OF KINGS AND PAWNS
OF KINGS AND PAWNS
Birth of Justice
Book: I
Michael Oshita
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters and events in this book are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Gatekeeper Press
3971 Hoover Rd. Suite 77
Columbus, OH 43123-2839
Copyright © 2016 by Michael Oshita
All rights reserved. Neither this book, nor any parts within it may be sold or reproduced in any form without permission.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
eISBN: 9781619849273
Printed in the United States of America
Contents
Acknowledgment
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
About the Author
Acknowledgment
In February of 2015, an idea sparked in my mind. I took that idea, and from it, gave birth to what you are about to read. Throughout this entire journey, I’ve met so many people that have helped me reach heights I never thought I could reach. I would like to thank you all for helping me reach those heights that I once thought were unattainable.
To my fiancé Henrilyn, thank you very much for all your love and support. You were the very first person who read my work and you have elevated me and have made me a better all-around person. Thank you and I love you.
Thank you to David Aretha, who took the hardy task of tackling my manuscript and editing it for grammatical and contextual errors. Trust me, folks; there were a lot. Thank you for being honest with me and pointing out the good and the bad with my manuscript. It challenged me to work harder on it and to elevate it to new heights. Thank you, David, for all your hours and your patience!
Thank you, Sue Wyshynski. I never told you this, but you are like a mentor to me. You took me under your wing and pointed me in the right direction to achieve my goals. I can’t thank you enough for all your help and support!
To my design team, Bob, [email protected] and Ivan Cakic, thank you both for your time, patience, and understanding. You took my vision and enhanced it tenfold. You both have helped me reach my dream, and I can’t thank you enough.
To Marisol Alvarez, thank you for helping me create and design my website. You’ve worked countless hours and had to deal with me. For that, I thank you and apologize. (I was a tad bit eager to see the finished project.) Throughout it all, you’ve been patient and courteous to me, and I couldn’t be any prouder and any happier with what you’ve created. Thank you.
Thank you, Vaea Iona and VTI Photography, for taking my author photos and for always being there to support my family and me.
To my parents, Kyle and Lenora, thank you for all your love and support. You’ve molded me into the man I am today, and you have built a foundation that I will pass onto my own family. To Tupu, Shaolin, and Mikio, I love you all. You’ve been my main source of motivation and have pushed me in ways you don’t even know. Thank you all, and I love you all
Prologue
After a long day of hard work on his farm, Mr. Brown took a seat in his favorite rocking chair. His hands and face were beaten and weathered from years of working on the land. Littered throughout his small home were medals, plaques, and pictures of his old life. The old World War II vet now enjoyed the life of a farmer. It was a much more peaceful and quiet life; he told anyone willing to listen.
While relaxing in his chair and sipping his tea, Mr. Brown heard a knock at the door. “I’m coming,” he said gruffly. “Who the hell could this be at this time of night?” he wondered as he opened his front door to a tall, slim man wearing a black fedora and a charcoal-colored trench coat.
“Good evening, Mr. Brown,” the gentleman announced. “I’m Steve Kawasaki of the Las Vegas Sun. I was wondering if I could have a few minutes of your time to talk about your discovery last week.”
“I already spoke to someone from the Sun—couple of days ago, I believe,” replied the veteran with a thoroughly visual grimace dedicated to his visitor.
“Ah, yes, Mr. Daniels,” Steve replied with a smile. “I just spoke to him yesterday. He had some follow-up questions and asked me if I could do that for him since I was in the area.”
“Well, all right,” replied Mr. Brown with a huff. “The sooner we get this done, the better.”
“Rest assured, Mr. Brown. After tonight, you won’t see me ever again.”
“The living room is to your left,” Mr. Brown directed as he opened the door to let in the journalist. “Would you like something to drink?”
“No, thank you. I’ll make this brief, so you can go back to your lovely evening and enjoy your tea.” Steve sat on a chair opposite Mr. Brown’s old rocking chair. The floor creaked as the timeworn rocker ferried back and forth before him. The house had a musty smell to it, like it hadn’t been cleaned in years. Steve looked in astonishment at all the World War II memorabilia that were scattered throughout the house. “I didn’t know you served, Mr. Brown,” Steve began.
“Yes, I did. I served in the Pacific and fought and killed your people,” Mr. Brown replied in an obnoxious tone. Steve could tell that his host’s patience would wear thin and that he wanted to get to the point. Steve was more than happy to oblige the veteran’s unspoken-request.
“Well, Mr. Brown,” Steve began with a smile, unaffected by his host’s comment. “Shall we begin?” Steve stood up and took off his trench coat, revealing broad powerful shoulders. He folded his coat in half and placed it on the armrest of his chair. His hands were worn and scarred. It looked like they belonged to someone who worked with their hands all their lives, not a man who sat behind a desk all day. He took off his fedora, revealing his slicked-back coal black hair that folded in slight waves like the deep dark reaches of space. He placed his hat on the coffee table that separated him and his host. Under his trench coat, Steve wore a finely pressed vest and long-sleeved shirt. He looked like someone who came from money, not some lonely newspaper reporter trying to make a living.
