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The Golden Kill

The Golden Kill

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The Golden Kill

264 pages
3 hours
Jul 17, 2012


Alone and outgunned, Sand has two weeks to stop the largest gold heist in history

The Chinese diplomat walks into the revolving door just a step ahead of the grenade. Samurai Robert Sand is too late to save him from the blast, but as the smoke clears he is hot on the grenade-tosser’s heels. In Central Park, Sand disarms the killer and knocks him unconscious. His name is Ivan Vanich, and he is posing as a Soviet operative. His real employer is a power-mad millionaire, who arranged the hit as part of a plot to upend a Russo-Chinese trading contract and seize the profits for himself. The diplomat in the revolving door was only the first to die. 

On special orders from an ex-president, Sand races to avert catastrophe. His hunt for answers takes him to a sprawling English castle, where the samurai comes face to face with the man who would let millions die for the sake of gold.

Jul 17, 2012

Despre autor

Marc Olden (1933–2003) was the author of forty mystery and suspense novels. Born in Baltimore, he began writing while working in New York as a Broadway publicist. His first book, Angela Davis (1973), was a nonfiction study of the controversial Black Panther. In 1973 he also published Narc, under the name Robert Hawke, beginning a hard-boiled nine-book series about a federal narcotics agent. A year later, Black Samurai introduced Robert Sand, a martial arts expert who becomes the first non-Japanese student of a samurai master. Based on Olden’s own interest in martial arts, which led him to the advanced ranks of karate and aikido, the novel spawned a successful eight-book series. Olden continued writing for the next three decades, often drawing on his fascination with Japanese culture and history. 

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The Golden Kill - Marc Olden

The Golden Kill

Black Samurai (Book Two)

Marc Olden

A MysteriousPress.com

Open Road Integrated Media


To Diane Leslie Crafford, with love


Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Preview: Killer Warrior

Chapter I

THE GRENADE, ITS BROWN-green, hard metal surface cold from Manhattan’s October chill, was jammed deep into the killer’s left overcoat pocket.

His thick, strong fingers squeezed the grenade tightly, huge thumb lightly brushing the ring and pin that was keeping it from exploding, his pale-blue eyes straight ahead, trained on the back of the man he planned to kill.

The killer, a forty-three-year-old white man with a stocky, wide-shouldered build and blond hair cut close to the white of his skull, walked along Fifth Avenue, keeping fifteen steps behind his target.

His target was Li Hang Sing, a thirty-two-year-old code clerk at the Communist China embassy, a small man looking ten years younger than his age. He shopped on Tuesday afternoons between one and three, when stores were less crowded—one way of getting less of a pounding from bargain-hunting packs of fat American women.

Both killer and victim were being watched.

Directly across the street from them, a handsome muscular black man wearing dark-brown suede jacket and pants, with a white silk turtleneck sweater, moved smoothly as black smoke through a lunchtime crowd of secretaries, models, construction workers, and chanting pickets.

Robert Sand, Black Samurai, watched the small Chinese and the stocky blond-haired killer cross Fifty-seventh Street and continue walking down Fifth Avenue. The burned smell of roasting chestnuts cut sharply through the chilled fall air, but Sand had neither appetite nor time.

An incident, either kidnapping or killing, said the message he’d received this morning from a man living on a 1,250,000-acre ranch in Texas, a man Sand now worked for. The man was William Baron Clarke, former President of the United States, and he had learned who the victim would be, and when and where the attack would be made. He even knew who was behind it. What he didn’t know was the identity of the man picked to do the job.

Sand had learned that two minutes ago. That’s as long as it took to pick out the man following Li—Li, whose photograph was in the inside pocket of Sand’s four-hundred-dollar custom-made suede jacket, a Polaroid shot taken two weeks ago without Li’s knowledge, as the small code clerk tossed a Frisbee in Central Park with other laughing, chattering Red Chinese.

Suddenly the stocky blond man in the dark-blue overcoat began walking faster, his strong, slightly bowed legs chewing up distance between him and the small Chinese code clerk.

Sand tensed. Whatever the man in the dark-blue overcoat had in mind, he was only seconds away from doing it.

Quickly crossing the sidewalk, Sand stepped out into the street, carefully letting cars and taxis brush within inches of his powerful legs. As he stopped to let a blue Rolls Royce pass, in front of him he saw two green-and-white buses slow down and slide into the curb, blocking Li and the stocky man from his view.

