Victor O'Reilly - Rules of The Hunt

Fitzduane had slept through everything until the grenades had gone off. Then he had woken and reached for the Calico automatic rifle. The weapon was exceptionally easy to operate. The safety catch could be operated by either hand, and by touch alone. The cartridges ejected downward into a nylon bag as he fired. The weapon was environmentally friendly – no litter. The balance was perfect. It was loaded with red tracer. He just had to point and hose.

That is exactly what he did.

"Shit! Shit! Shit!" said Kilmara, turning the room lights back on. "May the Lord fuck you from a height, Hugo! Why did you have to shoot him? Why couldn't you just wound the fucker? We need someone to question. We need to know who is doing this. We need a prisoner. We need some answers."

Fitzduane was sitting up in his bed, smoke trickling from his automatic weapon. He looked as dangerous as anyone in pajamas can.

"A modest priority," he snarled, "I need to stay alive. Besides," he added, "I've been wounded – and believe me, it isn't fun."

Sasada heard muffled explosions and his heart leaped. It's done, he thought, it's done.

He looked at his watch, imaging bursts of automatic-rifle fire as McGonigal and his people tidied up behind them and ran down the stairs. He started the engine of the Cavalier and kept his eye on the corner. Any moment now, they would appear around it.

Seconds passed, and then suddenly a figure clad in a blue boilersuit appeared and ran toward him. He flung open the door on the passenger side. The figure still wore his Halloween mask.

The fangs of a vampire told Sasada it was McGonigal. The figure beckoned to the others behind him, though Sasada could not see them. He felt relieved. He had thought for a moment that something had gone wrong and only McGonigal had made it out.

The vampire haled at the open door and pointed his AK-47 at Sasada. The Japanese stared at him.

"New rules," said Grady. "I don't get in; you get out."

Sasada reached for the door handle and suddenly flung himself out of the car. To his surprise, Grady did not fire. Sasada, now crouched behind the front of the car, drew his automatic.

"Oh dear, oh dear," said Grady patiently. "I guess I'd better count up to ten."

Sasada suddenly stood up to fire at the spot from which the voice had come, and felt the gun plucked from his hand from behind. Seconds later, he was spread-eagled over the car's hood and being handcuffed behind his back. The handcuffs were secured to an unbreakable belt made out of the same material as body armor. Looser restraints were placed around his ankles so that he could hobble but not walk and he was hauled to his feet.

He was surrounded by men in black combat uniforms wearing body armor with built-in pouches, microphone-equipped helmets, and carrying a range of futuristic-looking weaponry, none of which he was familiar with.

A distinguished looking bearded man in the same black combat clothing and helmet walked over to him. He had an automatic weapon slung over one shoulder and a holstered handgun at his waist. He wore no badges of rank, but it was clear he did not need to.

He said nothing until two of the black-clad men completed an extremely thorough body search. Then he spoke.

"You and I are going to get to know each other very well," he said. "Normally the police and prison service handle people like you, but in this case, you will be our guest." The voice was gentle, almost friendly. "And you will talk."

Sasada felt weak and very much afraid. As he was being handcuffed, he had clung to the belief that he would be handed over to the police and the civil authorities. In such custody, he would say nothing, reveal nothing, as his oath dictated. Now the certainty in this man's voice cut through his resolution.

The man-in-black's eyes were merciless, though his voice remained relaxed. "Under the Irish legal system, you have the right to remain silent, and I'm sure your little group demands no less." He paused. Sasada felt as if his mind was being read. "But," the man continued, "you are an exceptional case and you are playing in a very special game."

Sasada wanted to defy this man in some way, but his mouth was too dry to spit and he did not want to give him the satisfaction of hearing him speak.

"And you know what my friends in the U.K. – you've heard of the SAS, I'm sure – say about our rather particular activities?"

Sasada could feel the sweat break out on his forehead, and he felt a quick pain in his upper arm. He turned his head sharply and saw a hypodermic syringe being emptied into him. He tried to struggle, but he was thoroughly immobilized by the Rangers on either side of him. He could no longer focus, and he could feel his limbs getting weaker.

His mind seemed to float away from his body. He could understand what was being said, but he could not reply. He was in despair and he knew, without being told, that his mission had failed. He also knew that this terrible man was right. He would talk. These people would do what was necessary to break him and there was nothing he could do to resist.

"Big boys' games, big boys' rules," said the voice relentlessly.

Sasada's eyeballs rolled upward in their sockets, and he stiffened in a last attempt to fight the drug, then collapsed.

Kilmara felt nauseated at what he was about to do to this man and the other he had captured, but events had gone far enough to demand special measures, and Molloys' death had tipped the balance.

These men would talk and their individual determination to resist would have no effect on the outcome, though their brains could well be permanently damaged. It was an unpleasant business, tinkering with somebody's mind, but the alternatives were worse.

Ranger Molloy's body was removed from the hospital in a body bag, and Kilmara accompanied it as it was carried to the mortuary at the rear of the hospital. He was married with three children, Kilmara recalled. The youngest had been born a few months ago, and Kilmara had attended the christening.

Big boys' games, big boys' rules.

I have no answers, he thought to himself, but a great deal to do.

Tokyo, Japan

February 1

The helicopter beat its way across the skies of central Tokyo, heading south.

Night had fallen, and the gray concrete drabness of much of the architecture was no longer evident. Instead, the city was a blaze of light, glowing with vitality. To the right, the recently erected skyscrapers of Nishi Shinjuku soared into the clouds.

Getting permission to fly across the metropolitan area was a rare privilege, but Hodama- sensei had made the necessary arrangements some five years previously, when private helicopters for Japan's business elite had started coming into vogue, and now the chairman of Namaka Industries could make the trip from the Namaka Tower at Sunshine City to Namaka Steel in forty minutes, instead of the normal two to three hours, and include a detour over the sea – a relaxing contrast to the urban sprawl.

There was no getting around it. Tokyo traffic was a bitch, and to use the faster subway-and-suburban-train combination was unacceptable from both a security and prestige point of view. A helicopter was the only way to go. It was also a measure of the scale of the Namaka brothers' achievement. As he looked down, Kei could still remember the desperation of the postwar years, the hunger, the fear, and above all the humiliation, of having and being nothing.

They crossed the docks, still a mass of activity, then went over the dark polluted waters of Tokyo bay, the traditional resting ground of yakuza victims and still popular, though now rivaled by more scientific disposal methods. The memory of so many faces frozen in fear flashed through Kei's mind as he looked down. The climb had been hard and bloody. Staying at the top was no easier. Standards had to be kept high. Examples had to be made.