Ninja Assault Read online

  “I can find my way around, Lieutenant. Thanks for everything.”

  “A pleasure, sir,” the lieutenant replied, clearly not meaning it.

  The Chevy’s air-conditioning was powerful. When Bolan slid into the driver’s seat, he could already touch the steering wheel without a risk of contact burns. He shut the door behind him, sealed the windows against hot air intruding and got out of there.

  The TrailBlazer was larger than the rented cars he normally preferred, and it would cost him extra for the diesel fuel, but Bolan wasn’t paying out of pocket, and he might appreciate the Chevy’s off-road capabilities and ramming weight before he finished up his mission in Las Vegas. As for being too conspicuous, that wasn’t an issue. Flashy cars were all the rage in Vegas, whether you were lucky at the tables or just wanted lesser mortals to believe you were.

  A good start, overall.

  He would’ve liked a shower and a meal, but Bolan didn’t want to hang around the base a minute longer than he had to, drawing more attention to himself and generating the inevitable gossip, causing anybody to remember him. Besides, sweating would help him fit in with the tourists, not to mention local working stiffs who kept the desert city running like the vast money machine it was. And he could always find someplace to eat in Vegas, search online for restaurants of any style, cuisine and price range, from buffets in the casinos to a mom-and-pop café that had been overshadowed by the glitter palaces.

  His stomach started growling on North Main Street, heading downtown from the base. Bolan checked the Chevy’s dashboard clock and saw that it was early yet for rousting Yakuza thugs who would have spent a long night working angles on their turf or partying to welcome in the weekend. Vegas never slept, and while most of its denizens were forced to crash eventually, many of them led a vampire’s life, shunning contact with daylight.

  Early afternoon was soon enough to launch the second phase of Bolan’s war.

  He’d feed himself, and then go looking for his prey.

  * * *

  Azabu, Tokyo

  KAZUO TAKUMI KEPT his face expressionless as Toi entered the study, shoulders slumped as usual, and sauntered over to the nearest easy chair. He dropped into it, slouching until it seemed that he might slide on to the floor, but stopped short of collapsing, lolling like an astronaut prepared for liftoff from the launching pad.

  “You’re late,” Takumi said, his face still deadpan. It was an expression he’d perfected over decades, grown impervious to any aggravation, any threat. When he relaxed his features, let them mirror what he actually felt, those in his presence knew that he was either very pleased, or that they were about to die.

  “Busy,” Toi said, too lackadaisical to even form a sentence.

  “Doing what?”

  “Dono yō na.” The contemptible American expression, always uttered with disdain. Whatever.

  “When I summon you in future,” Takumi said, tight-lipped, “you will stop whatever you are doing on the instant and immediately come where you are needed. Is that understood?”

  “Needed?” Toi feigned confusion, putting on a half smile. “What do you need me for? You have Ando and your army. I can’t measure up to that.”

  “And yet, I keep hoping that you will try.”

  That seemed to sting Toi for a second, but he brushed it off. “The great inheritance, you mean? The so-called family?”

  “You’ve always taken full advantage of its privileges,” Kazuo said.

  “Why not? The money’s there, and we can’t take it with us.”

  “Are you going somewhere, Toi?”

  “We all are. Sensei Kodama says—”

  “Enough!” Takumi nearly shouted the command. “I have told you that we will not speak of this supposed holy man.”

  “Supposed?” When Toi echoed him, his voice dripped with contempt. “If you had seen what I have—”

  “I’ve investigated this guru you idolize. I know more than you think, Toi.”

  “Sensei Kodama is an open book.”

  “Indeed. But there are chapters you have yet to read.”

  “Enlighten me,” his son replied defiantly.

  “Another time. Today, I must inform you of your cousin’s sudden death.”

  Toi blinked at that. “Which cousin?” he inquired.

  “Noboru Machii.”