Chewing a corner of his lip, Sand inched forward and stopped as a speeding taxi whizzed past him to pick up a fare ten feet away. More cars rushed in front of him. There was no choice. For valuable seconds the Black Samurai would have to stand in the street, not knowing what was happening between Li and the hard-faced man who had been following him.

On the other side of the two green-and-white buses, now swallowing and spitting out passengers, Li, hidden from Sand’s eyes, stopped in front of a department store, stretched out his arms toward a thick glass revolving door, and was about to step into one of the door’s four compartments.

Slowly the killer nodded his head up and down several times, softly saying under his breath, Yes.

Quickly stepping forward until he could touch Li, the killer took the hand grenade from his left-hand overcoat pocket, pulled the pin with his right hand, and bending from the waist, rolled the hand grenade along the dirty black rubber matting under Li’s feet.

The Chinese code clerk and the live hand grenade entered the revolving door at the same time.

Straightening up, the killer took a six-inch-long wooden wedge from his right-hand overcoat pocket and, heart pounding, his thin lips pressed tightly together, jammed the wooden wedge in between the rubber edge of the revolving door and the metal frame on the right, placing the callused heel of his right hand against the thick side of the wedge and shoving hard.

The door was stuck.

Spinning to his right, the killer turned and ran back toward Fifty-seventh Street, his thick bowed legs pumping as fast as possible, his mouth open, his bloodshot eyes wide with anxiety.

The two buses pulled away with agonizing slowness. Robert Sand saw the killer running, and he saw the revolving door refusing to turn, and Li was facing him, his small hands pounding against the thick glass. Instinctively, Sand knew something was wrong, deadly wrong.

He took two steps out into the oncoming traffic, and the roar of the explosion came toward him, its powerful noise smothering Li’s agonized screams. A woman screamed and wouldn’t stop. Pieces of glass and chunks of hot, charred metal flew back into the store lobby as well as out onto the pavement, tearing through overcoats and digging into warm flesh.

Half-hidden in smoke, three people lay in front of the store, arms and legs twisted under broken, bleeding bodies. Gray smoke rolled out and up from where the revolving door had once been, and from out in the street Sand knew that Li was beyond help.

The stocky blond-haired man was almost at the corner of Fifty-seventh Street, still running at full speed, breathing hard and loud, heading for Central Park.

The Black Samurai went after him. Behind him he still heard the screaming woman, along with people weeping and onlookers saying repeatedly, Oh, my God! Years of daily five-mile runs had given Sand legs that could carry him far and fast, and now he had determination pushing him as well.

His duty as a Samurai meant catching the man who had ruthlessly used that hand grenade on Li and others. Crossing the street, Sand leaped to the sidewalk and sped along the pavement.

Ahead of him he saw a young woman in a red coat and black boots lying on her side on the concrete, pushing her hands down hard on the sidewalk to raise herself to a sitting position.

The grenade man was pushing or knocking people out of his way. At least these people will get up again, thought Sand.

The explosion had slowed down traffic, and when Sand reached the corner of Fifty-seventh Street and Fifth Avenue, cars and buses were at a slow crawl. His powerful legs pumping, the Black Samurai leaped into the traffic, swiftly crossed Fifty-seventh Street, and kept running, his eye on the stocky killer ahead of him.

Sand turned on more speed, gaining on the man now, tiring but still running. People stepped aside, cursing or looking blank, one fat woman shouting, Hey, man, this some kind of movie or something?

As the cars began to stack up along Fifth Avenue, drivers slapped hands down on horns and kept them there, adding an ugly soundtrack to the deadly chase.

Twenty feet, then fifteen, then ten. Still running, the killer turned his head quickly to look at Sand. The stocky man’s face was red, his lips blue from exhaustion. Turning forward, he kept running.

Both men ran out into Fifty-ninth Street traffic, now completely tied up. The killer dodged between cars, his thick hands slamming down hard on hoods and trunks as he twisted his way through the metal maze.

Swiftly, gracefully, Sand moved between the cars, and when he reached the other side of Fifty-ninth Street just before entering Central Park, he was just feet away from the killer.

Lengthening his stride, the Black Samurai closed the distance between them, and with one high leap, tucking both legs under his ass, Sand seemed to hang suspended in air. Then his right leg shot out in a powerful side-thrust kick, the foot landing between the killer’s shoulder-blades, driving him forward, until the man stumbled, lost his balance, and fell to the pavement.

