“Then we will take my car,” Mr. Sato replied, more concerned about his speech to the public than about how he would arrive there.
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, sir. I don’t recommend it. If we wait just a few hours, this fog will burn off and we can take the helicopter. My team is getting better every day, but they are not ready for a high-stakes movement like this yet.”
“Our stock is dropping too fast. I must give this speech, even if it puts me in danger.”
“Sir,” Cain continued, pleading, “this is a high-profile event publicized in advance. Your picture is plastered all over the news. The vehicles are not bulletproof, the Japanese government doesn’t authorize me to carry a firearm, and it’s going to be at least a one-hour drive.”
“I understand your concerns. That’s why I hired you—to free me to concentrate on saving this business. We must go by car. End of discussion.”
End of discussion, Cain thought. He had heard that phrase before, and he didn’t like how that scenario had ultimately ended. “Copy that, sir. Give me ten minutes to activate the foul-weather plan, and my team will be in place to transport you.”
Cain quickly arranged for the two-vehicle motorcade to stage outside the front doors of the main lobby. The engines were running, the gas tanks were full of premium fuel, and the drivers were in position. He was used to presidential motorcades, which included police motorcycles, decoy vehicles, heavily armed counterassault members, special radar-jamming equipment, extra vans for the press corps and support staff, and a fully stocked ambulance that carried a doctor and extra vials of the president’s blood type.
“The danger and threat against Sato-san are real,” Cain told his security team. “And we have fewer resources than I’d prefer. Don’t drop your guard.”
The elderly Mr. Morita smiled and lifted his white-gloved hand in the air, acknowledging that he understood his role as the primary driver. Cain had already talked to him about procedure in the event that they encountered any vehicle problems. They would pull over to the side of the road, and Sato would quickly get into the van that would be following behind them. “The show must go on,” Cain had said. “That’s why we always have at least one backup vehicle.” He knew that statistically, a flat tire or a mechanical failure was more probable than an assassination attempt while commuting.
The main lobby’s glass doors slid open, and Umiko, Mr. Sato, and his entourage of advisors flowed out toward the vehicles. With a slight bow, Cain opened the rear passenger door. Mr. Sato took his seat in the black Nissan President while Umiko gracefully slid onto the long back seat from the other rear passenger door. The President PGF50 was Nissan’s finest sedan, and it had been used by Mr. Sato for the last three years. Mr. Morita took excellent care of it and had hand-washed and waxed it for this big event. Cain understood that appearances were important, especially in Japanese society.
Cain looked at Tanaka, who was standing outside the follow-up vehicle, a black Elgrand luxury passenger van. Tanaka made one last check to be sure the support staff was situated inside the van. Once this was confirmed, Tanaka gave Cain a thumbs-up. Cain returned the signal and took his position in the front seat of the Nissan President. Their handheld radio earpieces had not arrived yet, so Tanaka and Cain had to communicate by hand signals and text messages. Otherwise, their radio broadcasts would interrupt Sato’s train of thought and any conversation he might be having in his car.
Because the Japanese drove on the opposite side of the road from Americans, Cain sat on the left side of the luxury sedan.
“The radio says traffic is very bad today,” Mr. Morita announced as the motorcade pulled away from the lobby doors. “Too much Tokyo construction and bad weather,” he told Cain.
“I must rely on your expertise, Morita-san. I’ve never driven in Tokyo.” Cain hated that he hadn’t had time to survey the routes and do a walk-through of the Tokyo International Forum himself, but he’d been busy overseeing all the physical security improvements at Sato’s house and at the company’s headquarters. He had, however, tasked Mr. Morita with doing the survey route the day prior.
Mr. Morita flashed his headlights and the guard pushed a button, opening the massive vehicle gate. Cain waved, and the uniformed guard bowed as the motorcade passed. The man did not rise from the bow until the motorcade had passed.