  That got through to him, piercing the insolent facade. Noboru had been bound to Toi by blood, as well as through the Sumiyoshi-kai’s familial network. Machii’s mother was Kazuo’s younger sister, Mariko. As children, Toi and Noboru had played together, attended the same private school, and it had obviously pained Toi when his cousin got the plum assignment in New Jersey.

  Had that move started Toi’s slide into farcical religion and disdain for all the other members of his family? It was a question that had to be postponed until another day.

  “What happened to him?” Toi asked, his voice subdued.

  “He died serving the family in the United States.”

  “Murdered, you mean.”

  “It was a hostile act, yes.”

  “Just another price of doing business, I suppose.”

  Takumi fought an urge to slap his son. “In fact,” he answered, “it was most unusual. Unprecedented for our dealings in America.”

  “All right. I’m listening.”

  “I hope so. While we have no final answers yet, there is a possibility the trouble will continue, spread beyond New Jersey, even to our own home shores.”

  “As if you didn’t have enough already,” Toi replied.

  He was correct in that. Japan’s Diet had passed its first law banning corporate payoffs to the Yakuza in 2011, while police in Fukuoka made special efforts to break up public meetings of five or more family members. In June 2013, Yakuza were banned entirely from some of that prefecture’s business districts, on pain of arrest if discovered. The National Police Agency had instituted a ratings system, ranking “combative” families in terms of danger to the public.

  Trouble enough, indeed, and now Takumi faced a worse storm.

  “I may require your help,” he said.

  “What can I do?” Toi asked him, seeming honestly confused.

  “Stand with me. Learn from me and take your rightful place within the family. Help me command and save our people.”

  Toi considered it. He seemed to waver, sitting up a little straighter, then told his father, “They’re not my people.”

  Takumi absorbed the insult and asked his only son, “Are we not flesh and blood?”

  “That doesn’t make us both the same. You feed on crime and suffering.”

  “And you eat from the same bowl, every day.”

  “Not for much longer.”

  “Oh? Are you to be emancipated now?”

  “A change is coming, Father.” Toi surprised Takumi, who could not remember the last time his son had called him that.

  “What change?”

  “There’s no point in trying to explain it,” Toi replied dismissively. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Try me.”

  “There’s no time. You have set a course that can’t be changed.”

  “And what is your course?”

  “You’ll see that soon enough.” He rose, brushing the wrinkles from his Saku three-piece suit that would have looked at home on any soldier of the Sumiyoshi-kai. So much for throwing off the chains of family. “I have to go now.”

  “You refuse to stand beside me, then?” Takumi asked.

  “I will be standing on my own, to make a difference,” Toi said, and left the room.

  At least, Takumi thought, he stood a little straighter as he exited than when he had arrived.

  Kato Ando responded to the intercom at once, emerging through a side door to the study.

  “Hai, Sensei.”

  “Go after Toi,” Kazuo ordered. “Find out where he goes and who he sees. Do not let him see you.”

  Ando nodded and hurried off to do as he was bid.

/>   * * *

  East Charleston Avenue, Las Vegas

  BOLAN WOUND UP going for the mom-and-pop, a Mexican café two blocks off the main drag that didn’t look like much but had a homey atmosphere inside and an extensive menu of dishes from south of the border. Once seated, with a longneck bottle of Corona beer in front of him, Bolan realized how long it had been since he’d last eaten, and he went for broke: a taco, tamale, enchilada, chile relleno, rice and beans. Why not, when he had no idea when he would have another chance to stop and feed himself?

  The food was fast, delicious, and it set his mouth on fire, demanding backup on the beer. While Bolan ate, he looked over two maps of Vegas he’d collected from a gas station, en route to lunch. Both showed the city’s streets and highlighted the various “resorts”—meaning hotel-casinos with their built-in shopping malls—but one also provided photos of the various attractions, which included Mendelbaum’s Goldstone casino, midway down the Strip.

  Vegas was always changing, at least superficially. It never hurt to brush up on geography before launching a new campaign, ensuring that he knew the various approaches and escape routes from his targets in advance.

