guerrillas went to work digging through the debris into Hono Mountain.
When they managed to break through, Abayon, mindful of what they'd witnessed, ordered everyone except Moreno to remain outside as the two of them went into the complex. What they found there stunned them so much that they remained inside for three days before returning to the anxious group of men who awaited them.
Abayon had the men block the entrance once more. He knew with the war still raging there was nothing that could be done with such treasure, and he feared the return of the Japanese. The priority right now was the war.
Within the year, they had gone on the offensive against the Japanese, returning to the main island and hooking up with a handful of American officers, including Colonel Volckman, who were organizing the resistance. They fought for over six months before the base camp that Abayon was in charge of was overrun by Japanese soldiers led by a traitor. Moreno was wounded but escaped. Abayon, in charge of the rear guard action, and his wife, who stood by his side, were knocked unconscious by a mortar blast and taken prisoner.
Given what happened next, Abayon often looked back and thought it would have been better if both of them had been killed by that mortar round.
* * *
Now, over sixty years later, with one last glance at the mummified body of Colonel Tashama, Abayon turned his wheelchair around and headed back out the way he'd come. Since he had not been killed then, all that was left to him was vengeance. It had taken decades, but the time was now at hand to pay back those who had done such terrible things to his family and his people.
CHAPTER 7
Tokyo
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
When they managed to break through, Abayon, mindful of what they'd witnessed, ordered everyone except Moreno to remain outside as the two of them went into the complex. What they found there stunned them so much that they remained inside for three days before returning to the anxious group of men who awaited them.
Abayon had the men block the entrance once more. He knew with the war still raging there was nothing that could be done with such treasure, and he feared the return of the Japanese. The priority right now was the war.
Within the year, they had gone on the offensive against the Japanese, returning to the main island and hooking up with a handful of American officers, including Colonel Volckman, who were organizing the resistance. They fought for over six months before the base camp that Abayon was in charge of was overrun by Japanese soldiers led by a traitor. Moreno was wounded but escaped. Abayon, in charge of the rear guard action, and his wife, who stood by his side, were knocked unconscious by a mortar blast and taken prisoner.
Given what happened next, Abayon often looked back and thought it would have been better if both of them had been killed by that mortar round.
* * *
Now, over sixty years later, with one last glance at the mummified body of Colonel Tashama, Abayon turned his wheelchair around and headed back out the way he'd come. Since he had not been killed then, all that was left to him was vengeance. It had taken decades, but the time was now at hand to pay back those who had done such terrible things to his family and his people.
CHAPTER 7
Tokyo
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
Similar Books
