[Thomas Caine #1] Tokyo Black

by Andrew Warren

  “My ass, too, boss.”

  A soft electronic chime sounded from Ethan’s computer. “Hold the phone … what do we have here?”

  Rebecca walked over to his desk, leaning over his shoulder. “What have you got?”

  “Curiouser and curiouser … I’ve been running traces on old aliases … you know, fake identities, backstopped covers that we provided. Sometimes these freelance players are so far removed from their original identities, it’s easier to track down the alias, right?”

  “Yeah, I get it. What’s so interesting about this one?”

  Ethan looked up over his shoulder. “Do you mind? Personal space.”

  Rebecca bit her lip and took a step back.

  “Okay, so if any official agency runs a check on one of these IDs, I get a flag here. And a fingerprint ID check was just submitted to Interpol by the Royal Thai Police for one Mark Waters.”

  “Who the hell is Mark Waters?”

  “That’s the point…. He’s no one. Mark Waters was a deep cover identity we created. And the fingerprints the Thai police have on file match ours, so we know it’s the same asset, but it’s not supposed to be active. Whoever was assigned this identity, he’s using it on his own now. And according to this file, he’s been arrested by the Thai police for smuggling, racketeering, and … looks like arms dealing.”

  Rebecca grabbed a chair and sat down next to Ethan. The young man shifted uncomfortably, but she ignored him.

  “Who the hell is this guy? Show me.”

  Ethan’s fingers danced over the keys. “Ladies and gentlemen, I present Mr. Mark Waters….” The Interpol file on the screen faded away, replaced by a CIA personnel dossier. The photo showed an attractive man in his thirties. He had short brown hair and intense green eyes. “Also known as … Thomas Caine.”

  Rebecca gasped.

  Ethan looked up at her, his eyes peering over the rims of his chunky black glasses. “According to our files, he’s supposed to be dead. You know this guy?”

  Rebecca stood up, brushed back her long red hair, and stared at the screen. “Yeah. I knew him.”

  “Well, obviously he’s alive and kicking it in Thailand. What’s his deal?”

  “Officially, he was one of our best deep operators. He was posing as an arms dealer, to make a connection with the White Leopard drug cartel in Afghanistan. According to his handler’s report, he went rogue. Killed his partner and disappeared with a shipment of guns and heroin. Then he resurfaced and tried to sell it on the black market. When the White Leopards found out who he really was, they killed him and took back their drugs.”

  Ethan nodded. “Okay. And unofficially?”

  Rebecca paused for a moment, staring at the pixilated photograph.

  “Unofficially … I knew him. I debriefed him once, after an operation. We … became close.”

  “How close?”

  Rebecca didn’t answer. She returned to her desk, shoved aside the white sea of dossiers and personnel reports, and grabbed the folder Bernatto had given her.

  “Bury that report. I don’t want any other internal system flagging it.”

  Ethan laughed. “Right! So you’re saying you want me to hack every computer inside the CIA?”

  “And Interpol if you have to.”

  She dialed her desk phone and waited for the operator to pick up. “Just do it, Ethan. Kill that report.”

  “Science and Technology, Special Activities Division,” said a voice on the phone.

  Rebecca cradled the receiver against her shoulder as she stuffed files into her leather briefcase. “Yes, video archives please? I need any footage we have on Thailand politicians. Something compromising. I need to lean on someone.”

  “Who exactly do you need to lean on?”

  “Anyone tied to the warden of Bang Kwang prison.”

  She hung up the phone, grabbed her coat off the back of her chair, and eyed Ethan. “When they deliver the footage, send it to my phone. And Ethan, not a word of this, to anyone. Do you understand? Especially not Bernatto.”

  Ethan stopped typing again and looked up. His eyes looked wide and concerned behind his thick glasses. “Well, where are you going to be, if anyone asks?”

  Rebecca slung her bag over her shoulder and hurried out of the office. “Tell them I’m visiting an old friend.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Genki Ink was a small tattoo parlor on Takeshita Dori, a pedestrian street in the trendy Harajuku area. The shop had a reputation for quality work, but its bosozuku gang clientele tended to scare off more casual customers. A small group of these gang members lounged outside the shop. They smoked cigarettes and ran combs through their greased hair as they watched the crowds go by.

