Free The Gate by Bob Mayer Page A

the glass. Reflecting back to a receiver just below the transmitter, a computer inside interpreted the vibrations into the sounds that caused them.
    It had not taken the man long to tune out the background noise and get the computer to pick up the voices inside. He’d heard the entire exchange between Nishin and the old man. Satisfied that Nishin had left the room, he quickly broke down the laser and placed it into a backpack along with the computer. Within thirty seconds he was gone from his perch.
     
    *****
     
    In the small room he’d rented, Nishin opened the aluminum case. The packing held specially cut slots for the weapons stored inside. Nishin pulled out a specialized Steyr AUG. The Yakuza had done well, Nishin reflected as he checked out the weapon. He’d used one before, as he’d used almost every weapon on the world’s arms market.
    This AUG was a smaller version of the rifle that saw service in numerous Western countries. The magazine was fitted behind the trigger assembly, which contributed greatly to its shorter length. A telescopic sight and laser designator was fixed on top of the barrel assembly. Nishin aimed, watching the red dot sweep around the dingy room. Very nice. There were six 30-round magazines of 9mm ammunition. The magazines were clear plastic, which allowed the firer to keep track of expenditure without having to remove the magazine from the weapon.
    There was a safety, but no selector lever such as the M-16 or AK-47 had. The AUG was designed for a more professional shooter. A slight pull on the trigger fired one round. Pulling the trigger all the way to the rear fired the weapon on automatic. A stubby suppressor was fitted on the tip of the barrel that extended forward of the front plastic grip. Nishin had to trust that the 9mm ammunition was subsonic. Otherwise there would be no reason for the suppressor. Nishin carefully disassembled the gun and checked every piece to make sure it was functional. He would not put it past the Yakuza to give him a gun with a filed-down firing pin. Satisfied that he could find nothing wrong, he reassembled the gun. Then he inserted a magazine and pulled back the charging handle. He fired a shot at the wood frame around the closet. A round splintered the wood, the gun making just the slightest sound. Nishin took the magazine out, cleared the chamber, and put the gun back in the case.
    A Browning High Power 9mm automatic pistol, along with a shoulder holster, was also in the case. A reliable pistol. After checking it as he had the AUG, Nishin strapped the holster on, then slipped his jacket over it. He slid the case with the AUG under the bed.
    The room was on the second floor of a six-story hotel. Nishin had picked it as he’d been taught in the terrorist camp in the Middle East so many years ago for its transient and illicit clientele, mostly prostitutes and drug addicts. He hadn’t even had to say a word when getting the room. He’d shoved two hundred dollar bills at the clerk and received a key in return. Very convenient and inconspicuous, just as he’d expected.
    Of course, if pressed, Nishin could have spoken in English and presented all the proper documents to prove he was an American. Nishin was no stranger to America or this type of work. The Black Ocean Society had seen to that and his present cover.
    Nishin did not know where he had been born or who his parents had been. His earliest memories were of the Homeplace. It was where the Black Ocean Society raised its operatives. Perhaps a family with too many mouths to feed had sold him to the Society. Perhaps he was an orphan whom the Society had taken under its wings. He didn’t know, they had never told him, and he didn’t care.
    He’d been cared for and schooled by the Society from the very beginning of his memories. Trained in foreign languages, martial arts, weapons, covert operations, communications—all the black arts. And above all was loyalty to the Sun Goddess, the Emperor, the Genoysha