by David DeLee
Tara leaned in close McMurphy. She whispered, “That was how you knew he wouldn’t have the flash drive on him.”
McMurphy nodded. “Yeah, he does this when things get real. Let’s just hope he doesn’t strip down to his socks and tightie-whities. That’s real traditional stuff for the Yakuza.”
McMurphy drank his beer, thinking about the biggest hurdle in their plan. Actually getting him inside the vault room. They needed a cardkey. Everything they came up with trying would set off alarms through the security system. Except one.
Swipe a cardkey from a dealer. But so far, he’d gotten no opportunity, and time was running out.
There was one other way. He’d have to go down the vault and lay in wait for a dealer to come along to drop off a full lockbox and take out a new one. Force him into the vault. The problem was it wouldn’t take long before someone realized the dealer was missing. When that happened, the jig would be up.
“Wait here,” Tara said.
She patted McMurphy on the shoulder, got up, and went over to Kwon.
“Before you get started,” she said, turning Kwon around to face her. “There’s a tradition, I don’t know where it started, Vegas probably.” She placed a hand on the side of his face and leaned into him, giving him a long, deep kiss on the mouth. When she pulled back, she said, “A kiss for good luck.”
McMurphy was sure he was the only one who saw her pickpocket Kwon’s wallet from his tuxedo jacket as she kissed him hard on his mouth. Talk about taking one for the team.
Kwon sat down, looking a bit stunned. He ordered the Oicho-Kabu dealer to begin.
Tara sat back down next to McMurphy and slipped the wallet to him under the bar.
“Above and beyond,” he said, shoving the wallet into his pocket.
“There’s not enough mouthwash in the world,” she said.
He ordered two kamikaze shots. “It’s not Listerine, but…” Together they downed the vodka, triple sec, and lime juice shots.
He tossed down the last of his beer. “I’m off. Wanna wish me luck, too?”
She rolled her eyes. “Get out of here before I stab you.”
He smiled. “You say the sweetest things.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Bannon noticed McMurphy slip away from the bar as play at the Oicho-Kabu table resumed. No one else seemed to see or care as all eyes were on Bannon, Kwon, and the dealer. The next half hour would be critical.
And it would be a delicate balance.
Bannon had to steadily increase his loss to win ratio, passing on cards that would give Kwon a preponderance of winning hands, but do it slowly so the sudden shift from good luck to bad would look natural, lead Kwon to assume he’d overreacted, let him relish in beating Bannon, long lead enough to give McMurphy the time he needed in the vault room.
Unwittingly, the dealer helped the cause by continuing to feed Kwon desirable cards. Things were going along swimmingly. Tara came over to watch, putting a hand on Kwon’s shoulder as his chip stack grew in size.
Kwon grinned over his one and four card. A special hand that beats all other hands.
Bannon frowned at his own cards; an eight, nine, and a three. The worst hand one can draw in Oicho-Kabu. Ironically, called ya-ku-za.
Kwon did little to hide his glee over Bannon’s misfortune. “It would seem the Seven Gods of Fortune have shifted their allegiance tonight. As they often do.”
“It would seem,” Bannon said, signaling for another Kirin. “But as you say, while their loyalties may be fleeting. I’m confident Lady Luck will return to me before the night is over.”
And so it went, back and forth, with Bannon’s chips steadily diminishing and Kwon’s pile getting larger.
Bannon surreptitiously checked his watch—McMurphy had been gone for almost twenty-five minutes—when an elderly man wearing dark-rimmed glasses approached Kwon and whispered in his ear, in Japanese. Bannon had seen him several times earlier in the evening and had learned from McMurphy his name was Benjiro. The casino’s operations manager and saikō-komon, a senior advisor and trusted friend to Kwon.
Bannon wasn’t anywhere near fluent in Japanese but he’s picked up a few terms and expressions when he, Tara, and a small contingent of Coasties participated in a six-month exchange program a few years back with the Japanese 3rd Regional Coast Guard, headquarters in Yokohama, in Northern Japan.
The two phrases he caught in the conversation between Benjiro and Kwon were gairan and manē rūmu. Disturbance and money room.
