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  He fought to resist, knowing his flailing was burning up the oxygen remaining in his lungs even faster. Turning away from the pull of the undertow, he watched as a shadow took form in front of him and wondered if Marashanski's body had somehow slipped free. Then hard fingers closed around his wrist and pulled him upward. Free of the undertow, he swam for the surface, forcing thoughts of waiting Japanese police from his mind.

  When he surfaced, he found himself almost in the middle of the river. He treaded water, panting, and checked to make sure he still had the .45 holstered at the small of his back.

  Vardeman broke the surface beside him, shaking his head like a wet dog. The bandanna the man had tied over his bald head to protect it from the sun gave him the appearance of a pirate, especially with the long fringe he kept on the sides. "Marashanski?" the big man asked.

  Tuley shook his head, still panting from the exertion. "Dead before we hit the water."

  "Too bad. The kid was starting to show some promise." He started swimming toward an approaching speedboat that carried three knife-wielding youths. "We need transportation, Cap'n."

  Tuley drew the .45, freezing as he went for his shot, barely having time to see the tillerman thrown backward and out into the water as the heavy bullet nailed the guy in the chest. Water closed over him for a moment as the recoil pushed him back down. When he resurfaced, Vardeman had a hand on the boat, hanging on to it as the motor died. The remaining two men rushed at him with their weapons. Tuley's .45 took another one out as Vardeman caught the remaining man's elbow in his hand and dragged the guy out of the boat.

  Swimming toward the speedboat, aware that more of the fishermen were working their way toward them now, Tuley saw Vardeman take the smaller guy under. As he put a hand on the stern of the speedboat and pulled himself out of the water, a crimson cloud spread under the river surface. A moment later Vardeman came up holding the captured knife.

  Tuley seated himself by the motor, and soon it roared to powerful life. He had to yell to make himself heard over the noise as Vardeman clambered aboard. "What about Ellison?"

  Vardeman pointed at his own body with two fingers. "Two shots through the heart that you could have laid a playing card over."

  "Did they get Belasko?" Tuley powered the craft through a narrowing gap between two fishing boats as the crews tried to cut him off.

  "No."

  Tuley scanned the riverbanks as crowds converged on the scene, pointing and talking. The insistent screaming of police sirens cut through the popping of the outboard motor.

  Vardeman grinned and adjusted his bandanna. "We'll get him, Cap'n. At least one of your shots hit him. I saw the blood. McElroy's group is on him now. He can run, but he can't hide."

  Tuley pulled the outboard against the east riverbank under the Komagata Bridge south of the battle zone. Gun in hand, he waved away the handful of people standing near the dock. Then he glanced back and saw the first police car roll into view, its pale blue cherry flashing. Doors opened and men got out just as another thunderclap of autofire rang out. The policemen took cover behind their vehicle, peering anxiously into the crowd. "Doesn't sound like Belasko's going to give up easily, does it?"

  Vardeman didn't answer.

  "You got your walkie-talkie?"

  "No. I lost it when I went under for you."

  Tuley felt the chill of the wind and glanced up to see dark clouds gathering.

  "There's no sense in trying to call those men off," Vardeman said. "Some of those guys Belasko killed were friends of theirs, and they know he was hurt. Got that blood smell in their noses now. If they can get Belasko quickly, they'll still have time to drop into the arranged checkpoints and vanish before the locals get them. Speaking of which…" The big man indicated the crowd inching toward them.

  Tuley lifted the .45 and watched the group fall back. Then he and Vardeman set off toward the dilapidated warehouse that covered their escape route.

  "We need time to figure out that son of a bitch," Tuley said.

  "We don't have a lot of time if we stick to Sacker's schedule."

  "Sacker's original schedule didn't include Belasko. This guy was a write-in from out of the blue. We have dossiers on everybody else. Sacker's always been good at researching intel, so why can he only come up with a handful of rumors on this guy?"

