In fact, it didn’t take that long. At Washington, the limo took a right-hand turn and traveled past the Margate City Historical Museum, then hung a left on Ventnor Avenue and followed that until it crossed the JFK Bridge and became Route 152, skirting the Atlantic coast of an unnamed barrier island. It was marshy ground, with serpentine canals or rivers winding through it, trees along the north side of the highway, beaches kissed by breakers to the south.
Bolan trailed his quarry past the Seaview Harbor Marina, then watched the limo turn northward, on to a two-lane access road that disappeared from view around a curve. He dared not follow it too closely, so drove on two hundred yards, until he found a place to turn and double back.
Machii’s ride was long gone by the time Bolan returned to where they’d parted company. It was a gamble, trailing him, but still the only way of finding out exactly where he’d gone. Nosing into the two-lane access road, he braked and pulled a pair of night-vision infrared goggles from the bag of tricks beside him on the shotgun seat, and slipped the straps over his head, then killed the RAV4’s lights.
The goggles let him see for fifty feet without another light source, but a half moon rode the sky this night, extending Bolan’s vision to fifty yards or more. He’d have to take it easy, keep from edging off the road and on to marshy ground, but there’d be ample warning if another car was headed his way, and he’d show no lights of his own unless he stepped on the Toyota’s brake pedal.
The drive in seemed to take forever, but the dashboard clock—light dimmed until it was barely visible—told Bolan he was making decent time, all things considered. Stealth took longer than a mad charge toward the firing line, and that was what he needed now.
He spent ten minutes on the looping access road before he spotted lights a quarter or half mile farther on. The vehicle had come to a stop in front of a large, two-story house, not quite a mansion, but the next best thing for its surroundings. Open fields and marsh surrounded it, making a foot approach more dangerous, but that would clearly be the only way to go.
Bolan stopped a quarter mile out from the house, switched off the RAV4’s dome light prior to opening the driver’s door, and then went EVA. Standing in moonlight, he removed the goggles and surveyed his target through a pair of field glasses that brought the place up close and personal. He saw two gunmen on the front porch, covering a driveway that branched off the access road, and figured there’d be more in back, watching the alternate approach.
Machii doubtless thought that he was safe out here, away from everyone and everything.
The Executioner had plans to prove him wrong.
CHAPTER FIVE
Noboru Machii was not ready to relax. It helped, having some distance from Atlantic City, but uncertainty gnawed at his nerves, making him restless, even after he had downed three cups of sake at room temperature. When the sweet rice wine failed to relieve his tension, he had switched to Bushmills twenty-one-year single malt whiskey, hoping its higher alcohol content would do the trick.
So far, no go.
Tetsuya Watanabe knocked and poked his head in through the study’s open door. Machii glanced up from the cold fireplace in front of him and nodded his permission to proceed.
“The guards are all in place,” Watanabe said. “Six men, positioned as you wished. I think you can sleep safely now.”
“You think?”
Watanabe shrugged. “We should be safe here, sir,” he replied.
“We should have been safe at the office. I assume there’s been no progress in the city, finding out who’s sent us into hiding?”
“None so far,” Watanabe admitted ruefully.
“What of Endo and the others?”
“The police have them, sir. They’ll be dissected by the medical examiner, of course.”
“Autopsied.”
“Gomen’nasai.”
“There’s no need to apologize. Work on your English.”
“Yes, sir. It will be difficult for the authorities to link them with the family. None are on file with immigration, and they have not been arrested in America.”
“Suspicion still attaches to us, given the succession of events.”
“Suspicion is not proof.”
“But it’s enough to prompt investigation, if they are not looking into us already.”
One more headache, on a night that was replete with them. Machii pushed that prospect out of mind and focused on his unknown enemies. He made it plural, since the man or men behind a raw act of aggression, in Machii’s world, would never carry out the act themselves. That left him with a list of possibilities to ponder, none of which stood out above the rest.
New Jersey was awash in crime and government corruption. That had been a fact of life for generations, going back a century and more, beyond the days when simple-minded folk thought they could cure a nation’s ills by banning alcohol. These days, the old Italian Mafia was in decline from former glory days, competing for survival in an ethnic stew of Chinese and Koreans, Cubans and Jamaicans, Russians and Albanians, Vietnamese and Japanese. Anytime contending sides brushed shoulders, there was bloodshed. Thanks in large part to Machii’s acumen, the Sumiyoshi-kai had managed to stay clear of overt violence so far.
Until this night.
Now, in a few short hours, everything he’d worked for was at risk. His very life was riding on the line, if he could not eliminate the danger to his family.
But so far, he had no idea where to begin the search.
“Is there a chance that Endo’s men wounded the person they were chasing?” he inquired.
“Our man on the police force doesn’t think so, but it’s possible his car was damaged by the shooting. Chips of glass were found, he says. A search is under way for cars damaged by gunfire, but it could be anywhere.”
And if they found it, Machii thought, it would probably be stolen, anyway. A competent professional would no more take his own car on a raid than he would dress up in kabuki robes.
“Who is most likely to move against us in Atlantic City, then?”
Watanabe thought about it for a moment, then replied, “I think, the Russians. Shestov knows you represent the family, and he’s been looking for a foothold in a great casino.”
“Shestov’s Ukrainian, not Russian.”
“What’s the difference?” Tetsuya asked. “They’re all barbarians.”
He had that right, at least. Pavlo Shestov was tough, ruthless and driven by ambition. It was said he watched the movie Scarface once a week, at least, and tried to mimic the ferocity of its protagonist. With thirty-five or forty soldiers on his payroll, he was capable of starting trouble, but would he be fool enough to take on the Sumiyoshi-kai?
Perhaps.
It was a starting place, at least.
“Pick up one of his men,” Machii ordered. “Try for the lieutenant. What’s his name, again?”
“Palatnik.”
“Question him. If Shestov is behind this, he should know.”
“And when we’re finished with him?”
“We can’t let him run back home and tattle, can we?” That would start a war with Shestov, if they weren’t already in the midst of one.
“No, sir.”
“Well,