Chapter 31

Casey had put up a fuss about them taking his van without him. "Who got into that building in the first place, eh?" he'd fumed as Don had climbed into the driver's seat and revved up the ancient engine. "You don't want my help now, huh? This a mutant ninjas-only thing?"

"Something like that," Raph had muttered. "Look Casey, if we don't pull this off, there's no telling how bad this night will get. Don't be breaking April's heart now." He'd followed Mike into the back and pulled the door shut as Don had backed out past their speechless friend.

Several miles away and two hours later, the air inside the parked van had become warm, dark, and stale, gradually absorbing stress from the vehicle's occupants, until the tiny space fairly vibrated with pent-up anxiety.

"Last meeting of the day," Don reminded them, scrunched down under his hat in the front seat. "He'll show."

Raphael held his hand out for the binoculars, propped them over the back of the passenger side headrest and for the third time in the past two minutes, scanned the street leading up to the inconspicuous offices of Alliant Operations. No matter what, he told himself, in a few hours they were driving this van to the Foot compound. They were out of time.

"Most everyone's gone," he said. "We should get in place."

"How about her?" Don asked.

Tami sat on the floor in the back of the van, knees drawn up to chest, hands still bound. She had an air of resignation about her.

"We keep her until we have Doshida," Raph said. "Can't risk her warning him."

"Then one of us needs to stay here."

After an awkward beat, Mike said, "I'll stay." He looked up into Raphael's momentarily hesitant face. "That is, if you trust me."

Raphael nodded. He looked as though he would say more, but Don called out from the front seat, "Houston, the eagle has landed."

Raphael shoved himself forward into the space between the two front seats, fixing keen eyes on the grey sedan that had just pulled up to the curb. Two men got out of the car and waited while a third, slimmer man climbed out of the back seat. Raph grabbed the binoculars and jammed them against his eyes, seeing nothing but a blur of color for a couple seconds, until he oriented the view and found what he was looking for: Saito Doshida and his two bodyguards, walking into the front entrance.

He leapt to open the door. "You and me, Donny-boy. Let's do this."

###

At the tail end of rush hour, the streets were a little too populated for comfort, with people scurrying to cars, buses or subway stops. They picked their way down the gentle slope of the avenue, cutting behind buildings and obstacles, intuitively falling into pace with each other as they made adjustments to their approach.

"You better be damn sure of this," Raphael whispered as they ran.

"Just get Doshida. Let me worry about his bodyguards."

"What if your plan doesn't work?"

"Then we're screwed."

A hundred yards from the building, they broke apart, Donatello striking for the front entrance, Raphael circling around to the rear.

###

The van suddenly felt like a jail cell. Michelangelo gave a long, loud exhalation and slid down to the floor, dropping his head to his hands. They know what they're doing, they'll be okay, he told himself. "It'll be over soon," he said, meaning to reassure, but realizing too late that Tami might take it as a gloat.

Her eyes had shot daggers of hate at all of them when they'd led her out to the van and she'd realized that they were on their way to intercept Doshida. But over the last two hours a vacant, defeated look had come over her and now she merely laid her cheek down on her bent knee. "Please do something for me," she said quietly and with calm sincerity. "If you turn Saito over to the Foot, send me with him."

Mike shook his head, sickened by the implication of her request. "It's not you they want. You can go free."

"To where?"

"Anywhere. Home. Back to the Rising Hand, if you want."

She spoke without lifting her head. "Saito is the Rising Hand. Where he goes, I'll follow."

###

A man leaving the building through the front doors tucked his access card into his coat pocket, leaving a corner of it visible. Donatello scrunched down into the collar of his coat, pulled his hat way down and bumped the man's shoulder with a muttered "Sorry!" before hurrying off with the card cupped in his palm and the man's irritated glare glancing off his back.

He used the card to get through the front entrance, then crossed the lobby and used it again to get into the secured office area. He didn't pause; he'd committed everything April and Casey had told him about the building layout to memory. He shed his coat and hat as he hurried up the stairs; he would need as much fighting mobility as possible. Clear sailing so far. Most people had gone home already.