“How old are you, son?” Mr. Brown asked with a puzzled look.
“Now, now, I’m supposed to be the one asking the questions, remember?” the journalist replied with a sinister smirk. A shiver ran down the old man’s spine; something wasn’t right. An uneasy feeling set in. His palms started to perspire. Steve’s cold black eyes seemed to pierce right through him, like he was looking into his soul.
“I have a confession to make, Mr. Brown,” Steve started in a voice meant to calm. “I’m not from the Las Vegas Sun. Actually, what you discovered last week belongs to a friend of mine.”
Mr. Brown stared blankly at Steve, unsure how to react to the journalist’s admission.
“In fact, Steve Kawasaki is not my real name either.”
The mysterious “journalist” stood and rolled up his long sleeves, revealing a bright orange and black tiger tattoo that ran up his inner right forearm. “I am—”
“Toma Tamura,” Mr. Brown answere
d in a rattled voice, as if he had seen a ghost. He dropped his mug, shattering it on his living room floor. The hearty, rigid World War II vet was awestruck that the Tiger stood before him. Years of serving in the military had taught Mr. Brown that if he didn’t act quickly he would not survive the night.
The kitchen, he thought. His instincts and will to survive kicked into action as he made a run for his kitchen. Ever since his discovery, he had kept a loaded handgun in a kitchen cabinet. As Mr. Brown entered the doorway, the arm of another man came around the corner and hit him square in the face, knocking him to the ground. The blow and fall took the air out of him as he lay on his wooden kitchen floor, gasping for air.
Son of a bitch, he thought as he gazed up toward his attacker’s face. What he found was a towering, expressionless, Native American man whose beady brown eyes seared through him like only Toma’s soul-piercing gaze could. Before Mr. Brown had a chance to move, the man grabbed him by his shirt collar and leg and dragged his 190-pound vet body back into the living room. He placed Mr. Brown back in his rocking chair across from Toma.
“Ah, Mr. Brown, I see you’ve met my associate Daichi, the Jaguar.” Mr. Brown stared up at the enormous Daichi, easily over six-foot-five. He had shoulder-length hair that was pulled back into a tight, clean ponytail. His neck and shoulders were enormous, like a mountain range. He had a strong, defined chin and an unreadable face. Daichi gave the veteran a slight nod, as he remained expressionless. Mr. Brown brought his attention back down to Toma; blood began running from his nose.
“I donated all the money I found,” he began, after he was able to catch his breath. “There are far more unfortunate people that need this money more than I need it.”
“I have a hard time believing that, Mr. Brown,” Toma replied, as he leaned back in his seat and lit a cigarette. “Why would a man— who has no riches, who gave all of the money he found away— carry a loaded handgun in his kitchen?” Mr. Brown just stared back at his assailant, unwilling to give him the slightest of clues with a facial expression.
“Fair enough, Mr. Brown,” the Tiger replied as he took another drag. “I’ll take it from your silence that you kept a substantial amount of money. I suspect that, because you have a loaded gun, it’s somewhere near. Now, where could it be?”
Toma stood up and made his way over to Mr. Brown. He pulled close to the veteran and whispered in his ear, “If I were you, Mr. Brown, I would cooperate. If you don’t tell me the location of the remaining cash before my boss—the owner of the item you discovered—arrives, it won’t be pleasant.”
The grizzled vet looked back at the Tiger, his gaze just as piercing and stern. Mr. Brown turned his sight forward, unwavering and definitely not willing to share the whereabouts of his money. “Mr. Brown, if you help me, I might be able to convince my boss to spare your life.”
“Once the game is over, the king and the pawns go in the same box,” Mr. Brown said as he looked back up at Toma, content with the idea of his fate being sealed whether he helped or not. “I’m never…” These were his final words as three consecutive shots rang out, prompting Toma to dive onto the ground. Daichi immediately drew his weapon.
All three shots found home as blood seeped through Mr. Brown’s shirt. He looked up to see a round man with streaked-back brown and silver hair standing in the doorway, with his pistol drawn. Mr. Brown slouched down in his chair and exhaled his last breath.
The Tiger stood up from behind the couch and slid his handgun into a holster wrapped around his ankle. “Damn it, Anthony. He was about to talk!” Toma cried out. “And you almost shot me, too!” Daichi had withdrawn his handgun and, with his shoe, smothered the cigarette Toma had smoked.
“The stubborn old fool wasn’t going to talk,” Anthony replied as he lit his own cigarette. The short, pudgy man exhaled smoke through his wrinkled lips revealing his darkened gumline. The smoke from his cigarette helped mask his untidy hair. “Besides, I already found what the old man was hiding, so this old fool is of no use to us.”
Toma straightened himself up and slicked his hair back. He grabbed his fedora and trench coat and put them back on. “Well,” he started, “where is it?”