  Inside, the air smelled of sweat, mixed with the antiseptic sting of alcohol. The heavy electronic buzzing of tattoo guns was constant. Not even the Japanese punk rock music blasting from the shop’s speakers could drown it out.

  In the rear of the shop, the gang’s leader, a Japanese man in his late twenties, lay face down on a table. He was shirtless, and his body was already covered with ink, a mix of various tattoo styles. His thick black hair was pushed up into a sweeping, shiny pompadour. A tattered black leather jacket hung off a chair next to him. The name “Sonny” was stitched across the back in bright red letters.

  The jacket, tattoos, and hairstyle were the hallmarks of the bosozuku, the speed tribes. These motorcycle and street racing youth gangs served as a breeding ground for future yakuza. Sonny was a senpai, the head of the gang known as the Crimson Scorpions.

  Sonny grunted as the needle buzzed back and forth. The red patch of ink beneath his skin grew darker and darker. He actually found the pain of the needle relaxing, in a strange way. Like a hard shiatsu massage, it hurt, but it was a welcome pain. His head lolled on the table as the artist continued working on the elaborate scorpion shoulder tattoo. The deep bass of the shop’s punk music, the pulsing, painful warmth of the needle … after a long night of drinking and partying in the Roppongi bars, he nearly fell asleep.

  As Sonny’s thoughts turned to dreams, he let his mind wander to the future. He pictured his eventual transformation from a bosozuku senpai to a yakuza kobun. At twenty-nine, Sonny was old for a bosozuku. Government crackdowns on the yakuza families had lowered the demand for new members. Enrollment opportunities were limited, but Sonny knew his turn would come soon.

  He’d turned the Crimson Scorpions into the most respected gang in the Kanto region. He had prioritized their profitable activities: stripping stolen cars for parts, theft, low-level street drugs, and muscle for hire. He ran the gang like a business, making sure his members contributed to the bottom line and stayed out of trouble. Honor and pride had their place, of course. But it was the money he brought to the table that would secure his position in the yakuza.

  The door to the tattoo shop swung open with a jingle, but Sonny paid it no mind. He was still contemplating his future: a life of flashy suits, sports cars, and beautiful girls at his beck and call. He dreamt of drinking sake from the cup of his oyabun, and earning the respect and admiration of his brothers. Ignoring the common men who called him “burakamen” … outcast. He had friends and relatives who had joined the yakuza. He was aware on some level that his dreams were fantasies, that the life had its hardships as well. Blood, tears, and loss were no strangers to those who moved up in the gangs. But, for now, he was content to dream.

  Lost in his thoughts, Sonny paid no attention to the enormous man who’d entered the parlor. Clad in a black suit, his massive size eclipsed nearly all the light from the shop’s front windows. Two other men, dressed in identical black suits, flanked him.

  Bobu.

  The artists were so engaged in their work, no one even looked up as one of the men began lowering the shades of the parlor windows. Bobu surveyed the store, his milk white eye finally settling on Sonny. No emotion whatsoever crossed his features as he approached. His associates drew Glock 19 automatic pistols tipped with silencers. As they m
ade their way to the back of the store, they opened fire.

  The silencers turned the explosive shots into loud but muffled coughs. One of the tattoo artists, a girl with purple hair wearing a tattered concert t-shirt, looked up and gasped. She watched as her coworker, only a few feet away, collapsed to the floor in a crumpled, bloody heap. The tattoo artist barely had time to register what was happening before the gun coughed again. A bright red hole burst open between her eyes.

  Wrenched from his daydreams, Sonny’s head shot up just in time to see a half-naked, mohawked patron sprint for the front door. He almost made it before a bullet to the back of the head dropped him cold.

  Sonny gaped at the senseless slaughter. He looked up as a shadow descended over his table. Bobu stood over him, gazing down. His scarred, warped features were like something from a nightmare.

  The guns unloaded two more shots, and the tattoo artist next to Sonny fell backwards, crashing into a cart filled with tattoo ink and supplies. The ink spattered across the floor, mixing with his blood to form a psychedelic splatter of color next to his dead body.

