Don Pendleton - The Bone Yard

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.