Something had gone wrong. McMurphy was in trouble. Bannon gave Tara a curt nod. Check it out.
Time for their contingency plan.
He leaped to his feet and lunged across the table, grabbing the dealer’s arm. “I knew it!”
The room let out a collective gasp. Everyone’s attention was on Bannon. Tara slipped away unseen as the Sanu twins rushed at the table.
They grabbed Bannon by his jacket, pulling him back. He held fast to the dealer’s arm, dragging him across the table. Chips and cards spilled. Drinks were knocked over, but Bannon refused to let go.
Kwon leaped to his feet. “Release him, Bannon. Now.”
Bannon stared at him without complying long enough to establish he wasn’t intimidated by the oyabun or his thugs. With that established, he let the dealer’s arm go.
“Now explain yourself,” Kwon demanded.
Before Bannon could respond Benjiro, looking worried, sputtered, “But, Mr. Kwon. Below…”
Kwon waved him away. “Handle it. Take Kin with you.”
Bannon cursed silently. The last thing he wanted was to have Kwon sic one of his ninja attack dogs on McMurphy. The twins protested. But Kwon would have no part of it. “Silence! Do as you are told. Now!”
The one twin kept a tight grip on Bannon’s arm. The other one stepped back and bowed, then followed the harried casino manager out of the stateroom. Benjiro wringing his hands as he went.
“Now, Mr. Bannon,” Kwon said once they were gone. “An explanation before I lose my temper.”
“Your man is cheating. It took me a while to see how. But I did. He’s flipping cards up in the chute, dealing the card below. The deck is marked. It has to be.”
“That is a preposterous accusation,” Kwon said. “Besides, you have been winning most of the night. You are still up by a large margin. If my man was cheating, he is horribly bad at it.”
“He’s not been doing it all night. Just since we came back. When I started losing and you started winning.”
Kwon frowned. “I do not like what you are implying.”
Bannon doubled down. “I’m not implying anything. I’m saying it.” He pointed at the dealer. “He’s cheating. And he’s doing it on your behalf.”
He poked Kwon in the chest. “This table’s crooked and I’m betting the whole damn ship is, too.”
-----
McMurphy made his way down to the vault room without arousing anyone’s attention.
With a final check of the carpeted passageway outside the room, making sure the coast was clear, McMurphy slipped the cardkey from Kwon’s stolen wallet. He dumped the wallet in the nearby trash can, and passed the card over the black reader. The door clicked open.
He slipped inside and quietly closed the door behind him, hearing it lock with a satisfactory click. The lights went on automatically. McMurphy surveyed the room quickly as he inserted the earpiece Kayla had given him into his ear.
“Ahoy there, Kayla. Skyjack here. I’ve got my ears on,” he said. “You out there, girl?”
From the earpiece, Kayla said, “Breaker one-nine right back at you, Skyjack.”
He smiled. “I’m in the vault, but dealers could come down here any minute. Let’s get this show on the road.”
“I’ve got the keypad tones Tara sent downloaded and translated.”
As she spoke in his ear, McMurphy peeled the magnetized, high tech listening device Tara had planted earlier from the side of the safe. He pocketed it. No sense givin
g away the magician’s secrets.
“Four. Two. Niner. Seven,” Kayla said, giving him the keypad combination.
McMurphy entered the digits and was rewarded with the spring release sound of the biometric lock cover popping open.
McMurphy grinned. “Abracadabra. I’m in.”
“It’s not magic,” Kayla reminded him. “It’s science.”
Next, he pulled the polymer ‘glove’ from his tuxedo jacket pocket. Using a special blue light penlight with an orange filter he located the ridged thumbprint pattern Kwon unknowingly imprinted on the glove. McMurphy didn’t like handling the ‘glove’. It gave him the heebie-jeebies.
“Still say this thing is wicked creepy.”
He wore a similar polymer fingertip on his right thumb. He carefully pressed it against Kwon’s fingerprint, transferring the impression to his thumb. Or so he hoped.
He pressed his thumb to the biometric lock.
The blue light passed over it.
Nothing happened.
McMurphy panicked. The whole plan hinged on this working. He pressed his thumb harder against the reader.
