Travis Justice

by Colleen Shannon

  John frowned. “Why do you say we can’t convict Ms. Nakatomi?”

  Zach’s hands gripped the underside of the table. Through lowered lashes, John watched Zach’s expression as Abigail finished. “The gist of his statement is that Ms. Nakatomi’s feeling that Kai would not trust her because of past acrimony is probably both accurate and justified. She broke it off with him about a year into their relationship, five years ago, apparently partly because he left her dangling when she was arrested as his drug mule.”

  Zach pounced. “Partly?”

  Abigail hesitated. “The other more pertinent reason is that she had his child. A son.”

  All three men were taken aback, but Zach’s hands clutched the underside of the table so hard that the legs scraped against the floor. Ross looked at Zach, and then saw the way Travis furtively watched his son. Frowning, he looked back at Abigail.

  Abigail was also aware of the byplay, but she doggedly finished. “The boy’s name is Takeo. He’s five. Kai has apparently kidnapped their son to use him as leverage. The real reason Ms. Nakatomi risked her freedom to steal the sword? Her grandfather, true, but the overriding reason was her son. On the day she gives the katana to Kai, he’s promised to hand Takeo back to her. Then she intends to disappear so he’ll never influence Takeo again.”

  It was her turn to look at each man in turn. “Quite aside from the fact that she is undoubtedly the last Nakatomi heir, with a moral if not a legal claim to the katana, how can any jury—or for that matter, prosecutor—convict her for trying to protect her only child?”

  * * *

  That night, shortly after sunset, Zach wandered the grounds of his home. He’d been unable to eat much at dinner, causing his mother concern, but John had only shaken his head at his wife. John kept trying to get his son alone and Zach kept avoiding him. No one had to tell him John was worried his son’s feelings toward Hana were not objective.

  He was absolutely right, Zach admitted in the disquiet of his own thoughts. Now that he understood the reasons for the desperation he’d sensed in Hana, he realized he’d never been objective even when he was having her cuffed. The truth was, something in this wild child of mixed heritage and mixed motives drew him as no woman ever had.

  As he moved around the spacious grounds, nodding at the occasional guard leading a Malanois, he replayed Hana’s interrogation in his head. He always returned to the same remark, one of the last she’d made: “There are innocents there . . .”

  Now they all knew what she meant, and why she’d been reluctant at first to admit she could help them find the compound. She was worried Takeo would be hurt in the raid. And he also recalled his father’s flippant response that even Rangers had finesse.

  Although that was no doubt true, Zach also knew that anything and everything could go wrong during a raid. The key to smooth operations was meticulous reconnaissance. And they couldn’t monitor a place they couldn’t find . . . unless they delayed everything, risking more murders, to give them time to insert themselves in the compound after Hana found it.

  At the end of their session, John had agreed to try out Ernie Thibodeaux as informant, to Zach’s great relief. But his task would be very dangerous, not to mention time-consuming. If another murder occurred, they wouldn’t be able to wait for proper intel. And Hana would never sit by and watch if her son was in danger.

  How the hell could he come up with a way to protect her and Takeo and still do his duty?

  * * *

  As soon as Hana showered and changed, they secured another vehicle so they’d both have one to drive. “I have to go see Jiji before I do anything else,” Hana informed Ernie.

  He nodded. “Do you want me to come?”

  Hana shook her head glumly. “No, I’d love for you to be there if I can ever show him the katana, but since that seems unlikely . . .” She trailed off, biting her lip. As worried as she was about Takeo, it ate at her that she couldn’t offer the slightest solace to her grandfather during his passing.

  “OK, kiddo, take the little heap. I have something I need to do too. We’ll meet back here to plan, say, around nine p.m.”

  She arched an inquiring eyebrow, but Ernie had already turned away.

  Grabbing up a newspaper she could read to her grandfather, Hana dismissed Ernie’s erratic motivations and went to the little economy car he’d loaned her. The next night she’d agreed to try to find the compound, so she only had the rest of today to see Jiji. She knew it was a forlorn hope, but maybe, just maybe, his condition had improved.

