dishonor.
He would think about the infiltration process, but in the meantime there was the matter of simple personal defense to be considered. Frank Spinoza and the others would be coming for him, one way or another — at the restaurant, at some public appearance, anywhere — and Kuwahara knew he must be ready for them.
The time was past for him to place some calls to San Francisco and Los Angeles, for starters. He needed reinforcements now, and if he made the calls this evening troops could be at his disposal by tomorrow. The first faint sounds of gunfire reached his ears like pinpricks stabbing at his psyche, piercing through the veil of meditation, opening his senses to the outside stimulus. And close behind he heard the grinding shriek of steel on steel.
Before he knew it, Kuwahara's heart was in his throat, leaving him alone with only raw emotion for a shield. He was too late. The calls he contemplated could not bring him help in time. He was trapped. Not yet.
The man from Tokyo regained a measure of his inner strength, reminding himself that an assault upon his house was not a victory his enemies could celebrate unless they reached him, killed or captured him. He could elude them still, perhaps defeat them with the force he kept on hand for such emergencies.
There would be time enough to place those calls an hour from now, he reasoned. Time enough to carry out a new offensive. His house was under siege by savages, and when the man from Tokyo had dealt with them, there would be more than ample time to ponder suitable reprisals on their masters.
Kuwahara left his study, moving with renewed determination toward the battlefront. His troops had need of him, and he of them. Together they were strong, and in their strength lay victory.
Moving through the darkness in a combat crouch, Bolan counted off the limos as they cleared the gate. The first was through and running clear, the windows down. Automatic weapons were spitting jagged tongues of flame in all directions at the gunners who were bold or foolhardy enough to show themselves. Behind it, numbers two and three broke through in tandem, rattling right across the twisted remains of Seiji Kuwahara's decorative gates.
He waited until number four was nosing through, then he raised the XM-18. Sighting quickly down the stubby barrel he stroked off a high-explosive round and rode out the negligible recoil, watching as his can impacted on the Lincoln's nose. There was a flash, a crack of heavy-metal thunder ripping through the night, and the crew wagon lurched to an abrupt halt, shattered engine dying in an instant.
Doors were springing open down there, the surviving occupants unwilling to sit still and wait for flames or the incoming rounds to seek them out like sitting ducks.
The warrior left them to it, satisfied that he had plugged the only exit, moving on in search of other targets in the hellgrounds. All around him small-arms fire was rippling through the night, most of it concentrating on the three remaining Lincolns as they powered along the curving drive toward Kuwahara's mansion. The other drivers either had not missed their tail car, or else they had decided that the crewmen were expendable.
And Bolan tipped his hat to savage loyalty, knowing that the cannibals would turn upon their own to save themselves. It was a trait that had assisted him before in time of need, and might again. He paced the Lincolns, tracking them on foot and keeping to the far left of the driveway, letting those cars draw the full attention and the hostile fire of Kuwahara's soldiers. They were taking hits out there, but armored bodywork and bullet-proof glass would keep the gunners safe until they ventured out and into range.
The Executioner had no such shield around him, and he welcomed the diversion that Spinoza's spearhead was providing for him as he made his way across the darkened lawn.
Another fifty yards of grass and asphalt separated Bolan from the house when Frank Spinoza's hit team reached their destination. There was no way to continue with their strike except on foot.
Reluctantly they started bailing out of the protection offered by the limousines, lithe figures darting underneath the floodlights, laying down a furious covering fire, some of the more adventurous souls advancing on the house. Mack Bolan hit a crouch and swung his launcher up, not needing pinpoint accuracy now that he was this close to the target. He stroked the trigger once, already pivoting and firing off round two before his first can found its target and erupted into roiling flames.
In front of him another Continental reared up on its haunches, riding the crest of a firewave, and settled slowly back down to burning earth. The men who had been crouching behind it were sent scattering in panic. Several of them were sprawled out beneath the shock wave, slapping at the flames that blossomed in their hair and clothing.
Target number two was Seiji Kuwahara's house itself, and Bolan watched the high-explosive round as it impacted on the double doors in front, the hand-carved panels seeming to implode then disappear within a cloud of smoke and plaster dust. A strangled scream came from somewhere inside, and the responding automatic fire was momentarily silenced as surviving gunners scrambled to seek out new vantage points.
Along the fashionable drive, the lights were coming on in other houses as residents were roused from sleep or sluggish dinner-party conversation, forced to notice what was going on outside their own protective walls. The Devil was in Paradise, for damn sure, dwelling in the dragon's lair, and he was fighting for his life against a new St. George decked out in blackface and a suit of midnight fabric. It was mortal combat within easy access of the country club, and neither side would leave the field so long as life and strength remained.
It would be Hell in Paradise this night, a firestorm blowing through the placid streets, invading apathetic lives and spewing shrapnel through their curtains of complacency.
The Executioner was here and he was blitzing on.
16
Seiji Kuwahara reached the bottom of the curving staircase just in time to watch his marbled entryway explode, the double doors collapsing inward with a thunderclap. There was fire, he saw that much, and then the man from Tokyo was clearing the stairs in a rush and seeking sanctuary toward the rear of the house.
Somehow, Spinoza's men had come upon him unaware, and now they were upon his doorstep, pouring automatic fire into his very home. The Yakuza ambassador was not quite sure how such a thing had come about, but he would have to shoulder the responsibility in any case. The failure, any shame attached to it, was his.
He knew that any one of his superiors in Tokyo would face disaster of this sort with equanimity that was predictable and loathsome. Staring at defeat they would find refuge in seppuku, the ancient time — honored escape hatch of suicide.
And they would expect the same, no doubt, from Kuwahara in his present situation.
But Seiji meant to disappoint them on that score. His studies of the West and of the Mafia had taught him many things — not least of which had been the sheer futility of killing oneself whenever things looked dark.
He learned that those who won success in America were those who hung on through adversity, who never gave an inch, but rather kept on fighting toward the dream they cherished. In the end their perseverance and tenacity were what made them winners.
And Seiji Kuwahara meant to be a winner.
Even now, with hot flames licking at his back and automatic weapons streaming fire into the foyer of his one-time palatial home, he knew that he could salvage something from the situation if he kept his wits about him. Even if Spinoza's soldiers overran his house, there would be other times and other chances to exact his retribution. If he lived.
Exactly.
And his first priority was getting out of there, removing himself from the scene of the action and finding a safe place where he could bide his time, regroup his forces, mount another campaign against the Mafia Brotherhood.
He was reminded, strangely, of a game that he had played in childhood with his brothers. Each of them would raise a fist, and on the count of three an open hand would be displayed in one of three configurations. Two extended fingers were the scissors; a flat hand was the paper; and a closed fist was the stone.
Seiji could still remember the childish litany as if it had been only yesterday. Scissors cut paper, paper wraps stone, stone blunts scissors. He was the stone to Frank Spinoza's scissors, yes, and if he did not blunt them here, with force, then he could change his shape and become the paper that would wrap and smother the mafioso's stone.
