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 unit wasn’t running to propel the smoke through lower ducts and vents, but each grenade contained enough HC to spread fumes through the topmost floor, at least.
And that was all that Bolan needed.
He approached the rooftop access door—no padlock on the outside there—and tried it. Locked, of course. With numbers running in his head, he stepped back from the door and raised his stubby SMG, firing a muffled 3-round burst into the steel door’s dead-bolt lock. Another moment and he was inside, descending steep stairs dimly illuminated by pale ceiling-mounted emergency lights.
Halfway there, Bolan removed a lightweight balaclava from his pocket, pulled it on and made a quick adjustment to permit clear, unobstructed vision. He had borrowed the idea from Tommy Wolff’s assassins, caught on video, and saw no reason why it shouldn’t work for him, if he was seen by anyone he wasn’t forced to kill.
Just plant the bug, he thought, but knew it might not be that simple. Nothing ever was, once battle had been joined.
Voices below made Bolan hesitate, but they were all retreating from the service stairs. No one would think of heading for the roof when they lost power. Down and out would be the drill, assisted by floor plans posted in offices and corridors, reminding people where to go in the event of an emergency.
He reached the bottom, peered around the corner and immediately saw the fire alarm wall unit to his left, within arm’s reach. Unseen, he grasped the unit’s pull-down handle, yanked it sharply, and was instantly rewarded with a clamor echoing throughout the building.
Sixty seconds, give or take, cleared out the fourth-floor hallway, even as the smoke from his grenades began to filter down through ceiling vents. Downrange, the last two visible employees reached a stairwell leading to the street below, pushed through its heavy door and disappeared.
Noboru Machii had a corner office at the far end of the hall, to Bolan’s right. Turning in that direction, Bolan double-timed to reach his destination, submachine gun gripped in one hand, while the other delved in a pocket and extracted the infinity device.
The clock was running now. Bolan could hear it in his head, louder than the insistent fire alarm.
The kyodai’s office, reeking of smoke, was vacant when Bolan got there, and a white haze was seeping from the ceiling vents. He left the door to the reception area wide open, as he’d found it, and moved on to penetrate Machii’s private sanctuary.
Empty.
Bolan went directly to the spacious desk, set down the bug he’d taken from his pocket and retrieved a small screwdriver. Within ten long seconds he’d removed the base plate from the telephone, surveyed the wiring and began the installation.
When he’d cut the trunk line on the building’s roof, it had no impact on phone service to the floors below. Landlines were powered by another system altogether, usable in