  The sudden burst of violence was over as quickly as it began. The buzzing of the tattoo needles was gone. Without their cricket-like hum, the shop felt quiet and empty, despite the loud music blasting from the speakers.

  Sonny threw his body up into a sitting position on the tattoo table. The shock of the attack had caught him off guard. Those precious seconds he had wasted gawking would mean the difference between life and death.

  His reached for the pearl-handled switchblade knife he stashed in the inner pocket of his jacket. It didn’t make much sense … four inches of slim, sharp steel against a barrage of gunfire. But it was all he had.

  His fingers just brushed the rough leather of the jacket when he felt a crushing pressure around his wrist. Bobu had swooped down, grabbing his outstretched arm with one of his thick, meaty hands.

  Bobu followed through with a strike, slamming his other hand into Sonny’s neck. The huge man pressed forward, carrying Sonny through the air and smashing him into the wall behind the tattoo table. Sonny’s vision blurred as his skull cracked against the wood. The impact knocked several sheets of tattoo flash art to the floor.

  Despite the sudden exertion, Bobu’s breath was calm and measured. He held Sonny against the wall, the bosozuku’s feet kicking and flailing several inches above the floor. His massive, hideous face hung inches in the air in front of Sonny’s. He sized up the squirming gangster with his milky eye and smiled.

  “You are bosozuku?” he asked. “You wish to be yakuza?”

  Sonny swallowed his panic, struggling to maintain his bravado in the face of this monster. Sonny had led gangs in turf wars and violent beatings. He had killed his enemies, watching their faces as they died. He squinted, knowing that fear showed first in the eyes.

  “Who the fuck are you?” He was grateful to hear his voice didn’t waver. “Do you know who you’re messing with?”

  Bobu barked a command, and one of his associates stepped forward, holding a cellphone in front of Sonny. On it was a digital photo of a girl. The expression on the girl’s face was strange. She looked haunted. Lost. To Sonny, she looked like a fallen angel.

  Bobu twisted his lips into a reptilian smile.

  “I apologize for the inconvenience. We are looking for this girl. It is vital that we find her. You wish to be yakuza, yes? You wish to be part of a ninkyo dantai, a chivalrous organization?” Bobu spat the words, as though the phrase left a bitter taste on his tongue. “Then you must help us. You must help Japan.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about, man? I don’t know that bitch! Man, my boys are gonna mess you up!”

  Bobu kept smiling, but a wave of malice seemed to ripple across his features.

  “Your boys? You mean the two-bit punks outside, preening and grooming for the Lolita harlots that walk this street? Please, let me summon them for you.”

  Bobu nodded, and one of his henchman disappeared from view. He turned back to Sonny. “Nihon. Japan. Our island. Our home is dying, my friend, from the worst cancer of all. Weakness. And you are part of this weakness, this sickness that is strangling our home. Just as I once was…. Ah, your associate has arrived.”

  Bobu moved his massive head. His lackey had returned from his errand. In his left hand, he held a metal hacksaw. In his right hand, he held the severed head of Sonny’s second in command, one of the bosozuku he had stationed outside to stand guard. Both dripped blood onto the scattered papers and debris strewn across the floor of the tattoo shop.

  “Look man, I can help you! I’ve got people, I’m senpai….” Sonny didn’t even care that his voice quaked. All pretense of courage and defiance drained from his features. He knew the man could see the fear in his eyes. There was no hiding it.

  Bobu laughed. The sound was deep and guttural, like wind blowing through a dark, wet cavern.

  “You are a weak, insolent child, a parasite who dreams only of sucking the blood of a diseased, cancerous host. You wish to be yakuza? I was once yakuza. And I tell you, they have lost their way. They flaunt their tattoos and cheap suits and gold-plated sports cars. They squabble over money and territory. Meanwhile, all around them, Japan is dying. The real enemy grows stronger and stronger.”

  Sonny struggled, but Bobu squeezed his throat tighter. “Let me see the picture…. I … I think I know her. I can help!”

  Bobu reached his free hand over to a tattoo needle on the counter next to him. He held it up, staring at it, fascinated.

