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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.

CHAPTER 8

Okinawa

The Humvee that had picked Vaughn up at the airfield came out of the tunnel into an open chamber where several other vehicles were parked, including three more Humvees. Various mounds of supplies were stacked here and there. The driver still had not said a word to him, indeed had not looked at him once, either in the rearview mirror or by turning around. As soon as the engine was turned off, as if on cue, the door to the right swung open and people began stepping out, all wearing sterile camouflage fatigues. Vaughn slowly got out of his Humvee, and as soon as he was clear, it departed, back the way it had come.

My new team, he thought as he looked at them.

Several things struck him right away about his new teammates. First, one was female. A slender woman of Japanese descent with dark hair shorn tight against her skull and a white bandage on her forehead. One of the men was Korean. Vaughn had served long enough in the Far East to tell the ethnic differences among the races. Another was African-American. The other two were Caucasian, one a tall man with graying hair, the other short and powerfully built, with what appeared to be a permanent scowl on his face. And they all had the aura that Special Operations personnel carried. A sense of confidence without a need to press it upon anyone.

The short man stepped forward.

"I'm the team leader. Name's Orson."

Only five and a half feet tall, Orson looked like a human fireplug.

"I spent some time in the SEALs," he said vaguely.

"Including Team Six."

Vaughn knew that Team Six was the SEAL version of Delta Force – an elite counterterrorist unit. He'd worked with elements of Team Six several times on training missions but had never met Orson.

Orson turned to the others.

"Gentlemen – and lady," he said.

"Our latest and last addition to the team. Vaughn, formerly of Delta Force."

The "formerly" resonated in Vaughn's ears. For some reason, the way Orson said it made the finality of his decision strike home. There was no going back. He'd heard of people who, rumor said, had been recruited for covert units and then simply disappeared into the world of black ops. Vaughn also noted that Orson had not used his rank – another indicator that things were going to be very different. He followed as Orson led him down the line, introducing his new teammates.