  Neither map highlighted Night Moves, the strip club that Jiro Shinoda called home, but Bolan had the address and had no trouble plotting it as he was scoping the battleground. East St. Louis Avenue was still six blocks ahead of him, driving away from downtown, toward the Strip, and by the time he’d finished his meal, he thought the joint should probably be up and running. Jiro might not show his face that early in the day, but Bolan had a home address for him, as well, in case they missed each other at the skin show.

  He couldn’t help Merv Mendelbaum, that much was obvious, and Bolan didn’t waste time mourning for a mega-millionaire who’d gotten in over his head with players whom he didn’t understand. Whether the hotelier’s remains were ever found or not, Bolan assumed that he was dead. The odds against the other option—that he’d pulled a Howard Hughes and vanished voluntarily—were astronomical.

  Case closed.

  Nor was it Bolan’s job to seek justice for Mendelbaum, whatever that might mean. A rich man’s disappearance probably alarmed his friends in government, if for no other reason than cessation of his contributions to their various campaigns, but Bolan’s mission was to stop the Yakuza from planting any deeper roots in the United States.

  A futile task? Most likely, human nature being what it was. It would require a dedicated army to destroy the Sumiyoshi-kai, and they were only one of seventy-plus rival clans in Japan, all itching to expand their territory. Keeping them out of the States was an exercise in futility. But the Executioner could certainly discourage Kazuo Takumi’s family and frustrate their invasion plans.

  Beginning now.

  He’d cleaned his plate, finished his second beer and left his money on the table with a handsome tip. Outside, the old familiar heat was waiting for him, taking over where the restaurant’s air-conditioning let go of Bolan, with the closing of a door.

  Donning a pair of mirrored sunglasses, Bolan headed for his rented ride and off into his war.

  * * *

  Asakusa, Tokyo

  KATO ANDO HAD no difficulty catching up with Toi Takumi, trailing him to the subway stop nearest to Kazuo Takumi’s apartment building and below ground, crowding aboard the next train heading northeastward. Toi never checked to see if he was being followed in the crush of foot traffic. The thought, apparently, did not occur to him.

  He was a foolish boy.

  Ando had been a member of the Sumiyoshi-kai since he was seventeen. He served the family, but loved his oyabun and would do anything within his power to preserve Kazuo’s hold over the clan. Since no man lived forever, Kazuo Takumi was bound to pass someday, but he would not be taken out before his time if Ando could prevent it. That meant guarding Kazuo against all threats of any kind.

  Even from an ungrateful, disrespectful son.

  Rail transport in Japan could be a nightmare for the uninitiated. The trains were punctual, of course, their schedule so precise that “delay certificates” were often issued to passengers if a particular train ran five minutes late, thereby excusing any tardiness at work. Trains were also packed to the walls at rush hour, so crowded that uniformed “pushers” manned the subway platforms, jamming passengers into their cars like canned sardines, speeding each train on its way.

  That kind of crowding naturally led to certain problems. Pickpockets had a field day on Tokyo’s trains, but the most common offense was the groping of female passengers by men.

  Ando had no fear of a groping as he squeezed into the subway car Toi had selected, keeping his target constantly in sight. His scowl and burly frame discouraged any crude advances, and if they were not enough, he would be pleased to break a groper’s fingers like so many rotten chopsticks. He was also armed with a tanto blade and a burakku jakku—what foreigners would call a sap or blackjack—but deploying them in a sardine can would be difficult and would draw undesired attention to himself.

  Ando had no idea where Toi was going, but his orders were to follow and report back to his oyabun, no matter where the trail might lead. He kept a sharp eye on the youth—in fact, no longer very young—and was prepared to leave the train as soon as Toi got off. Whichever stop Toi chose, the crowds would cover Ando’s exit and permit him to continue surveillance of his mark.

  He saw Toi edging toward the car’s far doorway as they pulled into the Asakusa station. Ando started doing likewise at his end, meeting a measure of resistance from three businessmen who’d claimed the space before the door, until he jabbed one in a kidney with the stiffened fingers of his left hand, snarling at others in a tone that made them blanch.