Peeking around the corner of the fifth floor stairwell exit, he saw the security guard at his desk, doing a crossword puzzle. Don banged his bo loudly against the stairway railing, then took the steps three at a time to the landing of the roof.

Come on, what's taking you so long?

The stairwell door opened. The guard looked around for the source of the noise, first down the stairs to the fourth floor, then up, just in time to catch a glimpse of Donatello as he dropped from above, but far too late to react before the turtle landed behind him and rendered him unconscious with a solid, well-placed blow to the base of the head.

Once he was behind the security guard's desk, Donatello ran his eyes down the banks of switches and monitors. Given an hour or so to study them, he was sure he could figure out what they all did, but he didn't have that luxury. He toggled everything off - cameras, alarms, and door locks - and cut every wire under the desk.

At the sound of footsteps he ducked out of sight as two late-working employees walked past. When the closing elevator doors cut off their voices, he dropped low and hurried down the hallway, stopping just before it ended in a right-hand turn. A quick glance around the corner told him that Doshida's two bodyguards, the one with the goatee and the other, with the crooked nose, were standing, stiffly alert but bored-looking, outside the closed door of the large corner office.

Donatello retreated back down the hall. The smoke bomb he dashed against the floor sent up a dense grey cloud that mushroomed quickly before thinning and spreading out across the desks and computer stations, fogging the florescent lights and eliciting shocked exclamations from the few people still on the floor.

One of Doshida's guards said, "What on earth was that?"

Within two minutes, the floor had emptied of frightened stragglers. Donatello backed his way slowly through the smoke, watching unseen as the two men, handguns drawn, advanced cautiously in his direction.

###

The window ledge was not wide. Crouched on the balls of his feet with a sheer five-story drop beneath him, Raphael edged his way around the side of the building to the lit window in the northeast corner, stopping as soon as he could see inside.

Saito Doshida looked unchanged: well-dressed, poised, wearing a thin smile that didn't reach his eyes. He was sitting, legs crossed, listening with apparent patience to the man sitting across the desk from him. This larger man, who Raphael presumed was Eric Clark, was swiveled sideways, an elbow on the table, his fingers tapping the surface in agitation as he spoke. By chance, because of the way they were sitting, Raphael could see both their faces and lip-read part of the conversation.

"There were reporters here, asking questions. They asked about you- they used your name, my friend." Clark leaned in. "Now how is that possible? There are no records in our system that would give them ideas."

"I don't know how the press could have drawn a connection," Doshida agreed.

"But someone did. I'm getting heat, Saito. Major heat. We're going to have to pull the plug. Now, before anyone starts coming down with reviews and investigations and whatnot."

Raphael remained coiled but immobile, fingers and toes clutching the ledge like the claws of a gargoyle, one that had been artfully crafted to capture in stone the instant before flight. It was torturous, to be so close, and wait. But he had to give Donatello time.

"Perhaps we could continue the program on a reduced scale," Saito replied. "I've already invested a considerable amount into development and manufacturing, and as I've explained, the next version of the compound will be considerably improved."

"Yes, I know. And I was impressed by the results of the pilot program at our training center in Virginia. But unfortunately, I can't take any risks right now."

"You realize that I will have to seek out other partners."

"I do. But my entire business is at stake. I hope you understand." Clark extended his hand in a gesture of finality.

Saito looked at the outstretched hand. Tersely, he shook it. "Of course I understand."

###

So far so good. Don was in, Raph was out of sight. Michelangelo lowered the binoculars, wiping off the smudges his clammy palms had left on the black plastic. He was far more nervous out here than he would be if he was in there with them.

"Tell me something, now that it doesn't matter anymore," he said to Tami. "Where has he been? All those days that we were hunting for him, where was he?"

Tami sighed, acknowledging sadly the pointlessness of her earlier defiance. "Mexico City, Tokyo, and Moscow... I'm sure he cut his travels short when he got the call from Clark."

"So that guy we caught was right," Mike mumbled to himself. He shook his head, chagrined and amazed by all those long hours he and Raphael had spent combing the city under the assumption that Doshida was hunkered down in some backup safe house.

"What about the rest of Agete?"

