Thomas Caine series Boxset

by Andrew Warren

Intel was sparse on what actually happened. All anyone knew for sure was Tyler was reported killed, and Caine had dropped off the grid. Turel’s guns and the Leopards’ heroin disappeared with him. It had been a simple matter to connect the dots. Caine was a highly trained operative. He was a living, thinking weapon in the war against terror. A machine. And sometimes machines malfunctioned.

  Bernatto had been Caine’s handler at the time. His final analysis of the operation was that Caine had played the various parties, including the CIA, and gone rogue. He had killed Tyler and taken the guns and drugs for himself, to sell on the black market.

  In a follow-up report, Bernatto’s intel suggested that the Leopards had tracked Caine to Indonesia and killed him in a retaliatory attack. General consensus around the CIA was, true or not, it was a tidy end to the story of a traitor. Caine was either dead or soon would be. He had too many enemies to survive for long as an independent operator. He was no longer a concern.

  Rebecca remembered the night she had heard the news. The emptiness in the pit of her stomach. Sitting alone in her cold, silent DC apartment as she had sifted through the reports over and over. She had searched in vain for something, anything that could refute Bernatto’s claims. But she had arrived at the inescapable conclusion that the man she had fallen in love with, the man she had shared laughter and memories and even her body with ... that man was a cipher.

  His past, his background, family, friends ... all just shadows. She knew so little about him. She had never truly known Tom. And back then, she had thought she never would. He was gone. All she had left were a series of slim reports filled with damning accusations. Sketchy, fleeting glimpses of a stranger.

  Now here she was. Thailand. Japan. Caine.

  That look he’d given her, the anger and betrayal in his voice. That, she knew, was real.

  By the time she reached the air-conditioned lobby of her hotel, she had made a decision: she was going to use this operation to uncover the truth about Caine, Bernatto, and Operation Big Blind.

  On her way to the elevator, she noticed a man sitting in a lobby armchair, playing with his cell phone and reading a newspaper. She felt a ping in her subconscious. The man was young, late twenties, and white. Blond hair, blue eyes, chiseled features. He was wearing a Hawaiian print shirt, khaki pants, and work boots. The boots looked odd. She would have expected sandals or flip-flops this close to the beach.

  She made a note to keep an eye out for him. Strange taste in footwear wasn’t enough to set off her mental alarms, but she would have to be careful moving forward. This mission was off book.... She had no backup, no support. And if Caine’s story was true, then Allan Bernatto was even more dangerous than she’d thought.

  As the steel elevator doors clamped shut, she realized that, if that was the case, she had stumbled upon a secret Bernatto needed to keep hidden ... a secret he’d already sacrificed two CIA agents to protect.

  Chapter Eleven

  Caine sat in front of the small pachinko machine and twisted a pink plastic wheel, feeling vaguely ridiculous. The machine was covered with pictures of kittens and ice creams cones, and emitted a nonstop cacophony of electronic chimes and sugary pop music.

  Earlier that morning, after a workout in the hotel gym and a traditional Japanese breakfast, he had made some phone calls to his old contacts. Yakuza bosses and lieutenants he had done business with, smuggling counterfeit jeans and purses through his operation in Thailand. Most seemed surprised to hear he was still alive. News of Lau’s takeover must have traveled fast.

  Like all criminals—himself included—they were a suspicious, paranoid bunch, and they all sounded vaguely uncomfortable to hear from him. The conversations were polite, but terse. Until they could figure out what exactly happened in Thailand, no one was going to give him what he wanted: a sit-down with Isato Yoshizawa. Isato was the oyabun, or leader, of the Yoshizawa clan, a powerful yakuza family based in Tokyo. They ran the local bukuto gambling trade in Kabukicho and other neighborhoods.

  There was protocol to observe, in Japan more than most places. Business deals could take weeks to close. Social meetings—to exchange business cards, share drinks, give gifts—were all part of the complex process. Each step followed its own rules of etiquette. In the underworld, things moved at a faster pace, but the principles were the same. There was an established order, a way of doing things. There were rules.

