His office had been specially constructed to provide him with a sanctuary in the rear of his establishment, the Lotus Garden. It was soundproofed, insulated — to keep out the riot of aromas that were sickening by day's end — and fortified, in case police or other hostile visitors came calling unexpectedly.

The single door would open only when Seiji pressed the electronic release on his desk.

Without it, cutting torches or explosives would be needed to gain entry, costing the intruder any small advantage of surprise they may have had.

And he had had no use for the small fortress up to now, but things were changing in Las Vegas.

The opening guns had spoken. But the first engagement, meant to be decisive, had resulted only in confusion and disappointment. Kuwahara did not think of it as a defeat — although a cadre of his handpicked samurai were stretched out on stainless metal tables in the morgue. He grimaced at the thought of the cruel indignities that medical examiners, with their shiny instruments, would visit on his soldiers after death in battle.

No matter.

They were gone. The essence of them had departed, leaving only empty shells behind. The round-eyed doctors with their scalpels could not do them any further harm.

He did not grieve for the commandos fallen in his cause. It would have been unmanly on his part, and they were all professionals who knew the risks and took them willingly, accepting death the way a lesser man accepts rush-hour traffic or a minor setback on the job. They had been ninja, and they were no more.

If he felt anything at all, it was regret that they had died without fulfilling their assignment.

Seiji did not count the mission as a failure — not entirely. The pig, Minotte, lay in the same morgue as Seiji's warriors, and others of that camp had fallen, also. Kuwahara knew that much by way of his informers in the city government.