Even before rolling over, the killer’s right hand dug into his overcoat pocket, fingers clawing at the knife, and when he turned to face Sand, the knife was out and open, the six-inch blade bright in the afternoon sun. Pulling back his lips like a cornered wolf, the man spit blood through yellow, misshapen teeth. Now he was on one knee, getting up slowly, his pale-blue eyes on Sand.

The few people near the two men backed away, silent, unspeaking and watching. A young girl turned her head to the side, burying her face in her father’s shoulder. Now on his feet, the killer took two small steps toward the Black Samurai, who stood calmly looking at the man, his soft brown eyes staring straight into the killer’s tense, hate-filled face.

Suddenly the killer lunged at Sand, bringing his knife hand up hard from the hip, driving the knife toward Sand’s stomach. Waiting until the last second, Sand quickly stepped sideways to his opponent’s left, at the same time bringing his right leg up in a powerful roundhouse kick.

Sand’s foot dug into the man’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him, driving him backward. The overcoat absorbed some of the kick, but not all. The man was hurt, but he wasn’t beaten.

Wildly angered by pain, frustration, and fear, the killer moved forward, swinging the knife in huge backhand, then forehand strokes, yelling Aaaah! at the top of his voice.

Reaching Sand, the man whipped the knife in a savage backhand motion toward his head. With his left hand Sand pushed the man’s elbow back to his chest. Then the Black Samurai drove a powerful karate fist into the man’s mouth, breaking four front teeth and splashing blood over his face.

Swiftly, with the same hand, Sand powered a backfist into the man’s nose, breaking it and bloodying it; then suddenly letting go of the right elbow, Sand stepped swiftly forward to the left until they were standing side-by-side, and smashed his right elbow into the man’s right temple. The killer was unconscious on his feet and never felt the sidewalk when it hit him in the face.

Behind him Sand heard a woman’s voice quietly say, Wow!

Bending over the man, Sand reached into his inside suit-jacket pocket and pulled out a wallet and an American passport in the name of Ivan Vanich. As he stopped beside the unconscious man, he heard male voices say, All right, break it up, come on, everybody, show’s over. Break it up, and I mean now!

Turning, Sand saw three policemen coming toward him.

You! one shouted, pointing to Sand. Yeah, you, fella.

Sand stood up to stare at a large cop with a sandy, drooping moustache and silver-mirrored sunglasses. Moving close to the black man, the cop said, I’ll take that, and yanked the wallet and passport from his hand. While the second cop bent over the grenade killer, the third positioned himself behind Sand, black leather-gloved fingers unbuttoning the thin brown leather strap that kept his .38 Smith & Wesson from sliding out of the holster. Turning, the Black Samurai looked at the cop behind him, a lean man with a long nose and acne on both sunken cheeks.

The cop crouching over the grenade killer was a small man wearing an ivory-handled handgun, butt-forward, who gently thumbed open the stocky man’s right eyelid. He ain’t gonna play the violin again.

Dead? asked the cop in the silver-mirrored sunglasses. A hair away from it, said the small cop, puckering up his small mouth until it looked like a little strawberry. Standing up, he stepped over the grenade killer and moved closer to Sand. Old youngblood here hits harder than the tax man.

Runs good, too, said the big cop in the silver-mirrored sunglasses.

Taking a deep breath, the Black Samurai slowly let it out. Something was wrong. Years of Samurai training had taught him the use of his mind and instincts as well as his body, and right now his instincts were flashing danger signals.

Snapping his fingers at Sand, the big cop then turned his hand palm up, saying, I.D., mister.

As the Black Samurai lifted his right hand toward his jacket, the big cop said, Hold it, and without turning around, Sand could feel the other two cops grow tight with tension.

Which pocket? said the big cop. Inside left, said Sand. The black man and the large cop locked eyes.

Without a word the big cop stepped chest-to-chest with Sand. Looking into the silver circles of the cop’s sunglasses, Sand saw his own calm face, distorted by the shape of the glasses. Behind him he saw the reflection of one of the other two cops, a black leather-gloved hand moving up and down his right thigh, ready to pull the gun and ready to use it.

Touching Sand’s chest, the big cop patted the left side twice, then reached in and took out a flat, shiny black leather wallet. The name inside the wallet was Joseph Phillips; occupation, salesman; with Sand’s address listed as a small town in Illinois. Anyone checking would find that Joseph Phillips, a black man, did live and work out of that town. Ex-President of the United States William Baron Clarke was a careful man as well as a powerful one, and Sand’s cover stories were the best money could buy.