Again nothing. “It’s not working.”
“Press harder,” Kayla said.
“I am pressing harder.”
“According to the manufacturer specs, you only get three tries before the system locks you out,” she warned.
Terrific. Sweat beaded his forehead. He passed the penlight beam over his thumb. It picked up the latent print imprinted on it. Then he looked at the one left on the ‘glove.’ To the naked eye, they looked identical, but he knew that meant little. The biometric readers were a thousand times more sensitive than human perception.
All he could do was try again.
Under his breath, he said, “Here goes nothing.”
He pressed the rubbery material to the lock. The blue light scanned it. A second ticked by. “Come on. Come on.” The lock clicked. McMurphy sighed. He spun the wheel quickly, as if afraid the mechanism might change its mind before he got the door open. It didn’t.
He yanked the heavy safe door open.
“Yay, us,” he said.
He took off his tuxedo jacket and pealed the super-thin, micro-fiber backpack from the jacket’s inside lining. He shook it open, loving the nerdy, brainy minds that worked at DARPA. He scooped several bundles of cash that Kwon had left behind and the seven lock boxes—the flash drive had to be in one of those boxes—into the expandable black backpack.
Seeing the two pistols on the lower level, McMurphy whistled.
“What is it?” Kayla asked.
“A flintlock pistol and a Sugiura .32. Both in mint condition.”
“Time’s running out,” Kayla reminded him.
“Yeah. Yeah.”
He couldn’t leave those babies behind. He shoved the flintlock into the backpack. He slipped his arms through the backpack straps, shouldering the weight and adjusting the load with a shrug. Then he took the second gun out; a Sugiura pistol. He dropped the magazine and frowned at the limited eight round capacity.
“Here to hoping I don’t need it.” He slammed the magazine home and stuck the Japanese gun in his waistband. “You in position, Lieutenant?”
“Will be when you need me to be.”
McMurphy smiled. “That’s my girl.”
He loved working with professionals.
McMurphy closed the empty safe, crossed the room, and carefully opened the vault door a crack. He looked up and down the passageway, one way and then the other. Not a soul in sight. He stepped outside, turned, and quietly pulled the door closed behind him.
Enjoying the adrenaline rush, he tiptoed away from the vault, wondering if this was what real cat burglars felt like.
He got as far as the stairwell he’d come down, having bypassed the glass elevator, when he stepped into a deep shadow that wasn’t supposed to be there. He looked up. His path was blocked by a large Asian man with short spiky black hair and a scraggily goatee. If he wasn’t wearing a custom-made dark suit the size of a tent stretched over his large body, McMurphy thought he’d make the perfect Sumo wrestler.
McMurphy spun in the opposite direction only to find a second well-dressed man, just as large, filling the passageway behind him. This one was as bald as a bowling ball. His skin tone was as black as the night. Jamaican, McMurphy guess.
With a nervous smile, McMurphy said, “Oh, hey, guys. Nice night, don’t you think?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
McMurphy took a step back and looked from one economy-size goon to the other. They stood facing him down with their arms crossed over their chests. Their wide foreheads furrowed, their brows heavy over dark eyes. Each was as wide at the passageway itself. Twin Mount Fujis would’ve been a less intimidating obstacle.
“Is there any chance we can do this without resorting to violence, fellas?” he asked hopefully.
The two men grunted. The Asian tilted his head one way then the other. McMurphy heard bones cracking. Jamaica laced his fingers, cracked his knuckles, and grinned.
The message was clear. They looked forward to breaking McMurphy in two.
“I’ll take that as a no then.”
The Asian dropped his arms and charged.
Behind him, Jamaica growled and stampeded.
He knew it was his imagination but McMurphy could’ve sworn the passageway shook under the two men’s stomping weight. Neither assailant was quick, but then nimble wasn’t his middle name either. Still, he easily ducked under the arms grabbing for him and narrowly avoided being crushed between the two colliding forces. They smashed into each other, grunting. He slipped away, spun, and went into a boxer’s stance, dancing on the balls of his feet, his hands wound into tight fists, as his opponents untangled themselves and twisted around to face him.
