Rules of the Hunt (29 page)
Kilmara
studied the situation.
Both men had
removed their masks to see better in the darkness, and he could now identify
them.
He wanted a prisoner who knew
something.
This was a contract job, so
probably neither of them would know much, but it was worth a try.
"Filters
on," said Kilmara.
He flicked a
switch again and an immensely powerful light blazed from the end of the
corridor, then went out again immediately.
McGongal and
Daid blinked in the light and mentally marked its source.
They would shoot it out when it came on
again.
Suddenly it
flashed on and off again at bewildering speed, like some disco strobe light
gone berserk.
Both
terrorists fired, but the strobe effect was disorienting.
They concentrated and fired short aimed
bursts straight at the light.
They could
hear rounds whining and ricocheting, and it occurred to McGonigal that the
light must be covered with bulletproof glass or transparent ballistic
plastic.
He began to feel sick and
disoriented; then he started to shake.
His weapon slid from his hands and he collapsed to the floor in what looked
like a seizure.
He was the
victim of a device which had initially been developed for crowd control and
which exploited the discovery that certain people were disoriented by strobe
lights.
The developers had increased the
intensity and flashing frequency of the beam and the results had exceeded their
expectations.
Prolonged exposure, even
for a few minutes, could turn the recipient into a permanent epileptic.
The technology was cheap and effective and
belonged in a category known as ‘non-lethal weapons.’
Having seen the results of some of these toys
— sonic beams designed to deafen, laser beams designed to blind — Kilmara found
the category something of a misnomer.
Still, he had to admit the Megabeam was a more compassionate alternative
to being shot very permanently dead.
Unfortunately,
shielded behind McGonigal, Jim Daid was not equally affected.
Disoriented though he was, he still managed a
desperate rush at the door of Fitzduane's room, his automatic rifle blazing.
Bullets
splintered the door already blasted half open by the grenade.
Sick and nauseated, Daid stumbled in, firing.
His last
glimpse of life was of a near-solid line of light emanating from the far side
of the room and terminating in his upper body.
Flesh was ripped, bones were smashed, blood spewed from a dozen holes.
Lifeless, he was thrown backwards into the
corridor beside the gibbering McGonigal.
An electric
motor whirred and the partition rose.
The Rangers moved forward.
The
entire action, from the time the terrorists had started climbing the fire
escape to enter the hospital, had taken two minutes and twenty-three seconds.
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
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.
*
*
*
*
*
February 1
The helicopter beat its way across the skies of central
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.
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.
The lights of
the might of Namaka Steel.
The plant was
vast and operated around the clock.
All
kinds of steel were produced there.
Pride of place was given to the well-guarded inner compound which housed
the long, beige, ultramodern building of Namaka Special Steels.
Special Steels forged the high-specification
alloys required for the aerospace industry and it also made a range of items
for the Japanese Self-Defense Forces.
Accordingly, the facility was classified top secret and its security
guards were legally authorized to be armed.
Only the most carefully selected Namaka employees worked within it.