“There’s a fresh new hole that this fool must have dug under his stairs leading to his backyard. It has to be there,” Anthony stated so proudly, amid the smoke from his cigarette. “So get on it, you two, and let’s get the hell out of here.”
“We need to speak to the Lion, Anthony, so we can make sense of all of this,” Toma said. “To see if there is more out there, and how many more.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Anthony replied as he reached behind the front door and brought out two shovels. “But first things first.” He smirked as he tossed the shovels to the feet of Toma and Daichi.
Chapter 1
John Davis stood staring out of his bedroom window of the new home his dad had bought. The slender, light-skinned fifteen-year-old teenager with shaggy brown hair, a skinny face, and a crooked pointy nose, quite large compared to the rest of his facial features, had many bedroom views growing up, too many for him to recall. His father promised that this most recent move would be the last. It’s what Dad always says, he thought. Even when Mom was alive he used to say that.
John turned his gaze from the second-story view of their ranch and began moving boxes that contained all of his belongings. As far back as he could remember, his family had been on the move. They had tramped all over the country due to his father’s job as an appliance salesman. Because of the constant moving, John didn’t really have any friends. Sometimes the Davises would stay in a town for a year, sometimes half a year, and sometimes for only a few months. Whenever sales weren’t going well for his dad, the family would load up their station wagon and move to their next destination.
Because of his family’s constant travels, John had given up unpacking all of his boxes. Where are you? He thought as he scratched his head. It’s got to be here somewhere. The scratching felt good as his nail-bitten fingers ran through his hair. He moved another box filled with raggedy clothes. John’s parents taught him to be thankful for what he had and to cherish things that he did have over things that he wanted.
“There you are,” John said as he grabbed and opened the first box. “Hello, my old friend,” he said to an old comic book he had pulled out. Growing up, he had found solace in reading his comic books. He loved reading about super-heroes who stopped the bad guys and saved the day. He could read his comic books for hours, even all day long. Eventually, he placed the books back into the box. “Let me unpack first,” he said.
John opened the next box and paused as he stared into the contents of the worn cardboard. John slowly moved his hand into his memory box, a collection of items and souvenirs that his mom Katherine, compiled throughout their journey throughout the states. Each item held a story behind it: the pictures of his family’s trip to the petroglyph site in Minnesota; the carved piece of bark from their home in Colorado; a jar of sand from the Grand Canyon a couple years earlier.
Tucked away in the corner of the box lay one item in particular that caught John’s attention: a necklace that his mother had given him for his ninth birthday. That was the last gift he received from his mother. She died that same year after falling down a flight of stairs in a hotel where they were staying. Six years had passed since Katherine gave John the necklace that, according to her, was a symbol of courage. “How ironic that I still haven’t put you on yet,” he said to the dark red gem that was linked to a gold chain
“I wonder if you still fit.” John untied the barrel clasp that held the chain together. The metal of the chain felt cool on his skin. “Ah, just enough room. Thank you, Mom. I will never forget you.”
***
Albert Davis pulled up to his new house in his old beaten-down station wagon. The seasoned salesman had worn-brown eyes from exposure to the sunlight. His unhealthy diet and smoking habits led to his pot-sized belly and blemished skin. He looked at his house and thought to himself: I’m f
inally free from all this running around. He gazed into his rearview mirror and fixed his peppered hair that was messy from the wind. He stepped out of his car and took a deep breath as the cool evening breeze swept across his weather-beaten face. He pulled up his pants that his belly had forced down and blew out a load of snot from his elongated nose. Soon, John and I can live a normal life.
Albert examined his two-story home with a giant yard that was surrounded by a wood rail fence and a bright red barn sitting in the back. He smiled as he stared at the barn. “I finally found you,” he said. He then walked to the back of his station wagon, pulled out a pick and shovel, and made his way back to his house. “I’ll see you later,” he said to his tools as he placed them down on his front porch. “First, I’ll go see what John is up to.”
Albert entered his home and looked around proudly. Although it was a two-story home, it didn’t feel that big. It had a cozier feel to it, something he really appreciated. Also, it was miles away from the nearest town Goodsprings, Nevada which he appreciated even more. His days of dealing with big crowds and cities were in his distant past, and he looked forward to the tranquility of living in the country away from people.
The salesman entered the foyer of his home. He looked up at the wooden staircase that, led to the bedrooms. As he made his way up the old, stained, oak steps, he thought, if there’s one thing I don’t like about this dang house, it’s these damn stairs. Years of working and age had caught up with the forty-seven-year-old, and it felt like a chore going up and down the stairs.
When he finally reached the second floor, he began to make his way to John’s room. The hallway was filled with boxes for him and John, and the other two rooms upstairs, meaning the extra bedroom, he would use for storage, and then, there was their bathroom. The second-floor hallway was narrow, which made navigating through it without tripping over a box somewhat difficult for Albert. If John walked by, it would be impossible for the two to pass one another.
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