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  "If you mean, do I kill people for greed or government, then no, I'm not. I've been trained to take care of myself."

  "Evidently more than most."

  Her responding smile was slight, without humor. "As you say. I had a most demanding teacher."

  A policeman crossed the street in front of them, walking against the flow of pedestrian traffic. People grumbled and spread out around him.

  Bolan moved more to the right, not wanting to cross the street to avoid the man, trying to shrink inside his clothes so that his height wouldn't be so apparent. His own dark hair would pass at a glance, as would his dark complexion. "Have you given any thought to what might happen if we're discovered?" he asked as the policeman came toward them.

  "Don't be discovered." Her words were flat and final.

  The policeman was less than twenty feet away when Bolan put an arm around her shoulders. He felt her tense, about to spin away from him. "Don't," he whispered. "They're looking for a man apart from the crowd, not someone who's here with a girlfriend. Put your arm around my waist and smile." The policeman looked at them briefly, then went on. They passed under the brightly painted gateway of Sensoji temple a few moments later, stepping into a courtyard ringed by tall oak trees.

  She broke their embrace and moved a step away. The sky let loose with a sudden torrential downpour. The woman pulled her clothing tightly around her, moving quickly toward one of the smaller buildings clustered together on the east side of the courtyard.

  She passed through the doorway without hesitation, calling out a name. The room was large by Japanese standards, at least sixteen tatami — traditional rush mats — covered the floor. Then a rice paper door slid open to Bolan's left, allowing a small man approximately the woman's age to step into the room.

  "Akemi," she said, bowing slightly, then spoke rapidly in Japanese.

  After a few moments, Akemi turned to look at Bolan, his gaze lingering on the Executioner's eyes before dropping to the general area of the wound in his side.

  Bolan stood so that he could keep them in view as he watched the crowd thinning out of the courtyard. Every dry place available outside filled with people as umbrellas began to mushroom in increasing numbers. When he turned back to face the man and woman, he found that she had gone. He moved forward, intending to find her because she was his only lead to what was going on.

  "You will not find her," the man said in heavily accented English.

  Ignoring the words, Bolan stepped through a curtained doorway, finding a much smaller room on the other side with more knee pillows organized across the floor. Three blank walls greeted him.

  "She's gone," he said, turning back to the man, who was now kneeling in front of a row of candles.

  "Hai." The man nodded as he lit a trio of candles, then carried them toward Bolan. "She still has much to do." He waved toward the small room. "Please come. She has told me of your wound. I will tend it for you." He waited, holding the curtain open, his eyes alert and careful.

  Bolan hesitated. "The police will be looking for me. It won't be safe for you if I stay here."

  "She told me this, but she knew I would not turn you away if she asked. We have been friends many years, she and I. We have trusts between each other that will not be broken."

  "She doesn't even know me."

  "I know, and that is why she told me not to give you her name, but she has seen that you are aligned against her enemies. Please come and sit down. Your wounds are already bleeding through again. If you continue to ignore them, nothing I can do will keep you from the hospital."

  Bolan stepped into the room, followed by Akemi.

  "Please take off your shirt and lie down," the Japanese said, pointing to a cot.

  When the warrior complied, the man knelt at his side, a shallow pan of water gripped in one hand, first-aid items in the other. His face was impassive. "There will be some pain."

  "I know."

  "I see that you do."

  A lukewarm cloth swabbed at Bolan's side. He isolated the pain, breathing steadily to reduce the discomfort. "Your name is Akemi?"

  "Hai."

  "You know that she's in danger?"

  "Hai."

  Bolan remembered the taut, unblemished body that had been revealed to him in the hotel room. The lack of scars had told of a lack of knowledge of violence just as his own testified to many such confrontations. "There were at least a dozen men who tried to kill me back at the river. How can she expect to hold her own against something like that?"

  "She feels she has no choice."

  "She told you that?"

  Akemi paused in his ministrations to look into Bolan's eyes. "I know that for myself without being told. Life is a series of trails, some traveled more, some traveled less so, each finding its own way. Some of these trails are not of our own choosing, yet we must follow them. It is a burden of honor, of duty. Were we unfettered to choose freely the substance of our lives, we might never encounter the crucible that transforms us into something more than we were."

  "You could help her."

  "No. I have given up the warrior's path."

  "You'd sit here and let her throw her life away going up against the kind of people who tried to kill me?"

  Akemi paused. "I have given my word."

  "I could help her."

  "Maybe."

  "Help me help her before she's hurt."

  "Name a way that I may."

  Bolan looked deep into the man's eyes, finding a sadness there. He let it go, knowing if he continued to pressure the man he'd only be banging his head against a wall of silence.

  Akemi's fingers probed and prodded, smeared medicants inside and over the two wounds. The salve had a sharp odor, pungent and stringent, stinging at first before settling into a warm and gentle burn.

  "Do you know who those men were?" Bolan asked.

  Pulling slender, black thread through the tiny jar of salve, Akemi said, "No. I know only what the radio has said of them. They were Caucasians carrying papers that identified them as Americans and Europeans." He passed one end of the thread through the eye of a needle, pulled it taut, then began to sew.