"Broken up into a network of squad team cells that keep in contact virtually, at least until the training and office buildings are repaired and the security upgraded." She saw his begrudging admiration and her lips twisted in bitter irony. "And you're going to hand victory to that archaic feudal street gang. I don't suppose that matters to you, does it?"

Still in the same clothes she'd been captured in, blue hair falling into sad eyes, that last line delivered with flat accusation, she looked and sounded so betrayed that a lump rose to Mike's throat. He was usually good with words - words could bring comfort, hope, reassurance- but he could offer her none of that. The one thing they had in common- devotion to clan- was an impassable gulf separating his side of the van from hers.

So he told her the truth. "Tami, no ninja clan has ever been kind to my family. We're too much of a threat." He turned away from her. "I just want my brother back."

###

That's it... closer, closer...

With the first man, he had the advantage of cover and surprise. His bo, sweeping low through the smoky haze, caught the bodyguard's legs in mid-step and upended him. It spun back around and knocked the falling gun away with the precision of a baseball bat hitting a curve ball, before whistling down towards the crook between neck and collarbone.

Donatello was amazed, even though he'd expected to be. His opponent - the one with the crooked nose - rolled to his knees and caught the staff in mid-air, an inch before it made impact, and was up on his feet in an instant. Immediately and counter-intuitively, Don dropped his weapon and tackled the man, sending them both crashing into the wall.

A gunshot rang out; there was the sound of a computer monitor shattering. "Don't shoot at me, you moron!" the first man shouted, locked in a fierce grapple with Donatello, who pressed in closer with an immobilizing arm lock. "Just get him off me!"

Don torqued the elbow and shoulder in opposite directions and was rewarded with a popping sound and the arm going limp. With a howl, the man knocked him back with a blow from his other elbow, just as his partner's long arms locked around the turtle's chest, the shockingly strong grip dragging him backwards. Don's mind raced; close quarters grappling was not the way he preferred to fight, and he would have only have one shot at this.

"There's only one of them!" exclaimed the goateed man from behind him.

The first man grabbed his dislocated limb and shoved it violently back into place with an angry grunt. His eyelids narrowed over blood red-rimmed pupils as he jammed his hands into a pair of brass knuckles. "Hold him," he snarled.

Don braced himself for the blow, but it still felt, as he doubled over, riding out the wave of white pain, as though the man's fist had entered his body. He took a second blow, and a third. Despite having known what he would be up against, some part of him that wasn't lighting on fire was still detachedly impressed.

"Feels like hitting a corkboard," said the man, cocking his fist again.

"Get my gun out and finish it off already, won't you?"

From somewhere on the other side of the building, there was a muffled bang, and the sound of glass shattering.

"What was that?" Both men paused.

Donatello went completely limp. His breathe burned; his plastron was dented like a piece of drywall that had had lines of marbles shot at it. The restraining arms shifted, trying to maintain their grip on his dead weight as the other man leaned forward.

Now.

His arms shot downwards, hands crossing and going for the knife and shuriken holsters of his belt, and then snapping back up in two hammer fist strikes; one hit the man with the brass knuckles in the spot between pectoral and armpit, the other drove straight back into the second man's thigh. Donatello's thumbs slammed all the way down on the backs of the three syringes he held in each fist.

The first of Saito's bodyguards frowned in confusion, and then slowly, alarm. He curled his grip around the gun he'd been reaching for, bringing it up to chest level, but then wobbled and fell, first to his knees, then tipping over oddly slow and stiff, like a cardboard cutout. Don felt the arms that been encircling him fall away as the man behind him also thudded to the ground. Forearm pressed to his wounded torso, Donatello straightened up and stepped away as the bodies on the floor began to twitch violently.

###

He couldn't afford to wait a second longer. With swift, certain movements, Raphael unhooked his grappling line and threw it up, over the edge of the roof, his left hand testing it for a tight snag, his right hand popping the top off the small plastic film canister that Donatello had filled with his most potent homemade explosive putty. He dug out the doughy black material, pressed it against the window, jammed in the fuse and held a lighter to the end. Two flicks to get a flame and two seconds for it to catch. Hand over hand, he went up his grappling line, bracing against the side of the building.

