The Bone Yard (12 page)

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.

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.

His victory was preordained, Kuwahara thought. It was his karma to achieve preeminence in his chosen field, and anything that happened in the here and now was mere digression.

He met the first contingent of his ninja in the corridor that led to the kitchen. They were on their way to battle, armed and ready. He stopped them and issued other orders in the curt clipped tones of his beloved native tongue. They understood and would not dare question anything he said, no matter how bizarre they might consider his orders to be. They would do anything he asked, short of dishonoring themselves, and they would see him now to safety if that was his wish.

It was.

The little human caravan doubled back through the kitchen and toward the rear of the big house where Kuwahara's limousine was stowed in the garage. There was no firing yet from that direction and the man from Tokyo was hoping he could get a jump on anyone who might be trying to outflank him by attacking from the rear.

They would still have to run the gauntlet of the driveway, certainly, but anything was preferable to sitting here, waiting for the roof to fall around his ears.

Another loud explosion rocked the house and Kuwahara cringed involuntarily. The place had cost him better than a million dollars to construct but it was only money. Seiji had lives to save. One very near and dear life in particular.

He let the ninja lead him out of there, his eyes and mind already set upon another brighter day, when he would see the rising sun above Las Vegas like a battle flag of old Nippon. That day was coming soon and when it came, he would be well and whole to lead the troops — his troops — to victory against Spinoza and the rest. The stars had told him so.

He had been half expecting the call, and when the black phone on his desk began to ring, Sam Reese sat glaring at it for a moment before answering. He knew that any news arriving this late would be bad news and he braced himself for the worst.

He was not disappointed.

The caller reported shooting, out at Seiji Kuwahara's place in Paradise. They said it sounded like a goddamn war was going on out there — and Reese had no doubt they were probably correct. He cursed and cradled the receiver with more force than necessary. There had been a time when Paradise Valley was out of his jurisdiction, back before the Clark County Sheriff's Office had merged with metro. But now the shooting war at Kuwahara's had been placed directly in his lap. The homicide detective had to deal with it while he had a chance to end the carnage with a swift decisive stroke.

LaMancha's words came back to him like haunting prophecy, and Reese cursed again as he snared his jacket en route to the door. He wondered where the big Fed was, and what he had to do with this, if anything. Most likely he was shacked up in a plush hotel suite somewhere, riding out the storm and taking time between his cocktails to type up a fine report about the inefficiency of Metro's tactical response. Well, screw him.

Reese was rolling now, and there were SWAT teams on the way already. Every black-and-white within a five-mile radius was on its way to Kuwahara's with sirens screaming. In another couple of minutes, the joint would look like a goddamned metro convention, and Reese planned to kick some ass when he got there.

It would be terrible if Kuwahara and Spinoza should get caught in the cross fire and both end up in drawers down at the county morgue. Too much to hope for, and yet.

This might just be the end of Seiji Kuwahara's plans in Vegas. Some good might come from this, some chance for Sam Reese and his town to settle back to normal.

He put the thought out of his mind, concentrating on the grim reality of the present situation.

He was about to step into a killing zone, something he had not faced since Korea, and he knew that he would need full concentration to see him through the coming hours.

And where was Mack Bolan when you needed him?

The question came up out of nowhere, circled several times around the homicide captain's subconscious before it broke the surface like a cruising dorsal fin. As quickly as it formed, he put the thought out of mind, a little shudder racing down his spine.

That was the last thing he needed now, damn right.

Another wild man in the streets when he already had two frigging armies at each other's throats. The very last thing in the world.

And still.

He hit the double doors to the garage, already calling out to the stray uniforms who were standing around waiting to begin or end their shifts. They would be going with him, filling in the ranks for what looked like the biggest sit-down bloodfeast in Las Vegas history. And there would be enough to go around for everybody, he was sure, perhaps with seconds for the hungry ones.

Goddammit, and the thought was back, refusing just to die and blow away like desert sand.

Where was Mack Bolan when you needed him?

Paulie Vaccarelli snapped a wild shot in the general direction of the house and ducked back under cover, wincing as a stray round glanced off fender metal inches from his head. The previous explosion, caused by God-knew-what, had calmed them down in there for something like a half a minute, but the bastards had regrouped, and they were pouring out defensive fire again as if they had a million rounds to spare.

And maybe they did, Paulie thought, the grim notion ricocheting back and forth inside his mind until he got a grip on it and put it down where it belonged.

No million rounds, no way. His troop had taken Kuwahara's people by surprise, and they were fighting back the way Japs always fought — with everything they had. But they were losing, right, surrounded by some of the toughest gunners he had ever seen, cut off from any possible escape. Cut off.