  Vardeman shrugged. "As long as he keeps the paychecks regular and the politics to the right of right, what have we ever cared? You and me, buddy, we learned how to fight and to kill a long time ago. It's what we do, and as long as we both agree that Sacker's the man to do the paying, I don't see that we've got a bitch coming. Sacker handles the details, but he doesn't do the hands-on research anymore. We've known that for years, and it didn't scare us away." He flashed a brief grin. "All this, and you still get to work for the benefit of the U.S. of A. at the same time."

  Tuley kicked open the warehouse door and covered the scattering shadows in the big, empty room with the .45, feeling the other man at his elbow, backing him up, without ever seeing him. The crowd continued its pursuit at a safe distance as the police car slowly forced its way through them. The siren had been turned off, but the blue cherry continued to flash. There were no further shots fired.

  "Sounds like it's over," Vardeman grunted.

  "I don't think so." Tuley spread the contents of a jerrican across the wooden floor, then followed Vardeman down into the narrow tunnel. He took a flare from a recess beneath the first rung of the ladder they'd descended, popped it and tossed it onto the floor. Flames whooshed across the wooden planking. Satisfied, he pulled the door closed over him, leaving only the yellow glare of Vardeman's flashlight. He followed Vardeman down into the darkness of the sewer, still wondering who Belasko was and what the man's continued survival might mean to their mission.

  * * *

  The mop handle splintered across the gunner's nose and forehead, knocking the man backward. Bolan dropped the few inches remaining in his hand as he knelt for the assault rifle. He fisted it in blood-slick fingers and winced when the wound in his side sent electric jolts of pain through his body as he cradled the weapon and rolled for the opposite side of the alley. Then, bringing the muzzle up, he regained his feet, still in a crouch.

  Four men spread out in front of him, bringing their weapons to bear. The Executioner touched off a 3-round burst that stitched the first man from navel to neck and threw him to the ground. The second burst would have chopped through the next man's head except the CAR-15 clicked empty after the first bullet. The man still went down, but the remaining two fired on full-auto, driving chips of brick at Bolan as rock dust clouded his vision.

  He dropped the useless weapon, knowing he'd never have the chance to check the other man for extra magazines. Pushing himself to his feet, he risked a glance around the corner before heading back into the street.

  The man on the right dropped his assault rifle and used both hands to grasp the black-feathered arrow that suddenly filled his left eye. His scream was piercing, then faded to nothing as he fell.

  The remaining man scanned the walls for the unseen enemy. A black shadow stepped from concealment on a second-story balcony, another arrow already nocked in the black bow that was held by black-gloved hands. The gunner tried to rake the figure from the balcony with the CAR-15 on full-auto, and a ragged line of pockmarks climbed up the brick wall toward the unmoving archer.

  Bolan watched the bowstring slide through the archer's fingers, then made his dive toward the man he'd stunned with the mop handle. His fingers found the .45 in the hip holster and ripped it free, lifting it to cover the black-garbed figure on the balcony. The gunner was down in the alley, the black shaft of an arrow poking dead center through his chest.

  Peering across the open sights of the .45, the Executioner saw that the archer had another arrow ready but wasn't pointing it at him. At that moment police sirens cut through the din of screams and excited voices behind him.

  "There's no time," the archer said in a muffled voice, keepin
g one hand on the bow and arrow while shaking a length of knotted rope from a backpack. "Hurry."

  Bolan released the hammer on the automatic and paused to grab the three extra clips the man at his feet was carrying. He jammed the .45 into his waistband, reached for the knotted silk cord and began pulling himself up as a police car roared around the corner of the alley and came to a stop almost directly below him. Two clean-cut Japanese plainclothes detectives tried to disembark.

  As Bolan reached for the wrought-iron railing of the balcony, the archer fired and drew smoothly three times, keeping an arrow at the ready. Startled shouts, interspersed with the breaking of glass and the screech of torn metal, came from below. He looked, expecting to find bodies of the two policemen sprawled in the alley with the corpses of the other men, but he was glad to see the arrows hadn't been directed at flesh-and-blood targets. The detectives had taken cover back inside their car. Three arrows protruded from the white sheet metal, still quivering from the force of the bow.

