by John Donohue
We stood looking at each other in silence for a time. A slight noise from the loft made Art look up to see Yamashita watching us silently. My brother’s partner gave my teacher one quick glance, then he focused on me again.
“The PD has a line on the third guy. Gangbanger from the West Coast. Explains the tattoos.”
“I don’t see how it connects with me,” I commented.
“His record is pretty spotty, mostly run-ins with Immigration. He’s an illegal and been back and forth across the border any number of times. Word is that he’d left California for new opportunities. Been working out of Phoenix.” He put on a mock-thoughtful expression. “We know anyone been in Arizona lately, Connor?”
I just looked at him.
“You get yourself down to Berger’s office at the 68th and tell them about your trip.” He said tightly. “You obviously have pissed someone off somewhere. Don’t try to figure this out yourself, Connor. Let the pros do it.”
I let the advice marinate for moment. “Think about this, too,” Art said. “Maybe if we can provide some assistance to the authorities, they might look a bit more favorably on us. Be the least that you could do, Connor.”
I was in a bind. Art was right: maybe if I came forward with what I suspected, some good feelings might be generated and Micky would get out of the doghouse. But this wasn’t something that was going to be solved with words. I felt the deep, intuitive tug that the Japanese call haragei. Blood was going to be spilled. If I could, I was going to shield Art and Micky from the repercussions.
So I just nodded in a non-committal way and walked Art to the door. But he wasn’t finished.
“I been watching the Burke brothers at work for years, Connor,” Art told me. “And I see a lot of similarities: the stubbornness…” Art stopped there, but you got the sense that his mental catalogue of similarities was more extensive than he was letting on. “But you know who you really remind me of?” he finally asked.
I shook my head no.
Art jerked with his chin toward the loft, where Yamashita stood, still as stone.
“Him.”
14 Wolves
The briefings were always scheduled for 1:00 am, to leave Jackson and his men some final time to digest the information, formulate some plans, and check their gear. Of late, their Border Patrol supervisor looked more grim than usual. The small desk lamp that lit his notes threw shadows on his face and showed it drawn and remote, a specter practicing augury in a darkened temple.
“We’ve had reports of ambushes here, here, and here,” he continued. There was a map projected on the far wall and the cherry light of a laser pointer touched in sequence at the ambush sites. “Units have also been sniped at with increasing frequency. It’s been endemic down along the Texas border, now it’s working its way along the line to us.”
“Nuisance fire?” Jackson said.
“No. Precision sniping. Nobody’s been killed yet, but whoever’s doing the shooting is using it to slow pursuit. In some cases, they’re taking out vehicles with their fire.”
“Big rounds,” someone commented.
“Fifties,” the supervisor said, consulting his notes. Jackson and his men knew that a fifty-caliber sniper rifle was the mark of a professional. They had heard the intel about rogue elements from the Mexican special forces getting into the drug trade. They were pros. It changed the equation out in the field dramatically.
“That group we tracked that was ambushed,” Jackson said, “the scene… it didn’t strike me as the work of professionals.”
“How so?”
Jackson remembered the sprawled bodies, the knife marks. He shrugged. “It seemed like too much… gratuitous. Know what I mean?”
“Someone sending a message?” one of his team suggested.
The supervisor looked up; the movement flashed light on his glasses, momentarily turning his eyes into flat, bright disks. “It’s a mess. We’ve got local gangs in the mix as well. As both the Mexican and U.S. governments begin to squeeze, the various groups involved in the trade are increasingly at odds. What you saw with that group was probably the simple hijacking of a delivery.”
“They killed everyone,” Jackson noted.
“In some ways, not a bad thing,” the Border Patrol supervisor commented. “… Let God sort them out.” The room was silent. The view from a desk was different from the field. Jackson and his men knew that most of the “mules” used to transport drugs across the border were simply poor and desperate men. Nobody deserves to die like that, Jackson thought.
The supervisor cleared his throat self-consciously. “Well… headquarters is concerned that this is all spiraling up out of control. There’s concern that the violence is going to spill over into the local communities more than it already has.”
Jackson grunted. On the Tohono Reservation, that had already happened. Some tribal members had been co-opted by the allure of quick money. Many families had relatives on either side of the border, and some young men served as guides. Others had been forced into cooperation. It was not unusual for people living on the desolate reservation to have their buildings used as stash points for drug smugglers.
“Most of all, gentlemen,” the supervisor continued, “we’ve got some real and growing concerns for your safety. We’ve got some very strong intel that a rogue Mexican group is in the area, highly armed and making a play for domination of the local smuggling routes. We need to take them out.”
The team sat, stunned. Eventually, Jackson stood up. “With all due respect, sir, we’re happy to help. But we’re trackers. It’s not a combat unit. Some of my people have never even been in the military.”
“Relax, Jackson. I’ve made it pretty clear to higher-ups just what our capabilities are and what we can and cannot be expected to do.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that we’re getting help.”
Jackson’s head rocked back in surprise. Help? What kind of help? The supervisor picked up his desk phone and spoke a few words into the receiver. The door to the briefing room opened and a group of men filed in, dressed for the desert, and wearing combat harnesses.
