He noticed that they'd removed the plates from the limousine, just as he'd done on his rented Alfa. There would be nothing but terrified tourists and two illegally armed, very dead Japanese hoods here when the Greek police finally arrived. The story would come out in a babel of languages and be totally inconsistent.
Christ! he thought. It was supposed to be over by now, and instead it's just beginning. When word of this gets back to Tokyo, life's going to get very interesting, very fast. The Mino-gumi knows how to play for keeps. We've got to blow this thing.
Across, on the hot asphalt, the two Japanese were sprawled askew, sunglasses crumpled. One body was bleeding profusely from the chest, the other from a single, perfect hole in the cheek. The kobun who had come within moments of removing his kneecaps now lay with a small hole in front of one ear and the opposite side of the face half missing.
What a shot!
But why did he wait so long? We had them in the clear. I see now why the Greek Resistance scared hell out of . . .
"Never look at the eyes, Michael." The voice sounded from the boulders of the hillside above, where the muzzle of a World War II German carbine, oiled and perfect, glinted. "Remember I told you. It gives you very bad dreams."
[Book Two]
[Chapter Nine]