  “This instrument … this is not even the proper tool for a yakuza to receive his tattoos. It should be irezumi, the traditional way. Done by hand, using needle and chisel. The time, the pain … that is the price you pay for the beauty. The honor of proving your conviction.”

  The big man shook his head and laughed again, looking back at Sonny. “The honor of strutting around like a peacock in heat. Bah! I was yakuza once, but as you can see, I have renounced those convictions. Our scars mark us now. They show that our devotion is to a higher cause. And make no mistake. We will restore Nihon to its rightful place in the world. We will flush out the weakness, just as I had to flush the poison from my veins. But first, we must find this girl. She was working as a hostess at a club in Roppongi. Tiger Velvet. The other girls there say you were her client. They saw her leave with you.”

  Sonny nodded. “Yeah, yeah, some bitch at some club. Let me see. I’ll help you find her.”

  “I gave you one chance. You refused. Now, you say you want to help us? Like a true yakuza, you must prove your convictions. I have no more time to waste.”

  Bobu plunged the tattoo needle into Sonny’s right eye. A brief spurt of clear fluid burst from the wound, followed by a stream of crimson blood.

  Sonny’s shriek echoed through the room. Bobu and his men stared as his cry of pain turned to a pathetic sob.

  “Said I’d help, man. I’ll help! I’ll do anything.”

  Bobu raised the needle again. “I am glad. You have one more chance. And one more eye.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Rebecca wiped her brow as she paced back and forth in front of the iron fence. The plants and flowers of the garden before her filled the hot air with a sweet scent, but they couldn’t mask the stench of sweat and sewage. The combination was nauseating, like rotten fruit.

  The garden occupied a tiny strip of land, no more than a meter across, before it was cut off by another set of bars. It was a tiny sliver of beauty trapped in a filthy metal cage. A private little paradise for no one’s eyes.

  Normally, neither visitors nor prisoners were allowed here. But Rebecca’s visit was abnormal in every way.

  The guards who had escorted her hurried away as quickly as possible. She felt like a witch, or some kind of boogeyman. And that was fine by her. Whatever works….

  The muted shriek of metal grating against metal came from deep within the bowels of the hellish prison. Then footsteps. Distant at first, they grew louder along with
another sound: the jingling of a chain dragging along concrete.

  And then he was there, standing in front of her, on the other side of the far fence. He was little more than a meter away, but ages of unanswered questions stretched between them.

  He stared, unblinking, body perfectly still. She remembered how sometimes his stillness could unnerve her, as though he were dead inside. Then he would touch her face, or stroke her hair, or make some other human gesture. She would laugh and smile, no longer able to see the shadow that had so unnerved her, as if it were an optical illusion.

  She nodded, not sure why, but feeling it was the appropriate response to seeing a living man she’d believed to be dead for so long.

  “Well…,” she said.

  “I knew someone would come,” he said, his voice soft, but sharp, like a paper-thin knife, “but I didn’t expect it to be you.”

  Rebecca bit her lip. “Who did you expect?”

  Caine shrugged. “Anyone but you.”

  “You’re supposed to be dead.”

  He smirked. “You sound disappointed.”

  Rebecca dug a plastic band from her purse. She pulled back her hair, heavy and damp with sweat, tying it into a loose ponytail.

  Caine watched like a cat watches birds play on the other side of a window.

  “Your hair is longer,” he said.

  Rebecca’s face flushed. The two sets of bars cut the man before her into disjointed slivers, like reflections in a house of mirrors.

  “My hair is longer?” Her voice rose to a strangled shout. “All these years, that’s all you can say? I wake up, and you’re gone. I mean, disappeared, completely out of my life. And now … Tom, what the hell happened to you?”

  Caine paused, then looked away. A muscle in his neck quivered. “That’s not my name anymore. I don’t know why you’re here, but you should leave.”

  “No, Tom, that is your name. That’s why I’m here. You’re why I’m here.” Rebecca’s slim, porcelain hand gripped a metal bar. “Mark Waters was the asshole you were pretending to be. A drug dealer, who traded guns for heroin to terrorists. Is that who you are now? Is that who you decided to be?”