  * * *

  Back at the balcony again, Zach paused and touched the wrought iron, visualizing that long, lithe, superbly fit female form climbing up the ornate rails to reach his open window. If he’d known that night that she’d replace his tortured dreams with more pleasurable ones, he might have turned around when she’d snatched his wrap away.

  His little smile faded as he recalled the tears in her eyes when she touched the Nakatomi katana. At a visceral level that surpassed his own deeply engraved morals, he knew she had more right to the blade than a business consortium intent on displaying a private family heirloom to the world. For education or not.

  Going into the study, he keyed the digital code into a keypad hidden behind a boring set of encyclopedias. Part of the bookcase swung forward, revealing a full-length safe. He keyed in the second code and the full-sized door popped open with a hiss. He went inside and lifted the katana off its stand.

  Taking it back with him into the study, he tried using it as Hana had, two-handed, but her sheer speed and fluidity of movement was beyond him, for they were moves he’d never practiced. He felt awkward whether he tried with one hand or two. He recalled a segment he’d seen on TV of a mock battle between an armored samurai and an armored Viking warrior. Despite being smaller and physically weaker, the samurai had won the sword fight due to superior weaponry, training, and tactical ability.

  As he tested the blade until it whistled in the air as if hungry for flesh, even Zach—a novice in samurai ways—felt the pure lethal beauty of the sword. This blade was designed for one purpose: to cut human flesh. Yet he also felt its majesty as he recalled once again its power in the hands of the last Nakatomi heir. Even bound by leg irons, Hana seemed free of earthly constraints to achieve a mythical warrior ethos he’d heard of many times, but had never seen so vividly on display. It was as if the sword elevated her, not vice versa, infusing her with the same nobility of spirit as her samurai ancestors. Duty, honor, courage, fealty to an ideal even if it meant death.

  For the first time, he began to understand—a little, at least—the obsession the Japanese had for these ancestral legacies. They truly were more than swords.

  When he put the katana back in the sheath, he knew what he had to do. To capture Kai, and keep Hana and her son safe, he had to win her trust. This blade had brought her into his life. It was only fair that it ease the passage of the person she most loved, its last rightful owner, as he left hers.

  Putting the sword back into the safe, he went in search of his father.

  Chapter 8

  His decision made, Zach strode to the living room, where he found his father sitting with a file on his lap, making notes while his mother crocheted. It was a couples’ ritual during which they discussed the issues of the day, and he seldom intruded, but this couldn’t wait. Knocking lightly on the double-wide open doors, he entered. He kissed his mother’s cheek and admired her new afghan, hoping inwardly she wasn’t giving him another one, as he already had four in his storage unit. Besides, he knew she’d tried to take up domesticity to please his father, but her heart wasn’t in it. The pattern, meant to be a series of neat squares, looked more like isosceles triangles.

  But that wasn’t why he’d come. He looked at his father. “Can I talk to you in the study for a moment?”

  “About damn time.” John set aside his file. “Back in a bit, honey.”

  Mary looked between them uncertainly. “Zach—”

  “I pro
mise not to pull out the dueling pistols, Mom,” Zach joked. “Though we may end up fighting over the katana.”

  John gave him a sharp look, but led the way to the study. He sat down at his desk and turned on the desk lamp.

  Zach frowned at the open shade over the window. “Dad, I’ve told you over and over you shouldn’t have that shade up, especially at night when you’re working with a desk light.”

  “And I’ve told you over and over I won’t be a prisoner in my own home. Besides, with all the guards outside, what is there to fear? Now, quit stalling and tell me what the hell’s going on in that scrambled brain of yours about this ninja chick?”

  Sprawling before his father in the wing chair, Zach almost laughed to hear his conservative, stodgy father use a slangy term that could have come from a Quentin Tarantino film. “I think she’s more trained as a Shotokan karate expert than a ‘ninja chick,’ though there is admittedly a lot of crossover in the skill sets.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t trust her not to greet us with one of those blow-dart doohickies if we stand between her and her son. It’s time we had this out in the open, anyway.”