  Moving with an economy of motion, the archer removed the grappling hook of the silk cord from the balcony and flipped it toward the top of the building only four yards up. "Go," the archer commanded in a muffled voice, handing Bolan the rope.

  The warrior hesitated, not wanting to leave his unknown companion unaided, not knowing if he was only leaving one firing line for another.

  "Go," the archer repeated, bending the bow to send a black arrow crashing through the police car's windshield. "They're not going to stay there long, and I won't kill them. They're going to realize that in a moment, and we're going to be sitting ducks. You're wounded. I'm not."

  Bolan grabbed the cord in his hands as authoritative commands in Japanese filled the alley. The warrior used his feet to aid him in his scramble to the top and felt the weakness in his side slow him slightly as his head spun. But he forced the pain and weakness away and reached for the battle edge that had kept him going since Vietnam. Then, rolling over the top, he drew the .45, peered back down and fired a shot that ripped off the side mirror on the driver's side as the archer threw the bow over one shoulder and seemed to flow up the rope.

  The archer hit the rooftop running, dragging the cord while hurriedly wrapping it in a coil around one arm. Before they reached the other side of the building, it had been returned to the backpack. The archer didn't hesitate, using a hand to swing out onto a narrow canopy below, saying, "Walk where I walk or you'll fall through."

  Bolan nodded, dropping to the canopy and feeling it bend under his weight where it hadn't under his companion's. He reached for the archer, laying a big hand on a thin shoulder. "Wait. I want to know what's going on."

  The archer spun quickly, flinging his arm off, one hand filled with a black stiletto filed to a needle point. Bolan pulled his hand back but the stiletto stayed where it was in the clenched fist. The eyes, which were the only part of the archer's face revealed by the black ski mask, were moist and brown, delicately almond shaped. "Don't touch me," the muffled voice said hoarsely.

  Bolan nodded, aware of the crowd milling in the alley at their feet, knowing they would draw the Metropolitan Police to the area quickly.

  "There's no time to go into all of that," the archer said, making the stiletto disappear. "You can trust me to lead you to safety, or you can make your own way."

  "I'm not wanted by the police," Bolan pointed out. "Those men tried to kill me."

  "Suit yourself. But if you get yourself killed by any of those men who might still be in the area while you're trying to explain that to the policemen down there, it'll defeat my reason for saving you."

  "And what reason is that?"

  "Later." The archer leaped from the canopy to the rooftop of another building.

  Bolan followed, landing more heavily. "At least those policemen below are in a uniform I recognize."

  "Even then their intentions may not be what you think they should be. Nothing is ever what it seems." The brown eyes gazed at him speculatively. "I don't think the night or murder finds a stranger in you any more than it did in those men we left behind."

  He returned the direct gaze full measure, wondering at the challenge he found there. He cataloged the weapons his companion carried, noticing the short Japanese sword sheathed between the guy's shoulders under the quiver, knowing the loose folds of the black coverall concealed even more. The split-toed black tabi on the archer's feet drew attention to their smallness, making him realize how small the man really was.

  Pressing his free hand to the wound in his side, Bolan followed the archer across the rooftops, twisting and turning behind the higher buildings to lose anyone who might attempt to follow them the same way. His head was full of questions, wondering how much of what had happened to him in the past half hour had to do with Brognola's reasons for calling him to Tokyo. It wasn't his way to go into a situation blind, nor was it the big Fed's way to send him into a hellzone without a background workup.

  He crouched beside the archer on a building ledge under a brightly colored canopy that waved in the rising breeze. Balanced precariously, they inched down the ledge, hugging the rough brick facing.

  The archer knelt and lifted a window, then slid inside. Bolan eased through a moment later, hardly getting his feet on the floor before his rescuer threw a sash-bound bundle at his chest. He looked around the small hotel room, noting the sway-backed bed and the paint peeling from the walls.