When the big cop slipped Li Hang Sing’s photograph out of Sand’s wallet, the Black Samurai saw the cop’s face change. His mouth twisted to the left, and there was a sharp intake of breath. Without a word the cop passed the photograph around Sand to the cop with acne. He looked at it, then handed it to the small cop with the ivory-handled handgun.

Looking into the silver-mirrored sunglasses, Sand saw the acne-faced cop nod his head slightly, and the big cop with the sunglasses nodded back. Without another word, the acne-faced cop walked up to Sand’s back and stuck his arms under the Black Samurai’s armpits, raising both of Sand’s arms shoulder height out to the side and level with the ground.

Swiftly, professionally, black-leather-gloved hands went from his armpits along both sides of his muscular arms, then down his rib cage, hips, thighs, and ankles.

The hands shifted to the inside of his legs, speeding up from his ankles until they touched his groin. Then to his stomach and chest, and finally along his shoulders and down to the small of his back, where they found the gun. A Colt .45 tucked in the small of his back.

The small cop held the gun so the large cop in the sunglasses could see it. Slowly shaking his head side to side, the big cop said, My, my, then reached for the .45, carefully shoving it in his belt.

Without a word the cop stepped forward and around until he faced the Black Samurai, and snapped handcuffs on Sand’s wrists, hard, fast, and tight. The cold steel pinched the skin on his wrists, and he tensed his powerful forearms, pulling his wrists apart as far as they could go.

No way, said the big cop, looking at Sand’s face, then pointing down at the cuffs. No way in hell, Jack. Car’s over here, and gripping Sand’s right elbow, he pushed him through the silent crowd.

Behind him, the other two cops bent over the grenade killer, raised him to a sitting position, and placing a shoulder under his armpits, lifted him to his feet and dragged him between them after Sand and the big cop, the toes of the grenade killer’s shoes tracing a trail through the crisp red and gold fallen leaves.

In the back seat of the car, Sand sat between the small cop and the cop with the bad complexion. Up front, the big cop drove while the grenade killer, still unconscious, slumped to his right against the door.

Sand said nothing. He was alert, however, because he now knew what had bothered him about the cops. Runs good, too, one had said, as though they had calmly watched Sand and the grenade killer run a deadly foot race along one of the most chic streets in the world.

It was as though they had known what to look for, or maybe, just maybe, whom to look for. And the nodding and eyeballing going on between them when they saw Li’s photograph was as obvious as a fart in church.

Sand needed no one to shout in his ear. These three were not cops. Cops were smart enough to cuff your hands in back. They were not taking him to any station house.

They were connected with the stocky man, and they knew who Li Hang Sing was. Sand had seen that in their faces, and in the silence he sensed it now.

Turning off Fifty-ninth Street at Sixth Avenue, the police car with Sand and the phony cops eased into Central Park, passing trees bursting with the bright colors of fall, all looking as though their leaves were on fire.

They’ll try to make me talk, thought the Black Samurai. They’ll ask me why I had Li’s photo, and why I went after the killer.

Then they’ll kill me.

Inside the car, no one spoke. Sand looked into the rear-view mirror. The silver-mirrored lenses of the big cop stared back at him, like gaping holes in a dead man’s skull.

The thought of death and killing hung heavy inside the police car, gliding soundlessly through the red and gold of a sunny and chilly fall day.

Chapter II

GRIPPING HIS BROWN NIGHTSTICK in his right hand, black strap wrapped tightly around his wrist, Carl, the large cop in the silver-mirrored sunglasses, gently tapped the stick against the black-leather-gloved palm of his left hand and said, Kill him. Then come on back and help us get something out of our silent black friend here.

Robert Sand listened to the death sentence just passed on the unconscious, bleeding grenade killer now lying across the front seat of the police car parked off a deserted, hidden road in the middle of Central Park.

Along with the three phony cops, the Black Samurai stood inside a small, empty house deep in Central Park, a one-room house made of faded brown wood and once used as a weather station but now abandoned. The house was still used, but by those who had nowhere else to go.

Aging whores came there, sick with heroin and syphilis, trying hard to squeeze a handful of coins from winos with money and desire left over after a breakfast of muscatel. Heroin addicts and homosexual prostitutes also gathered here, sometimes in sunlight, always in darkness. And they left behind them crushed glassine envelopes empty of heroin; the dead, dried bodies of pigeons, killed for a moment’s feeling of power over something

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