Section 8

CHAPTER 7

The target window was tight. Vaughn checked his watch one more time. He was in a hotel room, using the key card he'd been handed by the driver when they pulled up to the service entrance in the rear. The driver had not said a word, just tapped his watch and held up a single finger – one hour – which confirmed the parameters in the packet Vaughn had received.

Upon entering the room, he had assembled the rifle, a round ready in the chamber. He pulled the dresser over to a position about three feet inside the open window, so the muzzle of the weapon didn't extend outside, a sure giveaway and sign of an amateur. He was seated in a chair, the stock of the rifle against his shoulder.

He put his eye back on the scope and scanned the well-lit street below. There had been no sign yet of the target.

The target. Vaughn considered that term. Royce's logic notwithstanding, he knew he was now far out on the thin ice of covert operations. He had no idea who the target was, why he was killing him, or whether that limo would actually be there to take him back to the airfield. And he wasn't even sure which of those problems should be his priority.

One of the first lessons Vaughn had learned in his Special Forces training was to expect the worst, and in this case the worst was that he had been abandoned here. However, he saw no reason why Royce would do that – after all, it did make sense that this was a test to gauge his abilities and commitment to Section 8 in order to join the team.

Vaughn mentally shrugged, still watching the street. He'd been in worse places. At least this was Japan, and if push came to shove, he could try to make it out on his own – although, as he thought about it, he realized he was here illegally, with no passport, no identification, no money, on a mission to kill a Japanese national.

Not good, but doable.

As long as he was on the good-bad track, he considered something else: he had never even heard a whisper of a unit called Section 8. And he'd conducted several top secret, real-world missions for the United States in various places around the world. In a way, that was good, because it meant the unit's cover was solid. But as with all the other aspects of his current situation, it was also bad, because he was operating off very scanty intelligence.

The sniper rifle felt heavy in his hands, even though most of the weight was supported by the bipod on the dresser and the stock pressed against his shoulder.

He lightly ran his finger over that edge, experiencing the yawning darkness he'd felt seeing his brother-in-law's body. He folded the picture, slid it back in his pocket, and checked his watch. Twenty-five minutes left in the target window. He picked the rifle back up and scanned the street, trying to shut out all thoughts other than the mission at hand.

Still, there was a part of him that hoped the target window would pass without having to shoot and -

The subject walked out of a building, exactly as in the surveillance photographs. He was flanked by two men, both with the hard look of professional security personnel, and seemed to be in a rush. A car with tinted windows pulled to the curb and he was headed for it.

No time to consider.

Vaughn centered the reticules on the target's head, his finger on the trigger. He exhaled, felt the rhythm of his own heartbeat, and in the pause between beats he smoothly pulled back on the trigger.

The round hit the target in the head, snapping the man back with a spray of blood and brain. Vaughn automatically shifted the scope to the guard closest to the target and almost pulled the trigger, but stopped.

His orders had been to kill the one man, not anyone else. He broke the rifle down, shoving it in the case. Then he left the room, walking quickly, taking the rear fire stairs. When he reached the door leading to the alley, he paused for a second, taking a deep breath, then shoved it open.

The limousine was exactly where it was supposed to be, engine running, rear door open and waiting for him.

Done with Foster and confident the "simulation" was on track, Royce slipped out the back. He slowly walked down the long tunnel to the outside world. From the rack just inside the tunnel entrance, he took a set of keys for one of the Humvees parked outside. He climbed in and started the large four-wheel-drive vehicle. He drove off Fort Shafter and turned to the north, toward the ridge of mountains along Oahu's west side.

The road went from four lanes to a well-maintained two lanes to two lanes of dilapidated hardtop to dirt as he got farther north and west. He took a turn onto an overgrown dirt trail, trees and bushes on either side scraping the sides of the wide Humvee. The path wound upward, traversing back and forth along the steep side of a mountain. Several times Royce had to back up and cut the wheel hard to make the sharp turns. It had been an easier drive in a smaller Jeep. The wider wheelbase of the Humvee compelled him to edge his way in between trees lining the track. Sometimes, he reflected, improvement wasn't better.

He finally broke out of the foliage into a clearing near the crest of the hill. A Land Rover Defender was parked there. Royce smiled as he saw the other four-wheel-drive vehicle. It was painted gray and tricked out with all sorts of useful additions, such as snorkel air intake, roof rack, winch, extra gas cans, shovel, and axe. Everything the consummate four-wheel-drive enthusiast would want. He had been in that vehicle on trips all over the island. It had also worked well in picking up older female tourists for drives to remote beaches on the island, off the beaten track. The driver of the Defender was sitting on the roof rack, a pair of binoculars trained to the north. Royce got out of the Humvee and walked over.