  Caine didn’t have time to wait. So he planned to change the rules.

  As he twisted the pachinko wheel left and right, a stream of tiny metal balls poured into the machine. The wheel altered their speed, making them drop faster or slower, but the flow never ceased. Each tiny metal sphere would fall down the length of the machine, bouncing off a pattern of metal rods along the way.

  If the speed and angle of the ball were just right, it would spill out an exit hole, into a plastic bin. If the ball hit a “jackpot” bar on the way down, it would trigger more balls to come pouring out, increasing the player’s total ball count, and triggering flashing lights and music to emit from the machine.

  The object of the game was to accumulate as many balls as possible in the winning bin. By hitting multiple jackpot bars, the final ball count could far exceed what the player started with.

  Caine had chosen this particular machine not for its confectionary charm, but because it sat under a 360-degree security mirror. By looking up, he could observe the long, narrow room behind him. It was filled with flashing lights, blinking machines, and curiously sullen Japanese men who seemed to take no joy whatsoever in the lively, noisy game they were playing.

  He continued twisting the plastic wheel, then stole a quick glance at the security mirror. Pachinko was mostly a game of chance and, like all games of chance, an underworld of gambling had sprung up around it. In this section of Shinjuku, pachinko gambling was controlled by the Yoshizawa clan.

  That was why he was here.

  Sure enough, a few minutes later, a pair of Japanese men sauntered into the parlor. They were clad in shiny sharkskin suits, their white silk shirts opened down to the chest. Their long hair was slicked back with pomade. A variety of chains and jewelry hung from their necks, and tattoo ink peeked out from either side of the open V across their chest.

  Yakuza.

  The two men made no effort to avoid jostling the gamblers as they navigated their way through the crowded room. Instead, the men and women at the machines shifted in their chairs or stood up and moved aside to make room.

  The men stared at Caine as they walked past. His was the only Caucasian face in the parlor, so he knew he stood out. Caine smiled at them. One of the yakuza scowled, but the other returned his smile, an exaggerated leer, and dropped his hand to the left side of his waistband. Brushing aside his coat, he casually revealed the butt of a gun.

  Caine watched as they walked past the redemption booth, where the manager of the parlor sat reading a manga. He put it down and bowed as the men walked past. They ignored him, disappearing through a red curtain hanging in the back of the room.

  A loud, blaring buzzer and a blast of Japanese pop music distracted Caine. One of his balls had hit a jackpot bar. A stream of winnings cascaded out of the machine. The LCD screen burst into white light, then faded to black. A computer-generated graphic of an anime girl stepped onto the screen.

  Her hair was neon green and spiked into a mohawk down the center of her exaggerated head. Floor-length pigtails spun and twirled as she danced to an upbeat pop song. The character picked up a microphone, belting out the lyrics in chirping, high-pitched Japanese. A heavily accented announcer spoke over the singing: “Ladies and gentlemen, Masuka Ongaku!”

  The machine’s light show flashed in time to the music. Caine shook his head and stood up. Only in Japan.

  Caine pushed the call button at the base of his pachinko machine. A few moments later, an attendant came out from behind the curtain, grabbed his winning bin, and escorted him to the manager’s booth. The young man dropped the bin on the counter, next t
o others Caine had accumulated throughout the day. The manager was once again buried in his manga. He looked up as a few errant balls rolled across the counter and fell to the floor.

  He stared at Caine for a second, then dumped the balls into a funnel behind the counter. A computer counted the winnings and spat out a receipt from the cash register when it was finished. The man tore it off, read the number at the bottom, then handed it to Caine.

  He turned and looked at the shelves behind him. Rows and rows of cheap electronics, random household items, and bizarre souvenirs stretched up to the ceiling. The mirrored wall behind multiplied them into a never-ending kaleidoscope of shoddy goods.

  The manager stood on his tiptoes to reach a slim box on one of the higher shelves. Caine looked it over as the manager set it down. The writing on the box was in Japanese kanji, but the picture showed a DVD player of some kind. Caine placed his hands on the counter and stared the manager in the eye.

