hand was on the telephone when Tetsuya Watanabe knocked, then entered without waiting for a summons. “Excuse me, sir,” he said.
“You are excused. What is it?”
“Endo and his team…”
“They’ve captured the intruder?” Sudden hope flared in Machii’s chest.
“No, sir,” Watanabe said. “They’re dead.”
* * *
Tropicana Casino and Resort, Atlantic Avenue
FINDING ANOTHER CAR had not been difficult as night fell on Atlantic City. Bolan had left his shot-up Honda Civic in a multilevel parking garage at AtlantiCare Regional Medical Center, swapping it for a Toyota RAV4 whose owner played it “safe” by hiding a spare key in one of those magnetic holders, tucked under the right-front fender. Bolan switched the license plates, transferred his mobile arsenal and cleared hospital grounds within ten minutes, flat.
The Sunrise Enterprises bug went live as he was driving along Atlantic Avenue, so he’d pulled into the casino’s parking lot to listen and to read the captioned messages on his smartphone. He’d missed the number that Machii dialed, but soon worked out from the conversation that the call was placed to Vegas. That meant Jiro Shinoda, since Machii—as a kyodai—would not seek input from inferiors.
Staying alert to his surroundings, ready to depart immediately if security rolled up on him, Bolan surveyed the boxed translations on his phone’s screen.
“You have surprised me,” Shinoda said.
“There is something I must ask you.”
“Yes?”
“Please, do not question me.”
“Very mysterious.” A hint of mirth entered Shinoda’s tone. “Proceed.”
“Are you experiencing…difficulties, where you are?”
Shinoda thought about that for a moment, then replied, “Aside from the Internal Revenue, nothing to speak of. Why? Are you?”
“Something has happened, but I cannot speak about it now.”
“That’s even more mysterious,” Shinoda said. “Are you suggesting I should be concerned?”
It was Machii’s turn to pause and think. At last, he answered, “No. I’m sure it has nothing to do with you. Strictly a local matter, but I must report it to our godfather.”
“Ah. In that case, I’m afraid that I cannot advise you further. Do what must be done, of course.”
“If you hear anything…”
“I, too, shall do what must be done,” Shinoda said.
Sly as a fox, that one. The threat of squealing to their oyabun was left unspoken, but Machii had to have known Shinoda would turn any given circumstance to personal advantage, if he could.
All mobsters were alike that way, Bolan knew, regardless of their nationality, skin pigment or the oaths they’d sworn on joining their respective rotten “families.” For all the vows of fealty, defense of brothers and the rest of it, the bottom line was always each man for himself. “Honor” was highly touted in the underworld, enforcing codes of silence and the like, but it was stained and tattered like an old dust rag, each rip another captain who had overthrown his boss, or one more witness who had squealed to save himself from prison.
Bolan listened while the two kyodai traded pleasantries, Machii clearly anxious to be off the line and on to some more pressing task. Bolan’s infinity device would transmit any conversation from Machii’s office, not just phone calls, and he hoped there would be more to hear before he had to leave the Tropicana’s parking lot.
As if in answer to that wish, a voice he didn’t recognize chimed in, asking, “Will you call our godfather now?”
“It cannot be avoided. If I do not, he will learn by other means. Delay might have been possible, if we had caught the prowler, but with four more dead…”
He left it dangling, no response from his companion in the office. Bolan pictured them, the search they had to have executed prior to calling Vegas, their reactions when they had found nothing out of place. Machii knew he had been targeted, but didn’t know by whom, or why. Uncertainty would give his nerves a workout and might prod him into reckless action.
“I will leave you to it,” said the kyodai’s anonymous subordinate.
“Tetsuya, wait. I will be sleeping at the other house tonight,” Machii said.
“Yes, sir. I’ll make all the arrangements.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, sir.”
A door closed. If Machii had more men inside his office, they stayed silent. He delayed another minute, almost two, before he dialed another number. Bolan read it from his smartphone’s screen: “0011” was the international code used for dialing outside the States; “81” was Japan’s international code; “3” was Tokyo’s area code; and the last ten digits represented someone’s private line.
The oyabun’s, presumably.
Bolan saved the number to his phone and sat back to listen in.
* * *
Sunrise Enterprises
NOBORU MACHII DREADED his next call but could not postpone it. Timing was not a problem, with Tokyo thirteen hours ahead of Atlantic City. It was breakfast time tomorrow in Japan, and the oyabun of the Sumiyoshi-kai had always been an early riser. Even in his sixties, fabulously wealthy, he maintained an active schedule, sleeping no more than five or six hours per night.
Kazuo Takumi would be awake, and probably at work, but was he ready for the news Machii had to share?
Quit stalling. Time to get on with it, said the stern voice in Noboru’s head. And he was stalling, there could be no doubt of it. Whatever happened in the next few minutes could decide his fate.
He sat in his favorite recliner, in the private office bedroom, put his feet up in a futile effort to relax, and dialed his master’s number, tapping out seventeen digits, then listening to empty air before a telephone halfway around the world began to ring.
As usual, the first ring passed, then it was answered midway through the second. Machii pictured the oyabun’s houseman and chief bodyguard, Kato Ando, scowling as he answered.
“Who is calling, please?”
Machii gave his name and said, “I need to speak with him.”
Ando grunted, a disapproving sound, then said, “Just a minute, please.”
Machii waited, as instructed, switching hands with the telephone because his palm was sweating, even with the air-conditioning back on and blowing cool, clean air. When Kazuo Takumi took the phone, his voice was deceptively soft.
