Brognola grinned without mirth. "Pleasant company you're doing business with, Tucker. Where do you plan to be in five years?"

  "Alive, my man, and still playing the game because it's gotten into my blood. The same way it's gotten into yours." Tucker reached into his jacket and pulled out a pair of Foster Grant sunglasses. "Excuse me a minute," he said as he thumbed down his window.

  The air was cooler in the underground garage, but tainted with auto exhaust and the mildewed smell of large air-conditioning units. Yellow-bulbed security lights were mounted every few feet on the concrete wall. An old man was pushing a broom down the left side of the enclosed parking area.

  Tucker spoke in Japanese, dangling his ID out the window. Brognola picked up the names of Hosaka and Fujitsu, the man in Foreign Affairs they were meeting with. The CIA man nodded, put his ID away and continued into the lighted recess of the garage. Then he took the sunglasses from his eyes and held them toward Brognola. "Lots of moviegoers in Tokyo," he said. "Get all our best stuff through the black market. It's how they learn American culture. You show 'em a pair of Grants, and they figure you for CIA immediately. Lends credibility when you flip out the ID. I don't wear them unless I want to be known or noticed." He pulled into a slot and they got out.

  "Tell me about Joji Hosaka," Brognola said as they walked toward the bank of elevators.

  "You received a package on him, didn't you?"

  "Yeah. One from Langley with your John Hancock on it, and one from my research people."

  Tucker smiled. "And did they jibe?"

  "Almost line for line."

  "So what do you want to know?"

  "I got the paper on the guy, and I know his birthday and what he likes to do when he's not busy making money, but you've talked with the guy."

  "You're looking for a handle on him."

  Brognola nodded. "Something like that."

  "I can't give you any easy answers. If there were any, I'd be on top of this situation by now." Tucker came to a stop in front of the elevators, reached out and tapped the Up button. "Joji Hosaka is a clever little animal with more strings to pull than a textile worker. Other than that, I don't have much."

  "I don't want to run my people in here blind," Brognola told him. "You lose too many of them that way."

  "I know."

  Tucker's voice was soft, and Brognola believed the man was speaking from experience. The doors parted to reveal a handful of male and female office workers talking among themselves. The big Fed felt tall and bulky as he stepped inside, like an oversize ape next to the two small Japanese women left sharing the elevator with them.

  Tucker said something and smiled. The two women replied and returned the smile.

  Brognola felt even more uncomfortable and out of place when they looked at
him and he could only shrug.

  "I take it you don't speak the language?" Tucker asked.

  Brognola gave him a sour look, knowing the CIA man's obvious expertise in the situation he was expected to help control was part of the irritation he felt. "A few words. I've seen bits and pieces of Shogun."

  "Ah, Shogun" one of the young women said, nodding her head slightly. "Very good cinema."

  Her accent struck Brognola as being so atrocious that it was charming. He smiled and she smiled back.

  Tucker was grinning when he looked back. "You'll discover many Japanese speak English over here, so getting around won't be a problem."

  Brognola nodded, knowing the man also intended the information as a warning against eavesdroppers.

  The elevator rose smoothly with almost dizzying speed, discharging the two young women four floors up into surroundings of clean whiteness, Oriental rugs and large green plants.

  "I want you to form your own opinion of the guy," Tucker said as the elevator continued on. "Then we'll get together and compare notes. Hosaka is a hard, abrasive son of a bitch with an intelligence guided by nothing less than pure ruthlessness. His sons are chips off the same flint block."

  "Will the whole family be here?"

  "Yemon probably will, but not Saburo. From what I understand, papa Hosaka and his younger son aren't exactly on the best of terms. Saburo has a small problem with nose candy, both using and selling, that pisses the old man off since he's tried to point the family more toward legal business interests."

  "That wasn't covered in the documentation I received."

  "That's because it's not something real well-known at the moment. I know because I have a drinking buddy in the Metropolitan Police Department. I kept it out of all my reports as a favor to him. They're working on a few schemes of their own to nail Saburo Hosaka. I don't want to see them messed up because Langley decides we need to take an active role in what's going on. We're not here to ring down the curtain on an internal drug problem. We're here to figure out who's making an effort to destroy Japanese investments in the States, and why. Your own people didn't know about Saburo, either, so don't get your nose out of joint. I'm only telling you now because I want you going into this thing with both eyes open. In case you haven't noticed, we're going to be taking care of each other's back on this one."