After a few moments of driving, the Nissan President turned onto the main street that would eventually connect them with the toll road. The motorcade slowed to a stop at a red light. Cain’s eyes were drawn like a magnet to a black motorcycle that crept up beside them. The motorcyclist was wearing black boots, black pants, a black jacket, and a full-face helmet with a dark tinted visor. The operator turned left to look into the unarmored vehicle. An uneasy feeling moved over Cain. When he had protected POTUS and other VIPs, no motorcycles like this would have ever been allowed to get so close to the motorcade. He double-checked to make sure the vehicle’s doors were locked. They were. He looked back at Mr. Sato, who was holding his speech with two hands, resting it in his lap. He was quietly reading his speech and was unaware of what was happening outside the car. The traffic signal turned green and Mr. Morita eased on the gas. The motorcycle turned right and fell out of sight.
Cain took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He texted Tanaka: DID NOT LIKE THAT MOTORCYCLE NEXT TO US. FOLLOW VEHICLE. MAKE SURE THAT DOESN’T HAPPEN.
Mr. Sato began talking to Umiko. They were speaking Japanese, so Cain couldn’t understand them, but he assumed it was about Sato’s speech. He saw Sato scribbling some last-minute notes in the margins of his sheets of paper.
Cain’s attention zeroed in on the roadblock that was up ahead in the distance. Two Japanese construction workers wearing white helmets and dressed in the typical blue overalls with light-reflective jackets were in the road directing traffic. Close to them were several yellow road barrels with black stripes.
“What’s going on?” Cain asked Mr. Morita. “What does that sign say?”
“Road repair,” he replied.
“Were they doing construction yesterday when you ran the route?”
“No.”
I don’t like this, Cain thought. Not at all. Has all the textbook signs of an ambush. “The road looks perfect to me, Morita-san. Don’t stop. Just keep driving.”
“Cain-san,” the driver replied, “we must obey all Japanese traffic rules. Or I lose my license.”
Cain reached for his handheld radio and twisted the volume knob up. He pushed the mic and was about to talk to Tanaka when he heard a troubling sound in the distance.
The dull whine of two sport motorcycles had broken the silence. The high-pitched sounds of their exhausts were growing louder by the second as they drew closer. Cain whipped his head over his left shoulder. In the side-view mirror he saw two sport motorcycles quickly approaching from the rear. They were definitely a pair. Each had a passenger on the back, and the models matched the motorcycle from before.
One of the construction workers was waving a handheld flashlight with a blinking red light on the end. He was holding it in such a way as to ensure that the motorcade remained stopped while the other worker was repositioning one of the road barrels.
Cain pressed the mic on the handheld radio and shouted, “Two motorcycles coming in hot! Ambush! Evacuate!” Then Cain yelled to Morita-san, “Drive!”
Cain quickly turned to Sato. “Get down, sir!” Cain unbuckled his seat belt and was preparing to jump into the back to cover Mr. Sato with his own body when Mr. Morita stomped his dress shoe onto the gas pedal. The 278-horsepower V-8 engine roared to life. The fresh tires squealed before they gripped the concrete and thrusted everyone into their seat. The powerful 4.5-liter engine chewed the concrete and spat rocks as Mr. Morita weaved around the construction workers and blasted through traffic.
Umiko shrieked in terror.
“They have guns!” Tanaka’s voice shrilled over the radio as the rear passengers on the motorcycles pulled out Uzis an
d pointed them toward Tanaka’s van.
Takka takka takka takka. The sound of high-velocity rounds being fired from the submachine guns at a rate of six hundred rounds per minute echoed off the high-rise buildings as the 9mm bullets sprayed the van.
Umiko screamed in horror and shock.
The motorcycles whined louder as the drivers rolled the throttle to max speed to close the gap. Morita-san was a completely different person than Cain had ever imagined. It was as if a trance had come over him and he was channeling Steve McQueen in the movie Bullitt.
“Stay down!” Cain shouted in Mr. Sato’s ear as he used his own body as a shield to cover his protectee. He had been hired by Koichi Sato and was legally and morally bound to protect him, but Cain also wanted Umiko to comply to increase her chances of survival as well. “You, too, Umiko. Stay down!” He pulled her tiny body close to his.
The black motorcycles flanked Sato’s car, approaching both sides of the rear passenger compartment. Mr. Morita jerked the steering wheel violently left and right to shake them off the car, but it didn’t work. The drivers comfortably maneuvered their bikes at high speeds, and they would come right back alongside the car.