The passageway was too wide for the men to come at him side-by-side. An advantage for him.
McMurphy greeted his first attacker, the Asian, with a quick right jab and a left cross. His fists landed hard in the man’s nose and then jaw, sending him sprawling sideways into the woodgrain paneled bulkhead.
McMurphy leaped over his off-balance attacker and body slammed Jamaica—it was like throwing a shoulder block against the side of a tank and expecting to move it—but McMurphy continued to use the tight space to his advantage. The man-mountain stepped back, opening his stances. McMurphy tackled, diving into him like he was the most hated quarterback in the history of the game, during the final seconds of the Super Bowl. Driving him back, they slammed into the glass enclosure around the elevator. With a shudder, the plate glass fractured into a spider-web pattern of white cracks but remained intact.
By then, the Asian had regained his footing and grabbed McMurphy from behind. Blood leaked from the corner of his mouth, wet in his goatee. He growled, throwing his arms around McMurphy’s barrel chest, pinning his arms to his side.
The Asian’s suit jacket shredded with an audible tear.
Jamaica shook his head like a stunned, enraged bull. He pushed off the glass wall. He rushed at McMurphy, pummeling his stomach with big, ham-size fists. Doubled over, McMurphy coughed, expelling a great gasp. Tears squeezed from the corner of his eyes, blurring his vision.
With an animalistic growl of his own, McMurphy threw his head back. His head smashed into the Asian’s jaw. The bone on bone impact made McMurphy see stars. The Asian’s teeth snapped together. He cried out, but didn’t loosen his grip.
McMurphy threw his head forward, smashing his forehead into Jamaica’s nose, shattering it.
Blood spurted from his nostrils.
The man howled and covered his face with his hands. He staggered back from the attack, moaning.
Still trapped in the Asian’s arms, McMurphy leaped up and kicked both his feet into Jamaica’s chest. Blood coated the man’s pretty white shirt and black tie. With a great woof, Jamaica backpedaled. He swung his arms to keep his balance, failed, and again crashed into the glass wall surrounding the elevator shaft. The glass co
uldn’t resist a second impact.
It shattered.
The big man fell backward and landed in the bottom of the elevator shaft as shards of glass rained down around him.
The bear-like grip around McMurphy’s chest tightened. He gasped trying to get air into his squeezed lungs. McMurphy ignored the pain of his cracking ribs, his diminished ability to breathe. He planted his feet on the carpeted floor and leaned forward, lifting the Asian off his feet, carrying him on his back. McMurphy staggered forward, growling from the effort. He twisted and slammed his attacker into the elevator call button.
Jamaica laid on his back in the elevator shaft like an upended sea turtle. His eyes went wide as the elevator car above him began to descend, coming closer. He scrambled through the broken glass in the tight confines of the elevator shaft, trying to get up, trying to get out.
He got to his feet, tried to pull himself out into the passageway. McMurphy twisted, with the Asian still on his back, he slammed backwards again. This time into Jamaica. The large man, his face bloodied by lacerations, lost his footing on the glass shards littering the floor of the shaft.
He fell back. Screamed.
The elevator came down, crushing him, silencing his screams.
McMurphy twisted away from the elevator, feeling the Asian’s grip loosen. Finally. Not enough to break free, but enough so that McMurphy could again drive his attacker back, again slam his back into something. This time a bulkhead. The impact splintered the cherry wood paneling and dented the crushed sheetrock wall behind it.
McMurphy snapped the Asian’s arms away. Freed, he spun and showered punches down into the stunned man’s face. He growled with anger and determination. His fists hit and hit and hit. He felt the man’s nose break. Felt the man’s jaw shatter. He felt an eye socket fracture. He felt the raw pain in his hands as the skin covering his knuckles cut and tore, rubbed raw and bloody from the beating. His lungs were on fire as he gasped for air. The fear of almost being killed unleashed a fury inside him, a fury he rained down on his attacker.
The Asian slipped to the floor. The fight beaten out of him. Unconscious or dead, McMurphy didn’t check. He didn’t care. Panting, McMurphy opened up a link to Kayla as he stormed away from the ruined, bloody passageway.