  "There isn't much time," the archer said, slipping out of the black coverall. Her body was slender, the color of dusky olive, more girlish than showing the full bloom of womanhood, but the warrior put her age at somewhere on the right side of thirty.

  He unwrapped his bundle and found loose Japanese-styled clothing inside. "Get dressed," she said, pulling the ski mask from her face and letting her long black hair fall to her shoulders. "They'll be searching for us."

  He couldn't help noticing that she kept her weapons within easy reach at all times, just as he did. He peeled off his bloody shirt, grimacing as it pulled from his side. "Who are you?" he asked, dropping the garment into the plastic bag she pulled from an inside pocket of her clothing.

  She shook her head.

  "What was that all about?"

  "They were trying to kill you," she said, glancing at the torn flesh of his side. She produced a roll of adhesive tape and tossed it to him.

  He caught the tape and glanced down at the wound in his side for the first time. There were two holes: one going in and the other, slightly larger, going out, less than two inches apart. Nothing vital had been injured, but both entrance and exit wounds would need stitches to heal correctly. Most of the bleeding had stopped.

  "Can you manage?" she asked hesitantly.

  He looked up, catching her staring at the accumulation of scars crisscrossing his body. "Yes."

  A police siren sounded outside.

  "Who were those men?" he asked as he tore generous swatches from the bed sheets and folded them into squares, taping each one into place.

  "I don't know," she replied.

  "How did you know they would try to kill me?"

  "I didn't know who their target was. I just knew there would be one."

  He stepped out of his blood-stained jeans, pausing to remove his passport and papers and tucking them into a pocket of the clothing he had been provided with. A fistful of yen followed next, split into three divisions in separate sections of his clothing. He dropped the jeans into the plastic bag, then stepped into the dark gray pants and cinched them so that they'd help keep the pressure on the makeshift bandages. "How did you know they'd be there?"

  "That's not important."

  Bolan used the tape to secure the .45's extra magazines to the backs of his calves, wrapping them in layers so that he could peel them free one at a time if the need arose. "It suggests that you had foreknowledge of their attempt on me," he said in a flat voice. Pain, dull and throbbing, hammered his body as he straightened back up. His head spun for a moment. He indicated the clothing. "So does this.
"

  She faced him without speaking.

  "Why didn't you go to the police?"

  "I couldn't."

  "Why?"

  Her face settled into hard lines. "For reasons that are my own and don't involve you."

  "They involve me enough for you to kill two men on my behalf."

  "I had no choice after I discovered their intentions."

  Bolan's voice became ice-cold. "You had plenty of choice, lady."

  "Meaning the police?"

  He nodded.

  Her laugh was dry and bitter. "If you're that naive, then you have a lot to learn about the way life works over here. Some of the Tokyo policemen are no better than their American counterparts when it comes to taking bribes. If I had gone to them, you might be dead now, and me with you. No, thank you. I learned a long time ago not to trust anyone I didn't have to."

  The woman dropped into a cross-legged position on the floor long enough to secure her weapons in a roll-up tote bag, tossing it over her shoulder when she had finished. The black bow had unscrewed when unstrung, each half not much longer than the quiver of arrows. A baseball cap featuring a Tokyo Tigers patch completed her ensemble.

  "Now that you've got me, what do you intend to do with me?" Bolan asked as he followed her out of the room.

  "I'm going to find you a doctor, then you're on your own," she replied. Her face was expressionless beneath the cap.

  "You saved me only to let me go? Without telling me what's going on?"

  "I didn't have any choice about saving you," the woman said. "If you could have gotten away on your own, I wouldn't have been distracted from my real target. Thanks to your involvement I've temporarily lost the only lead I had."

  Bolan remained silent as they walked out onto the street, having deposited the plastic bag containing their clothes into a large trash bin inside the hotel. People flowed around them, moving in all directions. Uniformed policemen walked within the confines of the crowd, looking in every direction. "You're not a pro, are you?" he asked.