Takka takka takka takka. Bullets and smoke spewed from the Uzis. At least three rounds penetrated the rear window, and glass shattered throughout the passenger compartment. Umiko cried out as broken glass rained down onto her head. She wildly tossed her head left and right to shake the shards of glass out.
“Don’t move!” Cain yelled. “Just stay down.” He continued pushing Sato and Umiko as far into the floorboard as he could, placing his outstretched body on top of them both.
He grabbed Sato’s briefcase from the rear seat and placed it over their heads. He figured it was a little protection—at least better than nothing.
Mr. Morita continued jerking the steering wheel from side to side. The motorcycles were swarming the car like angry bees. “Stick to one!” Cain yelled out to him.
“Hai!” Morita replied, and trained all his attention on the motorcycle to his right. He turned the steering wheel to the right and forced the motorcycle to veer right. When the motorcycle couldn’t go any farther right without hitting the guardrail, the motorcyclist released the throttle and slowed down to get behind the sedan. At that very instant, Cain yelled out to Morita, “Hit the brakes now!” Morita listened to Cain, though it was a command that was completely counterintuitive in a situation where assassins were on the heels of their prey. Morita stomped his foot on the brake. Smoke billowed into the air from burnt rubber and overheated brakes as all the momentum transferred to the car’s front chassis. Cain felt his body roll forward and abruptly stop against the back cushion of the front seats.
As Cain had predicted, the new Kawasaki sport bike had been going too fast. It couldn’t stop in time. The motorcycle slammed into the trunk of the sedan and flipped the rider and passenger onto the roof, breaking the hood ornament off the car as they crashed onto the pavement and continued rolling.
“Great job, Morita-san! Now go, go, go!”
Mr. Morita lifted his foot off the brake and pushed the pedal to the floor. The sedan responded with raw power. The momentum snapped his head back into the headrest, and Cain watched as Morita ran over one of the attackers, causing two thuds as the tires rolled over the body. Cain peered through the shattered rear window as the two assassins lay still on the pavement.
“Find me a fire or police station!” Cain instructed the driver, his face now so close he was practically spitting on Morita. “Shoubousho! Koban!” Their car wasn’t on fire, but fire and police stations were safe havens during protective missions because they were government buildings with medical equipment and emergency communications.
The remaining motorcycle sprinted forward and pulled alongside the battered Nissan President.
“Chotto mate!” Morita yelled.
“Hold on!” Umiko quickly translated as Morita blew through a red light at a busy intersection. Passing cars blared their horns and screeched to a halt. Morita swerved off the main road and squeezed the large sedan down an alley that led to a hidden labyrinth normally closed to cars because of pedestrian traffic. The Kawasaki Ninja 1000 followed close behind like a shadow. The narrow alleys were no obstacle for the bike or its operator.
Morita-san hit the horn with his palm and held it as he yelled out in Japanese. Shoppers and businesspeople scattered in every direction and leaped out of the way to avoid the massive car barreling through.
As the motorcycle pulled alongside the passenger compartment, Cain grabbed the handle of Sato’s briefcase and swung the case all the way from his hip into the helmet of the motorcycle’s passenger. The briefcase busted open and sent papers flying as the Samsonite case broke the face shield and catapulted the rider off the motorcycle and into the wall of the tight alley.
“Sato-san is bleeding!” Umiko cried out.
Cain looked down and grabbed Umiko’s cherry blossom scarf from around her neck. He quickly untied it and placed it against Mr. Sato’s neck.
“Keep pressure on it!” he yelled as the scarf continued soaking up blood. “And stay down!”
Police sirens wailed loudly as two Japanese police officers joined the pursuit. Red emergency lights flashed from the powerful white Honda motorcycles.
“It’s about damn time!” Cain exclaimed. He grabbed the handheld radio and keyed the mic. “Tanaka, what’s your status?”
The radio crackled. Cain twisted the squelch knob and turned up the volume so he could hear over the blaring sirens.
“Tanaka?” he repeated. “Report in.”