From somewhere inside, he heard a gunshot.

He kept moving, not allowing himself time to fear the worst. As he climbed up past ceiling height, he caught a glimpse of Doshida and Clark standing up in alarm, looking over at the closed office door. At the edge of the roof, he paused, hanging onto his line, legs drawn up and feet pressed against concrete, counting time in his head.

Right about... now.

The explosion, as sharp as a Fourth of July firework, and about four times louder, vibrated through the soles of his feet. He glanced down to see glittering shards of glass falling like so many icicles to the pavement below. He heard, clear as a bell, Eric Clark scream, "Jesus Christ!"

Raphael pushed off with all the force in his legs. He flew backwards through space, freefalling for a calculated heartbeat before gripping his line and piking his legs, feeling the rope go taut in his hands as it swung him back towards the building, his heels aiming for the large jagged opening in the office window. The interior- off-white walls, steel grey carpet, heavy-looking wood furniture- rushed towards him, too quickly for him to think about the terrifying level of precision he needed to execute, and then he was through, letting go before he felt the line reach the end of its pendulum swing, his body suddenly dropping, landing in an impact-absorbing crouch and roll.

The now very large and close figure of Eric Clark dove for the lowest drawer of his desk, yanking it open and clawing the bottom, his hand closing around his gun just before Raphael slammed the side of his head against solid mahogany, rendering him senseless. He plucked the weapon from the man's limp hand and tossed it through the dark space where the window had been.

"Raphael." Saito Doshida said the name slowly, with wonder. He walked backwards, eyes flicking expectantly towards the office door. "Cam! Mick!"

"They're not coming."

Saito swallowed, his Adam's apple moving up and down against his crisp white shirt collar. "You are so very...predictably tenacious."

"Let's see... you poisoned me, used my brothers, planned to kill us to save your drug business, and finally sold us out to the Foot." Raphael stalked towards him, eyes unwavering. "Did you think I wouldn't come for you?"

"I also got you the medicines you needed, offered your family an alliance, and ultimately did what you wanted - decimated the Foot and made it obsolete." He put his hands to his chest in a gesture of sincerity. "Surely, we can reach some... understanding."

"I don't think so."

Raphael moved faster than Saito's hand, traversing the space between them in a bound and dashing away the small pistol that appeared from inside the man's suit jacket pocket. He punched Doshida in the jaw, watched him stagger back wide-eyed with a hand to his face, then hefted him by the lapels and threw him into the wall, where he knocked down a framed painting before tumbling unconscious to the carpet.

Donatello stood in the open office doorway, leaning heavily against the frame, taking in the destroyed office and the unconscious bodies. "Nice work," he commented.

"Damn," Raphael said, looking down at Doshida. "That felt good."

###

Mike careened the van right up to the building, slammed it into park and left the engine running as he threw open the rear doors. Raph and Don climbed in, hauling the prone form of Saito Doshida in with them.

"You did it," Mike breathed.

Tami took one look and gave a raw, high-pitched gasp before bringing her hands up to her face.

"Step on it," Raph said. "We haven't got all night."

Mike drove five blocks, then pulled over to the curb.

"Why are we stopping?" Raphael demanded.

Mike got into the back of the van and knelt in front of Tami's miserable form. Drawing a dagger, he cut the ropes off her wrists and ankles. He opened the back door onto a quiet, tree-lined street, letting in orange streetlight and a warm breeze. "We're not stopping again until we reach the Foot compound, Tami. This is your only chance." He closed his eyes for a moment; he didn't want to stoop to pleading, not in front of his waiting, watching brothers. "Please take it," he said softly.

She didn't look at him as she crawled over and rested her freed hands on Saito's chest, her head bowed, body curled over him protectively.

Mike said hoarsely, "Tami..."

"Let her be, Mike," Raphael said, his voice strangely, unexpectedly, devoid of anger or impatience. "Don't make her leave him."

Mike's hand tightened on the door handle. He pulled it closed and the inside of the van went dark again. This time when he hit the gas pedal, he didn't let up.