Ninja Assault. Don Pendleton

view of himself from neck to knees. His time spent in the private gym had paid off handsomely. At fifty-five, he now looked better than he had in twenty years, his stamina was better, and he rarely needed a Viagra boost to keep the ladies happy.

      Almost never.

      Tommy Wolff preferred his women young, and—he had a guy who double-checked IDs in order to protect him from a statutory rape charge. Wolff had enough to think about on any given day, with IRS leeches and spies from the state Casino Control Commission crawling up his ass. The very last thing that he needed was to wind up on TV, doing the perp walk over some sweet thing who’d lied about her age to get a little taste of power.

      Okay, not a little taste. But, still.

      Wolff took his new robe off its hook behind the bathroom door. Kimono was the proper term, he understood, a black silk number, knee-length, with those baggy sleeves that stopped short of his wrists and made him feel like he should trade it for a larger size. Across the shoulders, looping down around his right hip, an embroidered wolf was snapping at a frightened lamb.

      He liked that image. Liked it very much indeed.

      The robe—kimono—was a gift from one of Wolff’s new partners in Japan. They’d pooled resources to erect a new resort in Tokyo, where current law prohibited casino gambling, but with nudges in the right direction and strategic contributions to the major players, rules could always change. Meanwhile, there was pachinko, mahjong, and kōei kyōgi, betting on a list of “public sports” that covered racing horses, bicycles, speedboats and cars.

      Wolff slipped on the kimono, nothing underneath except his tanned, taut flesh, and broke eye contact with the mirror. Too much self-examination could be bad for anyone.

      He thought about the young women in his bedroom, high atop Nero’s Hotel-Casino, with its sweeping panorama of the boardwalk. “Caesar’s” had been taken, but he’d found a Roman emperor who suited him, regardless. Nucky Johnson never dreamed of anything like Nero’s when he ran Atlantic City for the syndicate, and it was all completely legal now.

      Well, close enough.

      The girls—one blonde, one redhead, one brunette—had suddenly gone quiet in the bedroom. Frowning, Wolff considered whether he had left them too much coke to play with in his absence, but he doubted it. Besides, if one of them had OD’d, he’d expect the others to be panicking.

      “You little bitches better not be dozing off,” he muttered to himself. “You’ve got a long, hard night ahead of you.”

      Longer than any of the three expected. Harder, too.

      The schmeckel humor always made Wolff smile.

      He lost the smile as he stepped through the bathroom doorway, turning toward the bed. It was the emperor size, imported from Ireland, forty-two square feet of padded playground on a hand-carved wooden frame, with satin sheets that had been white when Wolff went to the bathroom.

      Why were they red now, and dripping on the carpet?

      Wolff blinked, found two of the girls stretched out across the bed diagonally, side by side. It looked as if they’d been engaging in a little foreplay, but it hadn’t lasted long. The redhead, lying on her back, had one arm raised as if to shield her face. The other arm was…where, again?

      Wolff felt the Lobster Thermidor and Provençal asparagus he’d eaten half an hour earlier trying to come back on him, but he kept it down with effort, taking in the gash below the redhead’s chin and shifting toward the nubile body sprawled beside her.

      Someone had been more efficient with the brunette, taking off her head completely, propping it atop two pillows, wide blank eyes turned toward the bathroom doorway where Wolff stood. As far as he could tell, that was the only wound she’d suffered, but it had obviously done the job.

      A mewling from his left brought Wolff around to face the blonde. She stood before him, naked as the day she’d come into the world but far from innocent, flanked by two men no taller than herself—say five foot six, if that—all dressed in black from head to toe.

      Not black suits, mind you. These were some kind of commando costumes, maybe one piece, though Wolff couldn’t really tell. They both wore snug, formfitting hoods like ski masks, only thinner, that hid everything except their glinting eyes. And there was something odd about their shoes that took a second glance to recognize: split toes, of all things, which was new in Wolff’s experience.

      But what he really focused on was the long sword each man held in his right hand. Katana they were called, as if it mattered now. Americans normally called them samurai swords.

      “Jesus Christ.”

      It came out as a whisper, barely audible even to Wolff as he spoke. The picture set before him clarified itself immediately, even if he still had trouble grasping its reality. He had a shitload of security downstairs to stop this kind of thing from happening, yet here he stood, confronting death times two.

      Negotiation wouldn’t work. He knew that much instinctively. They’d come too far for that. Blood had been spilled, and only more blood could erase the problem.

      Now, the only question: Was he fast enough?

      Wolff kept a Glock 31 in the top nightstand drawer, to the right of his bed. It was chambered for .357 SIG rounds, loaded with Triton Quik-Shok bullets, and Wolff had practiced using it. There was no safety switch to fumble with in an emergency, just fifteen rounds in the magazine and one up the spout.

      If he could reach the piece before one of the swordsmen got to him, Wolff thought he had a fighting chance.

      Big if.

      And standing there, considering it, only wasted precious time.

      He bolted for the nightstand, heard a squeal behind him, from the blonde, and didn’t turn to watch her dying. Bimbos were a dime a dozen in AC, but Tommy Wolff was one in a million.

      An endangered species, at the moment.

      There was no time to circle the emperor bed, so Wolff clambered across it, mattress springing underneath his feet, trying to topple him. The dead girls lolled and rocked, the redhead’s one arm flopping as if reaching out to grab him by the ankle. Bloody satin squelched beneath his bare soles, slippery and treacherous. Wolff heard one of the men in black behind him, rushing toward him, and he vaulted toward the nightstand, stumbling on a bare, firm thigh and plunging headlong toward the finish line.

      His forehead struck the nightstand’s edge, received a stunning gash that added Wolff’s blood to the mix, but he pushed past the pain and sudden dizziness, ripped at the drawer and pulled it free as he went down on to the floor. It banged against his chest, more pain, and Wolff upended it, dumping its contents on his torso, littering the black kimono.

      Condoms. Moist towelettes. A vibrator.

      The Glock.

      Wolff grasped it, flung the empty nightstand drawer away from him, and raised the pistol as one of the black-clad swordsmen loomed above him. Finger on the trigger with its built-in safety, he was just about to fire when steel flashed, and a bolt of icy pain shot through his upraised arm.

      Wolff saw his right hand flying, still clutching the Glock, and barked with startled laughter as his index finger clenched the trigger, firing one shot toward a limited edition of Picasso’s Buste de Femme au Chapeau Bleu, drilling the woman’s offset nose. All things considered, not a bad shot overall.

      Wolff saw the sleek katana rising, flinging drops of crimson toward the ceiling, while his wrist pumped gouts and torrents of it. In the microseconds he had left to think about it, Tommy saw the story of his life written in blood.

      For one last time, he’d gambled and he’d lost.

       CHAPTER ONE

       Atlantic City, Two Days Later

      The