There was no response. Cain’s stomach seized. He feared the worst. “Dammit, Tanaka!” he yelled in anguish. “Report in!”
“Minor injuries from shattered glass,” Tanaka said, his voice fading in and out over the airwaves. “But we are okay. Van is disabled on the side of the road. I gave your direction to the police. Is Sato-san okay?”
Cain emitted a huge sigh of relief, knowing that everyone in Tanaka’s vehicle was safe. “We’re all okay. The good guys are finally here,” he announced over the radio. “Rendezvous back at base.”
The police downshifted their transmission, maximizing every ounce of torque their V-4 engines could provide. The assassin and motorcycle police officers blew past Cain and his injured passengers. The police quickly caught up to the remaining assassin, who had to abort or risk arrest.
Morita-san let off the accelerator and stomped on the emergency brake. When the rear tires locked up, he swung the steering wheel to the left. The car slid 180 degrees around the weight of the heavy engine, coming to a dramatic stop.
Cain jumped off Mr. Sato and ran his fingers through the executive’s hair and across his face and neck. He then inspected the man’s fingers for blood and other signs of life-threatening wounds. He removed a golf ball–size piece of glass from Sato’s neck. Cain held it up for Sato to see. “You’re a lucky man. This missed your artery by half an inch.”
Mr. Sato nodded, clearly shaken by the attempt on his life. “I’m okay, thanks to you and Morita-san.”
Cain was on autopilot as the adrenaline raced through his body. He ripped open Sato’s button-down shirt and was shocked by what he saw.
Sato forcibly removed Cain’s bloody hands and buttoned up his shirt. “I told you: I am fine. Now get me back to the office. There are people everywhere taking photos!”
“Yes. You’re right. Let’s get you back to the office. We’ll regroup there and have a medic look at your neck.”
Cain turned to Mr. Morita, who was outside the car, inspecting the damage. “Damn! Morita-san, you are the shit!”
Mr. Morita lowered his head in shame. “I am sorry, Cain-san.”
“Sorry for what?”
“You say I am shit.”
Cain chuckled. “No, Morita-san. It’s an expression. You were awesome! You are the man! Where did you learn to drive like that?”
Mr. Morita raised his head and beamed. “The Fa
st and the Furious: Tokyo Drift.”
Cain laughed out loud. “Get us back to the office. Too many onlookers gathering and snapping photos, and we gotta get Sato-san checked out.”
“Hai!”
During the short drive back, Cain’s thoughts bounced around in his mind—the ambush, the assassins, the automatic weapons, Mr. Morita’s awesome driving—but one question kept nagging at him: Why did Mr. Sato have a dragon tattoo on his chest?
Chapter 44
Mr. Sato’s personal physician, an accomplished doctor who had trained in Australia, examined him in the safety of his large office at the automotive headquarters.
“That was a close call,” Sato said in English, for Cain’s benefit.
“Yes, it was.” The doctor continued attending to Sato’s neck. “No stitches needed, though. Just some cuts from the glass. You’re lucky you had your American security guard with you.”
“They are the lucky ones! If they had been brave enough to face me hand to hand, I would have destroyed them.”
“Who were they?” the doctor inquired.
“Trust me,” Sato replied. “I will find out.”
“Until we do,” Cain said, “you’re still in great danger. My team and I will continue to train hard to protect you.”
“When will these threats stop?” the doctor asked. “Sato-san is not getting any younger.”
“They won’t,” Cain replied. “Not until they get what they want.”
“What do they want?” the doctor asked.
“They want me to resign,” Sato said angrily. “And I will not! I’ve come too far. I was born in this world alone. Abandoned at an orphanage without any clothing on my back. I worked day and night to reach this position. I carry the sacred name of my adoptive parents. I will not give my attackers, nor my competition, the pleasure of seeing me resign in defeat and in disgrace. I will not do that to the Sato family name.”
Cain was surprised by Mr. Sato’s history, which he had never heard before. “Then we’ll outlast them. The threats against the United States president never stop, either. I’m used to this kind of pressure. And obviously, you are, too.”
Cajun Justice Page 16