  Zach braced himself, but he knew this script so well he could almost quote his father before he said a word.

  Sure enough: “I can see you’re very attracted to her, but she’s dangerous, Zach. That’s the simple truth. And, of course, totally inappropriate as an alliance for the last direct male descendant of—”

  Zach sat bolt upright, his glare so fierce his father stopped mid-sentence. “So help me God, if you lecture me one more time about my rights and responsibilities, I’ll resign from my new position and take the oil-rig job instead.”

  With a heavy sigh, John subsided. But his erect posture looked a bit wilted. “Your mother has introduced you to so many nice girls—”

  Zach made an impatient wave of his hand to cut him off. “Precisely. Does it occur to you I’m not interested in nice girls? Like someone else we know, perhaps?”

  When his father remained glumly silent, Zach relented. He measured his words carefully because he had to have his father’s approval of his plan. “I’ve thought this through. I think the best way to find the compound and get enough evidence to put this Kai bastard away for life is to let Ms. Nakatomi borrow the sword.”

  John’s mouth dropped open but he was, for once, speechless.

  Zach hurried on: “Look, she won’t sell the blade, that’s for sure. And if it’s true that Kai wants it, it gives her leverage and a degree of safety while she goes in to get her son out of there before we pull the trigger on our raid.”

  “Good God, are you saying you don’t trust us to avoid collateral damage when we go in? We always have to consider that.”

  “Yes, I know, but this is not a standard op. And even the best ones almost always require adjustments at the last minute. When the time comes, I’d like your permission to lead the raid as head of the security detail.”

  John frowned fiercely. “This is not standard, you know that. The Ranger reconnaissance team—”

  “Can be reallocated as you see fit. And as good as they are, they haven’t faced the kind of firepower I faced in Afghanistan or led as many covert ops.”

  John was still reluctant. “This will be extremely dangerous. I don’t—”

  “Are you saying you won’t allow it because I’m your son?”

  John was stubbornly silent.

  Zach changed tactics. “This is premature now anyway, but I just want you to think about letting me lead when the time comes. First we have to find the damn hideout, and to do that we need to gain Ms. Nakatomi’s trust.”

  “Uh, I think you have that backwards. Why should we trust anything she says? Much less trust her with a priceless artifact that I don’t own?”

  “Dad, I know y’all have plenty of insurance on the blade. Even if something happens to it, the partners will be reimbursed.”

  “Yeah, but I can’t authorize you to give it away. Are you nuts? I have the other members of the LLC to answer to.”

  “If you tell them it’s a key piece of evidence in the murders that we have to use as bait, they’ll hand it over to you gladly.” When his father still looked appalled, Zach spread his hands wide as if his next point were self-evident. “It’s hardly going to reflect well on either the Texas Rangers or your LLC if Hana and her son are killed because we wouldn’t let her use the best leverage we have.”

  After a long moment of looking for a hole in that argument and not finding one, John shook his head. “Who the hell taught you to argue?”

  Zach laughed. “A stubborn son of a bitch I used to think was an idiot.”

  The stubborn son of a bitch-cum-former idiot threw up his hands. “I infer from that I’ve finally made it up to average intelligence.” Zach grinned, his dimples showing beneath amazing azure eyes that matched those peering back at him. “Oh, you’re way past that. This conversation is something in the way of a Mensa exam.”

  John had to give a reluctant smile. “All right, all right, it’s for sure you got that charm from your mother, not me. Okay, let me make some calls.”

  Happy that he’d at least convinced his father to let Hana have the blade for now, Zach did something he hadn’t done in years: He rounded the desk and kissed the top of his father’s head. “Thanks, Dad.”

  Zach hurried to the door, but he turned on the sill. “Think about what I said . . .” He trailed off. Something clogged his throat, and it wasn’t allergies. In the bright glow of the desk lamp, he saw tears in his father’s eyes and they brought a moisture to his own that embarrassed him. Only then did he realize it had been years since he’d given his father such a heartfelt, spontaneous gesture of affection.