"Have a seat," David said, tapping the metal grate next to him. He was seated on a piece of foam rubber, and he slid another onto the rack.

Royce climbed up the narrow ladder to the roof and took the indicated spot. The view was magnificent. They could see the ocean to the north and west and even the faint outline of the next island in the chain.

They sat in silence for several minutes. David finally put the binoculars down.

"How's the op going?"

"Slocum is perfect for his role to run the simulation," Royce said. David nodded.

"We shoehorned him in there a year ago."

Royce wasn't surprised. Headquartered here in Hawaii, David had run operations here for the

Organization for over fifty years. The two had worked together for the past two decades, ever since

Royce had been recruited by David into the Organization after several tours in the military.

"Foster is flaky," Royce added.

"I had to motivate him."

David laughed.

"I figured he'd need a little stimulation. Short attention span."

He stopped laughing.

"He's expendable."

"I figured as much."

That gave Royce an idea how important this Section 8 mission was: if they were willing to get rid of Foster, that was a significant cutout being removed.

"The Jolo Island thing by Delta was a major screw-up," David said.

"Was it?" Royce asked, earning a hard look from his boss, then a laugh.

"Always the suspicious one," David said.

"That's a good trait in this line of work."

Royce didn't expect David to give him any information on the botched raid. As a consummate professional, he would never speak "out of school."

"How's the team?" David asked.

"They have the skills needed if they all make it."

"Carefully worded answer," David noted.

"I question their motivations," Royce said.

David's eyebrows rose.

"Their motivations are what we use to get them to do the mission."

"A good fighting unit is cohesive and shares the same motivations," Royce said.

"This is a collection of fuck-ups and failures – and that's what we're using to get them to do this."

"It's not like they have to win World War Three," David said.

"They've got one mission."

"So they're expendable?" Royce thought of Orson's comment while looking at Layla Tai's file.

"We're all expendable."

"You know what I mean."

"Yes, I do."

Royce's satphone buzzed and he pulled it out, checking the text message.

"The last Section Eight member passed his test. He's on his way back to Okinawa."

"Good."

"Why'd you pick Section Eight as the name for the team?" Royce asked.

"Ever watch MASH?" David asked.

"We need to keep our sense of humor."

Silence settled over the clearing once more. The two were used to their roundabout discussions. But in a world where secrecy ruled supreme, they both enjoyed their time together. It was as close to a real conversation about the job they had devoted their life to that either man was ever going to have with someone they wouldn't immediately kill afterward.

Royce finally got down to business.

"Why am I here?"

"To run the op," David said.

"I'm the field agent. You run the ops."

"Not anymore."

David reached into the pocket of his khaki shirt and pulled out a postcard. It showed a tropical beach with a beautiful woman in a skimpy bikini.

"No shit?" Royce had known this day was coming, but he'd never dwelt on it.

"No shit," David echoed.

"When?"

"In a couple of days. Which is why you're here. This is your op. One hundred percent from this moment on out."

"Where is this?" Royce asked, pointing at the card.

"Well, that beach is Kaui," David said, "and I don't happen to know the young lady's name."

He put the card away and became serious.

"Of course, I'm not going to Kaui. Symbolism is what I was shooting for.

"I'd heard about this place. Where they send people like me. Out of the way. In the western Pacific.

Isolated but nice. Out of harm's way, able to enjoy our last years, courtesy of the Organization, for our years of service."

"You've still got plenty of work in you," Royce protested.

"You – " David shook his head.

"I'm tired, Royce. Bone tired."

He grabbed the ladder and slid down to the ground. Royce followed.

David pointed to the north, where they could still see the ocean.

"They came from that direction so many years ago. My brother was on this hill that morning. Eighteen years old."

David had never mentioned a brother to Royce, who had always assumed they met up here because it was remote and safe.

"Pearl Harbor?" Royce asked.

David nodded.

"December seventh, 1941. We got hit hard and were surprised. Same as 9/11."

David sighed.

"Makes you wonder."

"About?" Royce asked.

As he expected, David changed the subject.

"Everything's compartmentalized in our Organization," he said.

"I know who I answer to but I don't know who he answers to. You answer to me, but I don't know who you have working for you most of the time. It's been the key to our success. Someone takes out a link, they can only go so far in either direction before they hit a dead end. It's kept me alive and it's kept you alive."

"I'm going to miss you," Royce said.