“Who are they?” Jackson asked.
“Sierra Tango,” the supervisor said. “A special tactical response unit of HSA.”
Jackson looked at the men; the way they held themselves, the lean cut of their faces. They stared at Jackson and his team impassively. These are hunters, he realized. A wolf pack.
“They’re not native,” someone objected. “They can’t go onto the Tohono lands.”
“The regulation has been waived by executive order,” the supervisor informed them. He motioned the new men to their seats. Jackson’s people were silent.
“Let’s get on with today’s mission, people…” His briefing droned on. Jackson registered the salient details, but most of his attention was occupied with the implications of this new development and how it would shape their life in the field. Once again, he felt a sense of foreboding wash across him. Something dangerous in the wind.
“… tracker team drop will follow normal protocol,” the supervisor concluded. “Sierra Tango team will follow at a distance by special insertion.”
And then Jackson knew. He and his team were no longer being used to track prey. They had become the bait.
15 Lost Boys
Yamashita sat, immobile. His skull was a weathered lump of ivory, his eyes slits, and his respiration was down so low that its tidal flow was impossible to detect. His thick hands were at rest in his lap, empty of weapons. But his fingers curled slightly as if gripping an invisible haft—the body memory of a swordsman’s life.
I sat and meditated with him, waiting. I should have been a hollow reed that permitted my surroundings to ebb and flow through me. Clear. Calm. At peace. But even the best of students is imperfect.
I sensed pressure building somewhere out there; the psychic energy of a violent threat pulsed like a living thing seeking a target. My teacher has worked with me ove
r the years to enhance my sensitivity to vibrations unseen. What the Japanese call ki, an invisible force that permeates the universe, can sometimes be harnessed and often be sensed. But it takes some doing. Recently, Yamashita had become even more insistent that we both work to strengthen this skill. I knew, in part, that it was a reaction to his wounds; as his pure physical ability deteriorated, he sought to enhance his more esoteric powers. But my master is a complex man and always blends things of mystery with those of practicality.
For psychic energy is real: it pulses off an opponent and is conducted down a blade as you cross swords. If you’re paying close attention, it can tell you many things. In kendo, they speak of seme, a type of aggressive energy that can be used to intimidate an opponent. It’s one facet of the larger phenomenon of ki. Yamashita has honed my acuity to such a point that I am increasingly aware of the wash of ki in the air around me. The only problem is that, once you become receptive to it, it’s hard to block out. Now I was being battered by a feeling that danger was closing in.
I sighed and Yamashita’s head swiveled slowly in my direction. The light in the room was dim and his eyes were fathomless, dark things. It was hard to tell what he was seeing and what thoughts were slowly swirling in his head. He seemed remote, otherworldly, and dangerous.
I sat, immobile, and we regarded each other in silence: two very different wheels linked to the same cart.
Yamashita stirred. “You can feel it,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.
“Yes,” I admitted.
His hand came up and swirled in a small circle. “Multiple points. Different motivations.”
He’s reading my mind again. But I had grown used to it. I had been thinking about just this idea. All this violence could not have been generated merely by Lori Westmann’s latest literary hoax. By this time, the publishing world was used to frauds of various types. There was something else going on.
“I believe so, sensei,” I said.
He grunted. “This is what comes of such ventures. Better to stay in the dojo, Burke.” There was a fleeting tone of recrimination in his voice, but then he smothered it. He began again. “Each time the warrior crosses swords, the odds against him increase. Remember the rule of three.”
I sighed. In the Japanese tradition, samurai knew that they had a one in three chance of coming through a duel unscathed.
“We have a duty to the dojo, Burke,” my teacher said. “Who will succeed me when I am gone?” He looked at me, eyes and face rigid. When he spoke again his voice was rough. “The other students depend on you… I depend on you.”
The words hung between us, their truth difficult to admit but unassailable. Then Yamashita shrugged his shoulders, a man ridding himself of a burden. “Yes, the dojo. But first, there is danger that must be addressed.”
I cocked my head. “How so?”
“Burke,” he said and smiled slightly, “sometimes I do not think you are aware of how much you yourself already know.” He came forward off the zabuton and moved slowly to his feet. The motion was a ruse, the elegant slowness designed to disguise the stiffness of old wounds.
He gestured at me. “A multiple-threat attack in the dojo. You are surrounded. What do you do?”
I shrugged. “Take the initiative. Break the circle and stack ‘em up in line. Work fast.”
“So,” he nodded approvingly. “This is good. To remain in the center of the circle is to merely be a target.”
I rubbed my healing arm and nodded ruefully. “I know, I know. The problem is that I can’t see these attackers. Unless I can identify them, I can’t stack them up.”
Yamashita moved into the kitchen. I heard water being poured as he prepared to brew the coffee he loved so much. It was a curious enthusiasm that made him seem more human and more complex at the same time. I got up and followed him into the narrow galley kitchen that was always kept immaculately clean.
My teacher poured beans into a hand grinder. His moves were measured and precise, the expectant look on his face that of an alchemist, perpetually alive to mysterious possibilities. I did the grinding; his elbow joints give him trouble.
