Ninja Assault

LETHAL BARGAIN

A ninja attack in a Vegas casino leaves two billionaires dead, and all signs point to the Yakuza, a Japanese crime syndicate bent on infiltrating America’s legalized gambling industry. To cut the problem out at the root, Mack Bolan targets the gang’s Stateside web of legitimate businesses and vicious warriors, closing in fast on the Yakuza’s most ruthless clan.

But when the battle takes Bolan to Japan and he faces a quartet of elite killers, he realizes Vegas was just the tip of the iceberg. A cult-enthralled clan member has partnered with a corrupt Chinese general to bring about massive spiritual “cleansing”—in the form of a deadly toxic weapon. With millions of lives on the line, the Executioner isn’t playing the odds. He’s betting everything on his special brand of hellfire.

Bolan sprinted across the roof, heading for the fire escape.

A pistol cracked, and he heard the whisper of a bullet as it streaked past his cheek. One shooter was behind him when he turned, and Bolan saw another peeking from the rooftop access doorway. He sent the shooter spinning away with a 3-round burst, his white shirt spouting scarlet, then sent three more rounds to make the doorway peeper duck back out of sight.

With ammunition running low, he glanced over the parapet, saw no shooters prepared to pick him off as he descended and swung out onto the fire escape. Gripping the side rails with his hands and bracing the insteps of his shoes against them, Bolan slid down until he landed in a crouch fifty feet below.

Gunshots echoed above him, a reminder that he had no time to waste. Raising the MP5K’s muzzle, Bolan fired a burst and saw a face fly back.

His rented wheels waited for him half a block away.

Bolan ran.

Ninja Assault

Don Pendleton

Only the dead have seen the end of war.

—Plato

Human predators will never be eradicated. A new crop pops up when the old one is cut down. There is no cure for the plague of evil and avarice, but I can fight the symptoms when they surface, wherever they surface.

—Mack Bolan

For Captain William D. Swenson,

1st Battalion, 32nd Infantry Regiment

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Title Page

Quotes

Dedication

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

EPILOGUE

Copyright

Atlantic City, New Jersey

Tommy Wolff leaned closer to the window, peering at his face and raising one manicured hand to prod the pouches underneath his ice-blue eyes. He’d chosen Kisdon lighting for the penthouse bathroom, fixtures planned with flattery in mind, but lights could only do so much.

Time for a touch-up there, he thought, and made a mental note to fit it in.

Not that the ladies waiting for him in the bedroom would object to pouchy eyes. They’d been well paid to service him, with cash and with cocaine. They’d do whatever Wolff required, as he required it, and they’d damn well like it.

Hell, why not? They hadn’t seen his schmeckel yet, and they were bound to be impressed.

The ladies always were. No work required in that department.

Wolff retreated from the mirror, taking in the long view of himself from neck to knees. His time spent in the private gym had paid off handsomely. At fifty-five, he now looked better than he had in twenty years, his stamina was better, and he rarely needed a Viagra boost to keep the ladies happy.

Almost never.

Tommy Wolff preferred his women young, and—he had a guy who double-checked IDs in order to protect him from a statutory rape charge. Wolff had enough to think about on any given day, with IRS leeches and spies from the state Casino Control Commission crawling up his ass. The very last thing that he needed was to wind up on TV, doing the perp walk over some sweet thing who’d lied about her age to get a little taste of power.

Okay, not a little taste. But, still.

Wolff took his new robe off its hook behind the bathroom door. Kimono was the proper term, he understood, a black silk number, knee-length, with those baggy sleeves that stopped short of his wrists and made him feel like he should trade it for a larger size. Across the shoulders, looping down around his right hip, an embroidered wolf was snapping at a frightened lamb.

He liked that image. Liked it very much indeed.

The robe—kimono—was a gift from one of Wolff’s new partners in Japan. They’d pooled resources to erect a new resort in Tokyo, where current law prohibited casino gambling, but with nudges in the right direction and strategic contributions to the major players, rules could always change. Meanwhile, there was pachinko, mahjong, and kōei kyōgi, betting on a list of “public sports” that covered racing horses, bicycles, speedboats and cars.

Wolff slipped on the kimono, nothing underneath except his tanned, taut flesh, and broke eye contact with the mirror. Too much self-examination could be bad for anyone.