David smiled.

"Thanks. You know, us meeting here – it should have never happened. I was wrong to meet you here that first time so many years ago."

"I know."

Royce paused.

"Then why did you?"

David looked at his friend.

"Honestly? Because I was lonely. I'd been alone for thirty years running ops. I went through two wives. They thought I worked for the Department of Defense inspecting food service at military bases. Real exciting stuff. I lived a lie with them and it ended both marriages."

He put his hand on Royce's shoulder.

"I never lied to you. I withheld the truth a lot, but I never told you a lie."

"I know," Royce repeated. Ever since being recruited, he'd relied on David, his only contact with the Organization. In fact, the term "Organization" was what they had come up with to call the group they worked for – they had never been given an official name. Section 8 was the term that David had given him for the team for this mission, since people seemed to want to hang a label on things.

"Who do I – "

"Don't worry," David said, before he could finish the question.

"The Organization will be in contact with you. Finish this mission. You know what needs to be done."

"But with you gone – "

"You'll be all right. Just do what you're ordered."

David pulled his car keys out, indicating that the meeting was over. Royce walked with his mentor to the Defender, stood by the door as David got in and started the engine.

David rolled down the window.

"I'll leave this – " he tapped the steering wheel – "in the parking lot at Kaneohe Air Station. You've got your keys. Take good care of her."

"I'll…" Royce wasn't sure what to say.

David reached out the window and gripped his forearm.

"Be careful. There are always wheels turning within wheels."

With that, he let go and drove off, leaving Royce standing alone in the clearing.

The Black Wind Society of the Yakuza was controlled by a middle-age man who looked like he would be comfortable standing behind the counter of the local pharmacy, smiling at customers and dispensing medicines to make them feel better. Atio Kasama had a slight smile almost permanently entrenched on his face, a look that had disarmed many he'd come in contact with over the years – to their great disadvantage, for Kasama was anything but a happy or pleasant man.

He harbored dark thoughts and ambitions, and had ever since watching his father, a strict disciplinarian who ran the family with an iron hand, butcher his mother with a knife, and then commit suicide – after tying him to a tree in their small backyard in suburban Tokyo many years ago. Kasama spent eight hours getting himself free of his father's knots, all the while watching the bodies of his parents go into rigor mortis in front of him and their blood coagulate in the mud that had formed underneath.

Even at that age, traumatized by what he'd witnessed, he knew he did not want what was going to come next if he stayed. His parents had been only children in their families, so he would become a ward of the state, an institution he saw as simply a much larger version of his father. As he worked his way free of the bonds, he decided that for the rest of his life he would make his own rules and live his life his own way.

He'd escaped from the knots and the dead household and disappeared into the Tokyo underworld. Subsequently, he learned the reason for his father's despair – he had owed a large debt to a bookie who worked for the Yakuza. Kasama went to visit the bookie – not to wreak vengeance, as one might suppose, but rather, to learn. He considered his father weak for giving up to a force outside of himself, and he wanted to understand such power. So he learned the trade of exploiting the weakness of gambling in others – others like his father. He also learned how to exploit other weaknesses in people, in the form of running prostitutes, lending money, and dealing illegal drugs.

By the time he was eighteen, Kasama had already made his mark in the criminal underworld. Then the Black Wind had come calling. It brought him into its fold and gave him the security he had never known within his own family. His determination never to give in to any of the vices he helped ply made him different from most of those around him and allowed him to rise quickly in the ranks. Added to that was a ruthlessness that had no boundaries. He would do whatever his superiors demanded of him, because he knew it was the quickest way to get to the point where he would be the one giving the orders.

He became the right-hand man to the head of the Black Wind over six years ago, and when his boss passed away in his sleep from a heart attack, Kasama assumed power, just one year ago. There had been a few squeaks of protest from others high in the organization, but he'd crushed those squeaks with direct and violent action, brooking no dissent to his rule. There were even rumors that the heart attack had not occurred naturally. Kasama knew the truth, which was that he had nothing to do with the death, but he allowed the rumor to circulate unchecked, since fear was the most effective tool for keeping his people in line.

Now he was in his armored limousine and on his way to an afternoon meeting with some rich industrialists at a location they had designated near the port of Tokyo. He was not happy. He had inherited a problem from his predecessor: nine rich businessmen who used the Black Wind's darker talents in some of their shadier negotiations around the world. His predecessor had made the deal in exchange for political influence and money, but somehow – Kasama wasn't quite sure when it happened – the balance of power had shifted too far in the businessmen's favor.