“The kagemusha is a formidable opponent,” he said. A shadow warrior. Someone who can conceal intention, who gives nothing away before the fight is joined.”
“How do I coax him out into the light?”
The water boiled; he let it sit for a time to cool slightly, and then began to brew the coffee. The aroma filled the narrow space.
“You can move and hope that your action creates a response that pulls the opponents out of the shadows. Or you can wait and watch until something gives your opponents away.”
“But you said waiting wasn’t good in a situation like this,” I responded.
He looked at me blankly. “Life is complex, Burke. Solutions are not always automatic.”
Or available, I thought, with just a hint of annoyance.
Yamashita poured the coffee in a carafe, set it and some cups on a wooden tray, and ghosted into the sitting area. He sat gratefully on a sofa, poured for us both, and brought the cup to his lips, letting the aromatic steam wash over his face before sipping.
“For now, we will wait,” he told me, “and enjoy the coffee.” He could sense my consternation and gestured for me to sit. I obeyed grudgingly. Yamashita gestured at my cup and I took it up.
“There are many things at play here, Burke. Perhaps you have sensed some of them. But there are other more subtle currents…” His voice trailed off for a moment, then gained strength once more. “You will not have to wait long.”
He nodded his head slowly as if responding to some inner voice. Then he held up one thick finger and seemed to listen to something far away.
“Your brother,” he said.
The phone rang.
“How badly did you get burned?” I asked Micky.
He snickered, and even though we were talking on the phone, in my mind I could see the defiant cast of his face. “A few of the bosses in the counter-terrorism bureau got some juice with the commissioner,” he said. “And we’ve done good work for them. Me and Art will survive.”
“That’s good,” I said.
“Yeah, sure,” he said and his voice got harder. “But fun time’s over now, buddy boy. You gotta get your head straight on this one and we gotta nail it all down. Fast.”
“Hey,” I told him, “point me in the right direction and I’ll bring the hammer.”
My brother grunted. “Connor,” Micky said, “some of the pieces are coming together… We need to talk. And not on the phone.”
“I’m on my way,” I told him
These days, the actual location where Art and Micky work is not generally accessible to civilians. It’s a nondescript brick building in the outer boroughs, just one more squat cube in a desolate industrial zone of body shops, welders, and junkyards. Despite its nondescript exterior, Micky and Art tell me that the inside of the counter-terrorism bureau’s headquarters is like nothing they had ever experienced in their lives as cops: hi-tech and state of the art. The glass in the windows is bullet-proof and the walls are covered in ballistic sheetrock. They have secure communication lines and backup power generators to keep the servers humming and the walls of display monitors in the Global Intelligence Room flickering.
After 911, NYPD realized that the City was going to be a high priority terrorist target for a long time to come. And no New York cop trusted the people they called “the three-letter guys”—CIA, FBI, NSA. So the NYPD decided it was going to build its own anti-terrorism capabilities. The bureau that Micky and Art consulted for collected and disseminated intelligence from all over the world, while operatives simultaneously worked the streets of Manhattan, watching, listening, and cultivating informants.
It’s cop work that is equal parts brain and muscle. Geeks write algorithms and sift cascades of electronic data. Personnel conduct threat analyses, but the bureau also has its ops people to train public and private personnel in streetcraft. And at the far,
hard end of the unit’s spectrum, the black clad Hercules rapid deployment teams wait to be unleashed.
The counter-terrorism bureau is an odd mix of ex-intelligence types, seasoned detectives, and bright young cops with competency in languages like Arabic, Pashto, and Urdu. But because the organization is still young, many of its people are as well. As Micky once noted, they’re smart, but not yet street smart. Which is where he and Art come in. Reading documents can be learned in a classroom; reading people takes years of hard life experience. My brother and his partner have a knack for observation, for sifting information to find just the right points of leverage when dealing with suspects. The bureau values the skill and wants them to pass it on to the greener members of the team.
The bureau doesn’t like visitors. So Micky and I arranged to meet at One Police Plaza in downtown Manhattan. My brother was waiting at the entrance: a thin, intense man with a cop mustache and a stripe of white in his dark hair. Micky looked at me without comment as I came in the door, his expression one of weary annoyance. A silent uniformed officer stood next to him.
“Nice suit,” I said and meant it. Micky had spent much of his career in an unmarked car, a rolling trash bin of empty coffee cups, old newspapers, and greasy, wadded-up sandwich wrappers. His tired, rumpled clothing fit right in. But now he was actually presentable.
My brother looked down at himself and seemed almost amazed. “When you’re a consultant you gotta dress smart,” he mumbled. Then he recovered his cynicism somewhat. “It gives clients the illusion we’ve got all the answers.”
The uniformed cop moved us through the formalities of signing in and getting the visitors’ passes we would need. Then, without saying a word, he wheeled around and headed toward the elevators. Micky and I followed.
We ended up on the eighth floor. “Where are we going?” I said.
The doors slid open and we stepped out into a hallway. “RTCC,” Micky said.