  The manager squinted back, scratched behind his ear, then sighed. He produced several small, colorful plastic cards from a hidden spot under the counter and fanned them out on the glass countertop. He nodded his head towards the curtain in the back of the room.

  Caine picked up the cards. “Arigato gozaimasu,” he said, dipping his head in a slight bow. At the back of the parlor, he parted the red curtain and stepped into a small concrete room.

  Water dripped from a leak in the ceiling, creating a puddle on the floor. The attendant who had collected his winnings sat on a stool, slurping down some instant noodles from a Styrofoam bowl. At the end of the room, a wooden jam propped open the metal fire door. The attendant didn’t even glance up from his meager meal as Caine walked past him and out into a long, narrow alley.

  As he walked, Caine looked up at the edges of the buildings that towered over the narrow alley. His mental alarm bells were ringing. It felt like a good place for an ambush, but he saw no sign of any snipers above him.

  He continued down the narrow passage. Ahead he could see flashes of green cabs and pedestrians, passing where the alley connected with the street. Just a few feet away was an entry to his right, a metal door painted over with several coats of thick, industrial grey paint. It was completely unmarked save for a small metal panel set in the center.

  Perfect. The local tuck shop.

  Gambling on pachinko was illegal in Japan, but the parlors, with a little help from the local yakuza, had found a way around that. Prizes could not be exchanged for cash in the pachinko parlors themselves, but winners could bring their tokens to hidden spots like this one. The yakuza bought back the prizes for cash and took a percentage of the winnings. They played the role of the “house,” and, as usual, the house always won.

  Caine stood to the side of the door, making sure it opened outwards and towards him. He knocked on the metal panel.

  Nothing happened.

  He knocked again. “Hey!” he shouted. “Anta nana?”

  He heard the metallic fumbling of a latch on the other side of the door. The panel opened and a metal drawer slid out. Caine reached over and dropped his pachinko tokens in the drawer.

  After collecting the winnings, the panel opened again, and the drawer slid back out. Caine grabbed a stack of yen from the drawer, slipping the thick wad of bills into the inner pocket of his blazer.

  “Hey,” he shouted in Japanese. “That’s not enough. What are you trying to pull here?” It wasn’t true, but he knew he had to get their attention if he was going to move up the chain to Isato.

  A deep voice shouted back, “Kiraina hito hanarete iku!”

  Caine couldn’t help but smile. The voice had told him to go away, then called him an asshole.

  “Give me the rest or I call the police!” Caine demanded.

  He heard more fumbling behind the door, the sound of a latch turning. He pivoted his body towards the door as it swung open halfway. He used the momentum of his turn to launch a powerful kick at the door.

  He heard a grunt of pain as the heavy metal door crashed into the person behind it. Caine immediately grabbed the edge of the money drawer, then yanked it backwards, ripping it from its socket.

  The door bounced back open from the impact, and Caine stepped forward, kicking it open further. A man in a black suit staggered before him, blood gushing from his now-crushed nose.

  Caine noticed two things right away. First, this man was not one of the yakuza who had walked past him in the pachinko parlor. And second, whoever he was, he was reaching across his blood-spattered shirt and slipping his hand into his jacket.

  Caine charged forward, swinging the metal drawer in a powerful arc. The drawer knocked the man’s hand away from the gun, then cracked into his chin. His head snapped back, blood spraying through the air.

  He tried to take a step backwards, but Caine grabbed the man’s shirt collar and pulled him in close. He drove his knee into the man’s groin twice, while slamming the metal drawer into his left side, striking the solar plexus.

  As the man crumpled, Caine heard a sharp crack.

  Someone was shooting at him.

  Using the incapacitated man to block the shots, Caine hunched low and surveyed the situation. At the far end of the room, another man in an identical black suit ducked behind a desk. Caine grabbed his hostage’s weapon as the other man popped up from behind his cover.

  Crack! Crack! The other man fired again. The sound was loud but muffled, like someone clapping in a soundproofed room.