  "The papers were probably faked," Bolan said, ignoring the bee stings in his side. "Those men were professionals and probably had police records."

  "I think so as well."

  "You're very knowledgeable for someone who spends his time locked away in a shrine," Bolan observed.

  Akemi raised an eyebrow and flashed a quick smile. "I was not always here, nor did I always try to follow a quiet life."

  "Would you know where an American with money might go if he needed false papers to get around Tokyo?"

  "I have heard of people who deal in merchandise like that."

  "I need their names."

  "I will get them for you."

  "As well as where they do their business."

  "Hai."

  Bolan watched the man's fingers move quickly and surely, joining the two ragged edges of flesh.

  "You were very lucky. The bullet hit nothing vital."

  Bolan nodded.

  "Many people were not so lucky. I have heard that the rescue squads are still dragging the river for bodies."

  "She could have prevented that by going to the police."

  Akemi took up another stitch, nodding. "Maybe, and maybe she saved the lives she needed to. Perhaps things could have gone even worse with more guns there. Bullets know no morality once leaving the weapon. A sword cuts more true."

  Bolan noticed the almost hidden trace of pain in the man's words, wondered briefly at its cause.

  "What makes you worry about her?" Akemi asked.

  Glancing at the man, Bolan said, "She might not know what she's getting into."

  "And you do?"

  "Not yet, but I will."

  "Yet you were almost killed getting this far."

  "The operative word is almost."

  "And you are a professional in these matters?"

  "Yes."
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  "So why worry about her and what she does?"

  Bolan didn't answer.

  "You do not think she is your enemy?"

  "Not yet."

  Akemi snipped the thread with a small scissors, then dropped the needle and the excess thread into the pan of water. He rinsed the wound again and applied more salve. "Sit up, please."

  Bolan did so, grunting with the effort.

  "There will be inflammation and swelling," Akemi said as he covered the area with a gauze pad. He took a roll of gauze and began wrapping it around Bolan's waist, taping it into place every few inches. "I have some penicillin tablets I can give you, but I suggest getting a tetanus booster as soon as you can as well as a penicillin shot to fight infection. I have cleaned everything out as well as I could, but it would be wise not to take chances."

  "When I can," Bolan agreed, standing slowly. "For now it'll have to do."

  Akemi cleared away his first-aid equipment. He returned with fresh clothing, a notepad and a pen and proceeded to write as Bolan put on the clothes.

  The pants were a little loose but fit over the bandages with little discomfort. The shirt was enormous, with sleeves reaching well past his wrists. He rolled them up, peering through the doorway at the people still crowded away from the rain. He remembered the way the woman had reacted the first time he'd touched her, how she'd squirmed away from his arm on the street, the look that had been in her brown eyes after the bloodletting in the alley. "She hadn't killed before, had she?" he asked.

  Pausing in his writing, Akemi answered without looking up. "No."

  "I'm interested in her," he said as he tucked money into his clothes. "I'd like to preserve the innocence I saw in her eyes." He taped the .45 to his ankle, satisfied the loose slacks would conceal it.

  "You might be too late," Akemi replied, handing him a list of names. "There is much more here than you know. You do not even know if the problem that brought you to Tokyo has anything to do with her."

  "Those dead men answered that. It all ties in somewhere. I'll just have to figure out where."

  "I wish you well on your quest then."

  Bolan folded the list and put it into his pocket.

  "Those men might not be the only ones who offer false papers," Akemi said, "but all of those listed there are dangerous men. You will be taking your life in your own hands if you attempt to confront them."

  The warrior nodded and walked to the door. He tapped his wounded side gently and offered his thanks as he stepped out into the rain.

  Locating a phone outside the shrine proper, he dialed the number that would put him in contact with Brognola. There were no policemen in sight, but he knew they wouldn't be far away. An operator answered him in Japanese and he gave Brognola's name. The voice went on, coming to a stop when he told the operator he didn't speak Japanese. A moment later another operator came on the line. "Yes?" the new voice said.

  "I'd like to speak to Hal Brognola."

  "May I ask who is calling?"

  "Michael Belasko. He should be expecting me. I was calling to let him know I was going to be detained."

  "Ah, I'm sorry, Mr. Belasko, but I'm afraid I have some bad news. Mr. Brognola was wounded in an attack only a few moments ago. I've been instructed to tell you he is en route to Tokyo Eisei Byoin Hospital."

  "How badly is he hurt?"

  "I wasn't told. I can arrange for someone to pick you up if you wish."

  Bolan politely declined and hung up. He walked away into the rain, turning his thoughts to the list of names Akemi had provided. One way or another there was nothing he could do for Brognola now, but he could start shaking things up until something rattled loose. He was going to introduce the nightlife of Tokyo to the Executioner, and begin hunting the hunters.

  Chapter Four

  Mack Bolan kept a thumb over the bloodstained corners of his papers as he presented them to the woman at the counter of the car rental agency. She went through the motions hurriedly, writing down the credit card numbers logged in the Belasko name.

