Ninja Assault. Don Pendleton

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       CHAPTER ONE

       Atlantic City, Two Days Later

      The boardwalk simmered, thronged with tourists on this summer afternoon. Mack Bolan didn’t mind the crowd, divided between gamblers seeking action and the families a person saw in any tourist town when school was out and vacation rolled around. Young couples held hands, sharing ice cream cones as if they were a promise of more intimate activities to come, while aged seniors passed with cans and shopping bags, regarding youth with envy.

      Bolan, for his part, was wary.

      Nothing special there, since he was always wary, anywhere he went.

      That was the price of waking up each day in a hostile world.

      Before Hurricane Sandy, the Atlantic City boardwalk had extended from Absecon Inlet in the north to Ventnor City, six and a half miles southward. Rampant nature had wiped out the promenade’s northern end, but the rest—built in 1870 and billed as the “Showplace of America”—had managed to survive unscathed. The vast casinos facing the North Atlantic had ignored that storm, as they’d ignored all other challenges from God and man since they were legalized, back in the 1970s.

      AC had been the new Las Vegas in those days, and while the new had quickly faded, tourism declining with renovations in Las Vegas and erection of new gambling palaces in Connecticut, the boardwalk and its temples of mammon remained the city’s backbone and its throbbing, greedy heart. The flood of cash and service jobs had done little for the middle class, much less the residents of ghettos where resentment smoldered, ever ready to ignite.

      Back in 2005, Forbes magazine had called Atlantic City “dangerous and depraved,” boasting a crime rate triple that of any other US city, double on the murder rate. While gross gambling revenue increased each year, the number of casino jobs declined.

      AC had bet its future on the gaming tables. Some would say the town had lost its soul.

      Of course, it hadn’t started in the seventies, by any means. That was the era when casinos had been legalized—controlled, in theory, by the guardians of civilized society. Supporters of the scheme had looked at Vegas, saw the neon and the bottom line without considering the downside, and had rushed ahead to claim their places at the trough. But vice had put down deep, abiding roots decades before a modern crop of architects had dreamed the Taj Mahal or the Borgata, run by men who settled scores with lead, instead of million-dollar lawsuits.

      Atlantic City was the midwife to America’s crime syndicate, born on that very boardwalk, Bolan knew, during May of 1929, when every hood who mattered in the eastern half of the United States had come to hammer out their plans for the remaining years of Prohibition. Those who weren’t invited had been killed within a year or so, clearing the dead wood as a younger generation rose to claim its due.

      Bolan was standing outside Nero’s when another tall man stopped beside him, frowning from the shadow of a gray fedora. “Penny for them,” said the new arrival.

      “I keep watching out for Nucky Johnson.”

      “Thompson.”

      “Johnson,” Bolan said again. “They changed it for the TV series.”

      “Ah. Wrong century, regardless,” Hal Brognola said.

      They shook hands, old friends and combatants in a struggle that would outlast both of them. They knew the rules, expected no heavenly trumpets to declare their final victory and took it one day at a time.

      “So, this is where it all went down,” Brognola said, tilting his head back, squinting at the sharp metallic gleam of penthouse windows high above, where seagulls wheeled and screamed.

      “The Wolff thing,” Bolan said.

      “None other. Four dead in the penthouse, three more from security before the hit team made it all the way upstairs.”

      “Messy.”

      “But quiet,” Brognola replied. “They knew what they were doing. Never fired a shot.”

      “On CNN, they’re talking stab wounds.”

      “Make that sword wounds, and you’ve got it right.”

      Bolan had no response to that. He waited, knowing the big Fed would get around to it in his own time.

      “You know much about Tommy Wolff?” Brognola asked.

      “A younger version of The Donald or Steve Wynn. More cash than he could spend in twenty lifetimes.”

      “And he didn’t even manage one.”

      “I’m guessing that the Bureau and the state police are on it.”

      “Absolutely,” Brognola agreed. “And getting nowhere.”

      “Why’s that?”

      “Well, for starters, Wolff and all the rest of them were killed by ninjas.”

      “The real deal.”

      “Looks like. Black tights and balaclavas, swords and split-toe shoes. It’s all on video.”

      “So, no ID on any of the perps.”

      “Not even close. They’ve got ICE working on it, too, the passport angle.”

      “ICE” was Immigration and Customs Enforcement, part of the Homeland Security umbrella that had theoretically shielded America from foreign attacks since September 2011. In practice, Bolan knew, safety required much more than uniformed guards and a roster of alphabet agencies.

      “They’re thinking Japanese, then?” СКАЧАТЬ