  The moment that the doors hissed open, Toi was out and moving toward the nearby escalator. Ando gave him room, then followed with the flow of foot traffic, maintaining visual contact without drawing too close for comfort. Moments later, they were on the street and moving east, then turning north.

  Before Ando’s time, Asakusa had been Tokyo’s chief entertainment center, famous for its theaters, until American bombers had rained hellfire on the Japanese capital. These days, it was best known for the Sensōji Temple, hung with manji banners—backward swastikas—that paradoxically served as emblems of a peaceful faith. Tourists flocked to photograph it, and to purchase souvenirs from countless tiny shops. Locals gravitated, in turn, to Kappabashi Dougu, lined with stores selling kitchen and restaurant supplies.

  Toi Takumi had no restaurant to furnish, and he had not come to spin a prayer wheel in the Buddhist house of worship. Ando trailed him northward, past the looming Sensōji kodomo Library. A block beyond it, Toi turned east again, along a side street, and immediately ducked into a stairwell on his right.

  Ando slowed and crossed the street. He would not permit the stripling to outwit him with a simple dodge, but if the building was Toi’s destination, Ando needed to find out what drew him there.

  He found a point directly opposite the stairwell, dawdled with his back turned to it, window-shopping, while the polished plate glass served him as a mirror. He saw no one lurking in the stairwell, watching for a tail, and turned at last to double-check directly. Satisfied, he plunged through traffic, trusting the city’s noise-conscious drivers to lay off their horns.

  Reaching the entryway he sought, he paused again and checked the stairs from top to bottom. Reaching underneath his jacket, he stroked the handle of his sheathed tanto blade, and then began his cautious climb.

  * * *

  TOI TAKUMI KNOCKED twice on the plain door, simply labeled “9,” and waited with a heady feeling of anticipation that came over him each time he visited his master. He had already put his father’s lecture out of mind, dismissing all the crap that the old man shoveled in defense of his corrupt, pathetic Sumiyoshi-kai. No matter what his father thought, Toi had found another path.

  The door opened, no sound of anyone approaching, and the master stood before him. “Welcome,” Susumu Kodama
said. “Please, enter freely, and without constraint.”

  Toi bowed, then stepped across the threshold, relaxing as the door closed behind him. The smell of incense—sandalwood and benzoin—instantly enveloped him, accompanied by subtle music playing in the background at low volume. Toi could not have named the melody, but it took only seconds to accommodate the rhythm of his pulse.

  In the foyer, Toi slipped off his Gucci loafers and replaced them with a pair of soft felt slippers that awaited him. Kodama knew his size and always was prepared. The master moved directly to a low divan and sat, while Toi settled into a bentwood chair directly opposite.

  “You were detained,” the master said, not asking. Not accusing, like Kazuo.

  “I was summoned by my father. I am sorry, Master.”

  “There is no need for apology. We give priority to family.”

  “Saikosai Raito is my family,” Toi said. “I owe nothing to him.”

  “Except your life.”

  “An accident of birth, Master.”

  “That accident determines who you are, and what you may become.”

  Toi was beginning to feel flustered. “You guide my becoming, Master.”

  “But the raw materials were all within you at the start, were they not?”

  Toi could not argue with the master’s logic, so he simply bowed again.

  “Was it an urgent matter?”

  “He supposed so. Deaths related to his rotten business in America.” Toi felt a pang of guilt as he dismissed Noboru Machii out of hand, but it was fleeting, there and gone like a mosquito’s stab.

  “Does he expect the trouble to continue?”

  “All he cares about is losing money.”

  “Might this trouble cross the water?”

  “I don’t know, Master. What if it does?”

  “It might become our golden opportunity.”

  “As a diversion?”

  “Possibly. How goes preparation of the cleanser?”

  Toi admired his master’s flare for euphemisms.

  “All on schedule. We shall meet the quota.”

  “And the apparatus for delivery?”

  “Tested with satisfactory results.”