  Once processed, he called Kurtzman at Stony Man Farm while his car was being serviced. Bear came on the line before the third ring ended after the connection was routed through the various overseas checkpoints and rerouted through local exchanges so that it couldn't be traced to its destination.

  "This is Striker," he said into the mouthpiece, standing away from the wall so that he could survey the rain-darkened streets. "Something's gone wrong at this end of the ride."

  Kurtzman's voice became clipped and professional. "Where are you now?"

  "In the city."

  "Alone?"

  "For now. It got pretty chummy about an hour and a half ago. You should be hearing about it through the news services soon."

  "I think I already have. The action down on the riverside?"

  "That's the place." He shifted inside the new clothes he'd bought before going to get the car.

  "Did you make your meet?"

  "Negative."

  "No brief?"

  "No brief."

  "Damn, Striker, I wish I could spread a little of the dirt your way, but we're on a tight line at this end. Lots of big doings in the air."

  "That's what I was told."

  "Without a secure line at your end, too, I can't say a word."

  "Understood. I was just checking in to see if you had any messages for me."

  "Nary a one. But I can tell you that you're smack dab in the middle of radioactive lands, guy, and could get burned from any direction. This property you're checking into is definitely not exclusive, if you catch my drift."

  "Check." Bolan moved the .45 in his waistband, taking some of the direct pressure off his wound. Nothing was comfortable. "You might see if you can turn up the big guy over here and let him know I've still got a place in the game."

  "Will do."

  "The last I heard he was checking into a hospital."

  "I hadn't heard that." Concern filled Kurtzman's voice.

  "See what you can find out on the sly and I'll get back to you."

  "You got it. In the meantime I'll see if I can set up a secure line to your neck of the woods, just in case the bottom has dropped out on this thing. You going to be around?"

  "Yeah. I picked up an angle of my own to work."

  "How are you set on hardware?"

  "Making do. So far this mission has been anything but first class."

  "I'll see what I can do, but I can't promise anything."

  "Understood."

  "Take care, Striker."

  "You, too." Bolan broke the connection and moved toward the service area. His first scheduled stop was in the Asakusa district, at a nightclub called Scoundrels, followed by two more in the same area. He'd grouped them geographically so that he could cover more of them in less time. None of them opened before 5:00 p.m. In the four and a half hours until then, he intended to see if he could upgrade his armament while maintaining a low profile and do some preliminary work on recon. Once he opened the play, there was no telling which way the action would run. If the opening numbers were any indication, it was going to be a hell of a horse race.

  * * *

  "Goddamn it," Brognola growled as he limped around on the wooden cane the emergency room had supplied him. "I've got a man loose in this shitstorm somewhere, Tucker, and that sandbag routine you're giving me is helping keep him out there." He cast a baleful gaze over the carnage spread out along the banks of the Sumida River and the surrounding streets.

  A tugboat with an impressive winch arm was dragging a battered Subaru from the river bottom. The big Fed felt his jaw tighten when he saw the bullet holes stitched across the windshield and the dead man's arm flop in the window. A trio of yellow fire trucks sat in front of a burned warehouse on the other side of the river while a dozen men searched through the rubble. There were eight police cars on the scene at last count, and at least thirty police officers. Ambulances picked up the dead in an organized fashion, each one filling up before letting
the next one move into the vacated space. The crowd still hovered on the edge of the police line.

  "I saw Special Forces tattoos on a couple of those men," Brognola said in a hard voice when Tucker remained silent. "The kind a guy could pick up in Vietnam during the Phoenix Project. You remember that little operation, don't you, Tucker? You might be a couple years too young to have been there, but you've been around the Company long enough to know that was the CIA's prima donna bid in that Southeast Asian farce."

  Tucker jammed his hands into his pockets. The rubber-banded butt of his .44 stuck out from the folds of his jacket. He turned to face Brognola, his sunglasses a dark line across his eyes. "Yeah, I know about the Phoenix Project."

  "What else do you know?"

  "I know that some of these guys were once CIA, though I doubt Langley will give that information to the Japanese."

  "Once?"

  Tucker nodded. "Once. This wasn't a Company-based operation, no matter what you think."

  "Then tell me what to think."

  Clenched muscles showed in Tucker's jawline. "Langley was aware of some of this. I was working on it, quietly, before things went haywire in the States. These guys are like phantoms, Hal. They cross borders without leaving a trail or, sometimes, without anyone knowing they were there for sure. They have big money behind them. It would take a lot of financial and political clout to get these guys to places undetected, and they've had it. So far they've only been hitting the Japanese interests, but nobody knows how long that's going to last." He looked away. "Hell, I've got guys on my payroll I don't even know I can trust."

  "How long have you been aware of it?"

  Tucker shrugged and watched a gurney being carried away, the occupant covered by a single bloody sheet. "I've known for the past month, since I was brought into the operation to figure out what the hell was going on. I couldn't tell you how long Langley has known. They wouldn't want me to tell you that much." He flashed a quick, mirthless smile. "I guess it doesn't matter. One way or the other, I figure this to be my last posting where I go in blind and stay that way. I'm not going to ask you to do the same."