Ninja Assault. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
while leaving the fire alarms live. If he could generate sufficient smoke to rout the office occupants, it all came down to a matter of time and nerve.
Sorting through his mobile arsenal Bolan selected weapons first. He wasn’t planning an attack, per se, but meant to be prepared for any unforeseen eventuality. An MP-5 K submachine gun fit the bill ideally—“K” for kurz, or “short,” in German, easily concealable even with a suppressor screwed on to its threaded muzzle. He would wear it on a shoulder sling, beneath a lightweight jacket, backed up by a Glock 17 that was lighter, easier to handle and loaded a higher-capacity magazine than the Beretta he had carried into countless other skirmishes.
For the diversion proper, Bolan chose four AN-M8 smoke grenades, each filled with nineteen ounces of Type C hexachloroethane—HC. Each cylindrical canister would emit thick white smoke for 105 to 150 seconds following ignition, enough to choke a four-story building’s ventilation ducts and keep any occupants scurrying for the nearest exit once fire alarms set them in motion.
Getting in and out before firefighters reached the scene was Bolan’s problem.
Make that getting in and out alive.
* * *
NOBORU MACHII FELT like celebrating. He had carried out the order from his oyabun without a hitch, had seen the two imported killers off, beginning their long flight back to Japan, and felt he had the local situation well under control. It was too early yet, of course, for a direct approach to Tommy Wolff’s estate, but Machii had his battery of lawyers hovering, gauging the time and monitoring every move by Wolff’s board of directors since the penthouse massacre, the night before last. As expected, there was posturing and jockeying for power, but Machii held the winning hand.
He’d spent the past eight months uncovering the secret sins of every member on the board at Wolff Consolidated. There were seven of them, and Machii knew them well, although they’d never met. In fact, he knew them better than their partners, wives and children did.
Machii knew that one of them collected child pornography and traveled once a year to Bangkok, where his indiscretions had been filmed. Another had been stealing from the company, a third selling insider knowledge to the firm’s competitors for half again his yearly salary. A fourth was what Americans presumed to call a “high-functioning” alcoholic, though he had not functioned well enough the night he struck and killed a homeless African-American with his Mercedes-Benz in Newark. No suspicion had attached to him so far, but that could change within an instant.
So it went, on down the line, with six of seven board members. The seventh was above reproach—a miracle, of sorts—but he could not prevail once Machii had secured a majority of the directors to support his takeover of Wolff Consolidated. In addition to the preservation of their guilty secrets, he would promise them secure positions and the standard golden parachutes in place.
As if a written contract could protect them when Machii tired of having them around.
He would have another kind of contract waiting for them then, and nothing any lawyer said would rescue adversaries of the Sumiyoshi-kai. Machii had taught Tommy Wolff that lesson, and if the dead man’s underlings refused to learn from his example, their deaths would be tantamount to suicide.
As far as celebrating went, however, it was premature. The prize was now within his grasp, but he had not secured it yet. Until the transfer of authority was finalized, Machii could not rightfully claim victory.
“How long shall we wait for the approach?” Tetsuya Watanabe asked.
Machii’s lieutenant was younger, still learning the art of patience. Left unchecked, he might have overplayed their hand, but he inevitably followed orders from his boss.
“After the funeral is soon enough,” Machii said. “A few more days will do no harm. If we approach them prematurely, they might panic and do something foolish.”
“I understand.”
Of course, Watanabe understood. The order had been simple and required no verbal answer, but he still observed the standard courtesy.
Noboru had another thought. “We should send flowers, yes? Preserve proper appearances, and—”
Suddenly, the lights went out. The air-conditioning gave a little gasp and died.
Machii swiveled toward his office window, with its view of the boardwalk casinos. Lights were blazing in the massive pleasure palaces, along the piers and on Atlantic Boulevard below. Rising from his chair, he told Watanabe, “It’s our building only. Find out what is wrong.”
“Yes, sir!” Watanabe was halfway to the office door when he acknowledged the command, already reaching for the knob. Beyond the door, the hallway’s emergency lights had kicked on, illuminating escape routes from the building in case of disaster.
A simple power failure that affected only Sunrise Enterprises?
It was possible, of course. And yet…
Machii reached into his desk’s top right-hand drawer, removed the SIG Sauer P250 pistol he kept ready there, and held it at his side. There was no need for him to check the weapon. It was fully loaded and ready to fire as soon as he depressed its double-action trigger. Its magazine held ten .45-caliber rounds, with one more in the chamber, enough to keep any prowlers at bay until his security team reached the office.
Machii was moving toward the panoramic office window when the fire alarm went off, making him flinch. The action was involuntary, barely noticeable even if he had not been alone, but it embarrassed him, regardless.
Fire?
It seemed unlikely, but it might explain the power cut. Instead of waiting in his office, he should—
Even as the thought took form, Machii smelled it: smoke. The scent was unmistakable.
Coming from where, exactly?
“Jesus!”
There was no one in the room to hear him curse or note his momentary loss of calm. With pistol still in hand, Machii went to find out what was happening and right the situation.
* * *
BOLAN HAD PARKED his rented car on Atlantic Avenue and locked it. As it was getting on toward closing time, he’d crossed through spotty traffic in the middle of the block and made his way along an alleyway behind Atlantic Avenue, past long ranks of commercial garbage Dumpsters bearing names of their respective pickup companies. He’d met no one along the way, except a stray cat that examined him in passing and decided that he wouldn’t make a meal.
At the rear of Sunrise Enterprises, Bolan found a fire escape. The lower portion of the ladder operated on a counterbalance system, wisely using nylon bushings and stainless-steel cables to ward off corrosion. When he jumped to grasp the lowest rung, that section of the ladder dropped to meet him, making no more noise than Bolan would expect from a bicycle passing through the alley.
Scrambling up the fire escape, bolt cutters dangling from his belt, the MP-5 K swinging underneath his right arm, Bolan checked each window that he passed. Some of the offices were empty, others occupied, but no one noticed him, bent to their work as if clock-watching at day’s end had been decreed a mortal sin.
Atop the roof, he found the junction box and used the bolt cutters to clip the padlock’s shackle. Once the small gray door was open, he could see the trunk line pumping power through the building, keeping it alive.
The bolt cutters had rubber grips, so there was no need for insulated gloves as Bolan spread the jaws to clasp the thick trunk line. One flex of his arms and shoulders, one brief shower of sparks, and twenty feet beyond the junction box, the building’s air conditioner shut down.
So far, so good.
Wasting no time, he crossed to stand over the air-conditioning unit, opened it and slit the silver wrapping on a large duct set into the roof. When that was open, Bolan took his smoke grenades in turn, removed their pins and dropped each of the four smoke bombs into the vent he had created with his blade. The