He risked a backward glance in the direction of the gates, and saw the Lincoln was still burning brightly, all four tires melted down, the limo resting on its belly in the middle of the driveway like a flaming dinosaur carcass.

Paulie wondered what the hell had happened to it, just exploding like that. Maybe some kind of land mine, or some other kind of goddamn booby trap — except, why had the Japs let three cars through, then blown up the last one.

Why?

To trap your ass, you stupid jerk.

He shrugged, refusing to acknowledge the idea that they had suckered him somehow, prepared a trap that would be inescapable. One of the gate guards just got lucky, maybe with some kind of armor-piercing round, or maybe even with one of those frigging grenade launchers you were always hearing about. No telling what kind of hardware that goddamn Kuwahara had floating around, with his contacts in Tokyo and Vietnam or wherever.

Paulie risked a glance above the Lincoln's hood and almost lost it as another automatic burst came sizzling in from the direction of the house. The bullets hit the armored bodywork and whined away, but he still felt terribly exposed out there, despite the bulwark of the limo that protected him from any head-on fire.

Beside him, Jake Pinelli was chafing at the bit, anxious to get in there and start wasting Kuwahara's troops. He jabbed at Paulie with the muzzle of his silenced Ingram, leaning forward and raising his voice to make himself heard above the din of battle.

"We've gotta get in there, goddammit! We can't just sit around out here all night and wait for the cops to come in on our blind side."

The cops.

Paulie had forgotten them when all the shit had started flying, but he knew Pinelli was correct.

It could not be long now before the first patrol cars made the scene, and he for one did not intend to face a lineup charged with multiple counts of homicide.

Not for the sake of some yellow bastard like Seiji Kuwahara.

"Okay," he snapped back, reluctant in spite of the new urgency he felt. "Let's take 'em."

"Right." And Jake Pinelli was already rising from his crouch with a long burst from the Ingram, raking the front of Kuwahara's house as he charged out of cover and into the direct line of fire.

Paulie watched him, frozen where he sat, his hand white knuckled where it gripped the walnut stock of his.357. He could not force himself to take the necessary first step, could not make himself get up and follow Jake Pinelli through the hellgrounds.

And the New York gunner made it maybe twenty feet before converging fire ripped into him and through him, spraying crimson back along his track so that huge globs of him spattered on the Lincoln's bullet-scarred hood and fenders. Paulie felt something wet sting his face and he ducked out of sight, vainly willing his mind to erase the image of what he had seen. Of what might have been him.

They were trapped, he acknowledged it now, and if Kuwahara's samurai could not find an exit, neither could the troops who still survived outside the house. He tried a hasty head count, stopping short of two full carloads when another bullet snapped the smoky air beside his ear.

They had lost something like half of their force already with no end in sight, and Paulie Vaccarelli started concentrating on a way to disengage the enemy without losing the other half in a blind-assed retreat. The point, after all, was to get out alive, and he would worry about Spinoza and the consequences of his failure when he was safe on the other side of that frigging wall two hundred yards distant. He froze, staring at it through the smoky night. The wall.

If he could make it... Paulie stopped dead in his tracks before he could translate the thought to action. There were others here who were his responsibility. He could not run and leave them here to make it on their own. They were depending on him. And yet... His thoughts were swallowed by the sound of another explosion, and Paulie turned back toward the sound just in time to see an upstairs-window casing shiver and disintegrate, expelling bits of wood and plaster with a flaming body, everything raining down on the steps twenty feet in front of his position.

He scanned the battlefield, taking advantage of a momentary lull in the cross fire to check out his surroundings. Suddenly he saw a nightmare figure moving toward him through the battle murk. The man was tall and muscular, clad in something like a black skinsuit, carrying the largest tommy gun Paulie had ever seen. The guy's face was black — but whether he was made up or a natural, Paulie could not say. His full attention now was centered on the smoking weapon that the big guy carried, and he knew instinctively that he was looking at the source of the explosions that had ripped the night apart. Whatever else he was, the guy was no damned Japanese, but Paulie had to figure that he was responsible for taking out the two demolished Lincolns. If he had also blasted Kuwahara's house, then that was fine. But clearly this one was not taking sides. Instead he seemed intent on wiping both sides out, and that was where Paul Vaccarelli drew the frigging line.

Spinoza's hardman lurched erect, his big .357 Magnum out in front of him and steadied in both hands, the sights wavering briefly before they came to rest on the big guy's chest. He was an easy target, right, if only Paulie could make his goddamned hands stop shaking so much. Downrange, the big man seemed to sense his danger, pivoting in the direction of Paulie's position, the ash-can muzzle of his weapon tracking with him, belching flame before poor Paulie could notice a finger on the cannon's trigger. The high-explosive can impacted on the Lincoln's nose, punching on through the grille to detonate beneath the hood with thunderous effect.