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” he said again. This time they exchanged a long look that traveled down many years of good memories. “I’m . . . enjoying working so closely with you.”

  Feeling as awkward at that moment as he had when his dad hugged him among all his classmates after he graduated from boot camp, Zach turned toward the front door. Time to review the watch logs and set his mind at ease that no snipers had been sighted. But he also vowed to be more affectionate with the man who was, after all, the most important in the world to him.

  * * *

  Hana sat next to Jiji’s bed, her hand clasped in his, trying to come to terms with losing him forever. He was awake, sort of. His eyes opened when she leaned over him. It had only been a couple of days since she’d visited him, but it felt like a lifetime. He’d been pale then, but now he was the color of his sheets. He stirred when she tightened her grip. His skin was hot and dry, and as fragile as the origami he’d tried so patiently to teach the young, impatient Hana.

  “Jiji, I’m here. I’ve missed you. I’ve been . . . busy with Takeo. I’m sorry I didn’t come yesterday. I have a paper to read to you.” When he feebly clasped her hand and asked to sit up, she used the bed control to raise his head slightly. She’d never told him Takeo had been taken. There was no need to upset him at this point.

  Stifling her grief at the knowledge that soon he’d be gone too, she settled next to the bed and opened the paper.

  But with extreme effort, he raised a trembling hand and traced the shadows under her eyes. “What is hurting you, Hana?”

  This time she couldn’t hold back the tears. “I wasn’t able to get the sword, Jiji. I tried, really hard. . . .” She bit her lip. “These Travises, they care for nothing but their own wealth and power.”

  This time his hand covered her lips. “What have I always told you, granddaughter? My favorite Buddha saying?” He began, “Holding on to anger . . .”

  His hand still against her lips like a blessing, Hana finished, “is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.”

  His hand fell away and he sank against his pillow again, as if even that movement exhausted him, but he managed a tiny nod of approval. “Live your life by letting go of anger, Hana, if not for yourself, for Takeo.” He closed his eyes. “N
ow, read.”

  Hana dashed her tears off on her sleeve and began reading. First the headlines, then the opinion page, and so on. She read the paper in order, the way he liked it with his organized mind. That, thank God, he’d never lost even as his body failed him. She was about two hours in and had reached the business pages when she felt a presence at the half-open door.

  She looked up. Zachary Travis stood there, half in, half outside the room, staring at her. He looked . . . surprised? Enthralled? She couldn’t quite peg his expression, but he’d obviously stood there for a long moment listening to her read.

  When she put the paper down, staring toward the door, Jiji turned his head slightly, with obvious effort. His old eyes, sunken and dark, flickered in surprise as a very tall, handsome young man entered the room. But it wasn’t Zach’s chinos and dress shirt Jiji or Hana noticed.

  It was the red silk-wrapped katana in his hand.

  * * *

  A long, rambling Texas farmhouse-style home glistened in the rays of sunlight fingering through protective oak trees. The house had shutters and a rambling, covered porch that wrapped around three sides. The metal roof caught the sunlight too. Even in the shade, the architectural style seemed made for laughter and family gatherings. The house sat high on a limestone cliff at the end of a long caliche road. The caliche road met another caliche road, each fronted with only a cattle guard to pen in the Black Angus cattle dotting the rolling landscape.

  The acre around the house, however, was enclosed by high wrought-iron fencing that crackled with electricity as a stray leaf caught on it. An acute observer might have noticed the many surveillance cameras situated at strategic points all the way around the parcel, eyes glowing red even in the sunlight.

  A black Land Rover roared up the drive, pausing at the electric gate. The driver punched in a ten-digit code, waiting for the gate to open sideways. When it did, he drove inside, not moving again until the gate was completely shut behind them.

  The Land Rover stopped on the half-circle drive in front of the house. The same two muscular men who’d invaded the Taylors’ home, still dressed in black, went to the rear and opened the tailgate, pulling someone out. Ernie’s tall form, still in his habitual Hawaiian shirt and shorts, straightened as if he felt stiff. His head was hooded. They pushed him between the shoulder blades. “Move.”