  Caine felt the impact as the bullets slammed into the human shield he held in front of him. His hostage was deadweight now, and he couldn’t hold him up and still shoot. He let the body drop to the floor with a thud.

  He was in fight mode now, his senses accelerated. Caine watched his assailant stand up from behind the desk in slow motion.

  Caine hurled the drawer at him. The heavy chunk of metal flew through the air, smashing into the other man’s shoulder as he raised his gun to shoot. The impact threw off his aim, and Caine felt the bullets slice through the air next to his ear. He held his ground, raising his own pistol in front of him in a double-handed grip.

  Crack! Crack! Crack! The pistol barked in his hands. Three crimson holes burst open in the man across the room.

  And just like that, it was over.

  The room was silent, save for the distant sounds of traffic and the creaking of the metal door. It swayed on its hinges, open then closed. Open then closed.

  Caine was panting. For a few seconds, he just stood there, looking around the room, observing the details.

  He was surprised to discover four dead bodies in the room. In addition to the two men he’d fought, the two thugs who had passed him in the parlor were also splayed across the floor. Their clothes were riddled with bullet holes. Blood was everywhere. On the desk, on the floor, on the walls ... everywhere.

  Caine took another breath, then kneeled next to the first yakuza. He patted the body down and removed a small but heavy Kimber automatic pistol, a wallet, and a cell phone.

  He did the same with the other bodies. The other yakuza carried a similar cell phone, but was armed with a Spyderco folding knife. The other two men carried no ID or cell phones of any kind, just identical Beretta pistols fitted with silencers.

  As Caine searched the body behind the desk, he noticed some scarring peeking out from under the lapel of his white shirt. Caine ripped it open, revealing an ugly pink mass of tissue that extended across the man’s chest and up to his shoulder.

  It looked like burn marks of some kind ... chemical or acid, maybe.

  As he stood up, Caine realized the scars were in the same position as where a yakuza tattoo would be.

  On the floor next to the dead man was a blue satchel, filled with yen notes. The safe behind the desk was open. It looked like someone, either the yakuza or the black suits, had been cleaning it out when the other party surprised them. Caine thought for a second, then grabbed the satchel. Using a handkerchief from one of the dead yakuza, he wiped down the weapons and phon
es, and put them back on the bodies.

  He kept the knife, one of the phones, and one of the Beretta pistols for himself, stuffing them into the duffel bag. He opened the door a crack, looked left and right, then stepped out into the alley. He glanced back at the bloody scene behind him. Whoever came next to collect their winnings would receive quite a shock. Would they remember the tall Caucasian man who had gone before them?

  Caine felt a tightening in his gut. Events were set in motion now. The clock was speeding up.

  As he stepped out into the street, he spied a dark grey sedan about a block away. Something about it set off his radar. The windows were tinted so he couldn’t see who was inside.

  He paused and turned to look into a shop window, pretending to peruse the goods. As he stared at the rows of Masunaga sunglasses, he watched the sedan’s reflection in the glass. Its engine was running. After a few seconds, it pulled away from the curb and joined the afternoon traffic.

  Caine continued down the street, making a few random stops and turns along the way. The sedan did not reappear.

  He pulled the yakuza’s cell phone out of the duffel bag, dialing the number he had been calling earlier. A gruff Japanese voice answered. “Hai?”

  “It’s Waters. I need to speak to Yoshizawa-san. Immediately.”

  “I told you, Mr. Yoshizawa is a busy. He does not want to speak with you. Do not call here again.”

  “Check the number I’m calling you from. Trust me, Yoshizawa will want to speak with me.” Caine slung the heavy duffel bag full of cash and weapons over his shoulder as he crossed the road.

  “Tell him I have something that belongs to him.”

  He hung up, then dialed Rebecca’s secure line from the cell phone.

  After the electronic beeps that signaled a secure connection, the call went to voicemail. He thought about leaving a message, but decided against it.

  He hung up and pushed forward into the crowd of Japanese pedestrians.

  Chapter Twelve