This past month he had gotten involved in brokering some sort of deal between this group and the Abu Sayef guerrillas in the Philippines. There had been similar dealings in the past, most of the time over the return of hostages taken by the guerrillas. Kasama usually sent people with the money to negotiate the release, and in the process kept a generous broker's fee. But this last encounter with the Abu Sayef had been different.

He sent a man with a message, and the reply had been a slap in the face to the Black Wind. Kasama watched the DVD of the killing of his man just once. He'd had it explained to him that the man was given some sort of virus that slowly killed him. He understood the message because he understood the old men with whom he was working: many of them had been involved in Unit 731 during the Second World War. The name of that infamous unit made even Kasama think twice about who he was dealing with.

So when the limousine pulled up to the nondescript warehouse where he was to meet some of the old men, he waited for a few moments, as three sport utility vehicles with tinted glass pulled in, one in front of his car, two behind. His men. Armed to the teeth. They were in an alley next to the port. Warehouses lined the alley and all the doors were shut. There was no one in sight.

It bothered Kasama that he had to make such a show of force for a meeting. It was a loss of face. But the DVD had made an impression on top of his feelings about those who had once been part of Unit

731. Something was going on, something he was not clued in to, and that bothered him more than the loss of face and made him wary. It also bothered him that his chief bodyguard had not been there to meet him. That was most unusual, and Kasama planned on severely disciplining the man – another finger removed would be a fitting punishment.

He remained in the car as a man got out of each SUV and took up position near the doors of the appointed place. They had automatic weapons, which they openly brandished. Kasama had never been here before. However, he'd met with the old men before in such out of the way places several times.

One of the men tried the door. It did not budge. Kasama frowned as he watched through the armored side window of his limousine. Who did these people think they were?

His cell phone rang and he flipped it open.

"Yes?"

It was one of his assistants, informing him that his chief bodyguard had not shown up because he was dead, gunned down in the streets. Kasama snapped the phone shut.

"Take me back," he ordered his current bodyguard, who relayed the order to the driver.

At that moment at each end of the street, container carriers that serviced the port appeared. Each one had a container held high in its crane, and the heavy objects were dropped to the ground, blocking both ends. The sound of metal thudding on pavement echoed through the alley.

Kasama sat back in his seat and took a deep breath as his bodyguard screamed orders into his radio. He knew it was already too late. It was a strange experience, realizing he would soon be dead. The only other time he'd felt like this was the interim between his father stabbing his mother to death and using the knife on his own stomach. Kasama had never understood why his father didn't kill him too.

A rocket-propelled grenade streaked into the alley, and one of the SUVs exploded, showering the narrow space with metal and body parts. Then a second SUV was hit, and Kasama caught a glimpse of the rocket being fired from the rooftop just before it hit. Everyone was piling out of the third SUV, firing at the rooftops.

The limousine jerked forward, the driver trying to make them a moving target within the confines of the kill zone. There were four sharp, loud cracks, and then the sound of thousands of steel ball bearings splattering against the side of the limousine. A series of claymore mines had been hidden along both sides of the alley, and their effect upon detonation was to kill every man who was outside. Their riddled corpses were splattered about the alley, and the limousine jerked as the driver ran over one of them.

An effective combination, Kasama thought as he was thrown against his seat belt when the driver threw the limo into reverse. Someone had anticipated possible defensive reactions. He was almost curious to see what would come next. His head bodyguard thrust out a spare submachine gun toward him; he looked at it, then shook his head. Enough face had been lost.

"Stop," Kasama ordered.

The limousine came to a halt. The frightened driver looked over his shoulder to the rear. His bodyguard stared at Kasama in confusion. The confusion turned to fear as Kasama reached for the door handle.

"Sir! You cannot."

Kasama ignored him. He pushed the heavy door open and stepped out of the armored car. He could smell the distinctive odors of explosives and human viscera. He slowly turned, looking about, trying to see his enemies. His body was tense, expecting a bullet to impact at any second, but all was suddenly quiet.

He spotted no one. His bodyguard exited the car, weapon in hand, and was promptly killed as a bullet from a hidden sniper hit him between the eyes, taking half his head with it as passed through. The limo driver took that as his cue and accelerated away, leaving Kasama, even though there was no escape route. The car made it about forty feet before rockets from either side of the alley hit, almost ripping it in two.

Kasama folded his arms and stood tall.

A door across from him opened up and a figure stepped out, a samurai sword in hand. Kasama's eyes widened as he made out the feminine body outline underneath the black one-piece suit. The ultimate insult.