Zero Island (Blessid Trauma Crime Scene Cleaners Book 2)

by Chris Bauer

  Lanakai, Mr. Suki, Magpie, and eight other mob guys exited their cars. Lanakai spoke, his people assembled behind him. “I see you were able to ditch your Navy CO friend.”

  It had been a ruse he’d felt uncomfortable executing, making Evan think the barn they’d sparred in was the real deal, complete with the spray paint on the dirt floor. Evan would show up late for the party, and at the wrong place, after all this was over.

  “Not one of my better moments. He will never forgive me.”

  They’d parked in an open area in front of the building. The jungle had crept against the building on two sides, growing up and onto the metal roof, the rear not visible.

  “Evan said there are three of these slaughterhouses out here,” Philo said. “So they all look like this, all overgrown?”

  “I have no idea, Trout,” Wally said. “I heard the same thing. If the other two are on the farm property somewhere, the jungle’s done a good job of reclaiming them. Let’s head inside. We’re already late.”

  One overhead door was open floor to ceiling. Once inside, they realized the door wasn’t open, it was missing, the interior walls overgrown with creeping vines. The jungle’s assault on the interior continued through glassless loading dock windows, the leafy green vines creeping up and over the sills. Philo started paying attention to the floor, to make sure nothing was moving on it, except things were. Magpie drew his handgun; his men drew theirs.

  “Pacific rats,” Magpie said. “With the sugarcane gone from the islands, they’ve gotten bold. Watch your step.”

  They reached a set of metal doors abutting each other, rubber-tipped, on swivel hinges. Magpie pushed through, held one side open. Inside was the front end of a chicken farm slaughterhouse, a large space illuminated with natural light coming from second-story windows. The cement floor was outlined in white paint with no vegetation on it: the boxing ring, this one also larger than regulation. Beyond the center space was the room’s shadowy edges where silhouettes had gathered. The shadows emerged en masse following a dark-suited Japanese male, his charges well-dressed Japanese men also, their suits looking identical. All had raised weapons in their hands, matching Lanakai’s men.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen. I am Yabuki. Now that we’re all on record as being armed, we can all put our weapons away. Does that work for you, Lanakai-san?”

  Wally nodded.

  “I will count us down. Men, re-holster your weapons in three, two, one… Thank you, everyone. Please, Lanakai-san, do not be emboldened by my decision to bring less than the number of men we agreed on. My other men are close by but are otherwise engaged.” He nodded at a person to his left. “I trust you know Shiko-san.”

  Philo saw a rather curvy Japanese woman in crotch-hugging gym pants, a top too small for her, and heels, with a martini glass in her hand.

  “Hello, Shiko,” Wally said. “From the looks of things, Yabuki, someone’s getting laid tonight. Enjoy yourself. She’s fun.”

  Shiko gave Wally a single finger salute.

  “Now, if you don’t mind,” Yabuki said, “I wonder if you and I might chat a moment.” Yabuki stepped forward, alone, toward the center of the boxing ring.

  Lanakai took a step before a concerned Magpie grabbed his arm. He shook loose to meet Yabuki halfway and spoke loud enough for all to hear.

  “Let Kaipo Mawpaw go, Yabuki, or this will not end well. Let’s make this between you and me, and not involve an innocent woman.”

  Yabuki’s measured look at Lanakai was quizzical. “A perfect segue. I couldn’t have asked for a better introduction to what I have to tell you…”

  Philo remained interested in their exchange but stayed busy scrutinizing Yabuki’s men, looking for one person: his opponent. He’d seen Jerry Mifumo before, a tall, light heavyweight who was visible as a boxer for exactly those reasons, as the only Japanese fighter to ever compete successfully in the heavier weight divisions. Mifumo wasn’t among Yabuki’s posse at the moment.

  “First, she’s alive and in good condition,” Yabuki said. “Second, I’m afraid you, Lanakai-san, are only partly consequential to these recent… events. You left Hawaii, I took your turf, and I’m not giving it back, case closed. Third, every organ donor during this recent spree is from Miakamii. They are making you rich.”

  “Donor? You mean every victim,” Wally Lanakai said while he began to circle Yabuki. “You need to stop that shit. Keep your stolen organs to yourself.”

  Yabuki reciprocated, followed Lanakai’s footsteps, their circle tight. “Do you know how we know who these people are, and why we’re able to find them?”

  Around and around and around they went…

  “Tell me.”

  “Because we developed a hitlist from hacked census records and genealogy services. Names, addresses. Complete as of the last census.”

  “Almost ten years old, then.”

  … and around…

  “Yes, but it’s one hell of a start, wouldn’t you say? And it keeps you in body parts. Win-win.”

  “Not seeing it, Yabuki. A hell of a start at what? How is this a win for you?”

  Yabuki stopped walking, turned to ready himself for the inevitable, an in-your-face close-up. “Because I get to exterminate an entire island population, and you get framed for it.”

  Philo felt the heat index in the room increase ten-fold.

  “Kaipo Mawpaw is Miakamiian…” Lanakai said, his eyes narrowing.

  “She is at that. Relax, she’s still alive. That tells you she’ll stay that way until we handle this little contest of ours. And by the way, your boy is a six-point underdog at the Yakuza betting parlors.”

  Lanakai snapped his hands up, grabbed Yabuki by his lapels, pulled him into his face, screamed at him. “I pay people for their donations! Why are you killing them for their organs?”

  Fifteen, maybe twenty guns reappeared from inside the suits of every observer, Philo and Patrick excluded. Lanakai and Yabuki stayed nose to nose, weaponizing their scowls, until Yabuki pried Lanakai’s fingers from his lapel, Lanakai still seething.

  Yabuki spoke, remaining calm. “You are being rude.” Then, speaking in a remorseful tone, “He would have come back a living hero,” he said, his comment sincere.

  “What?”

  “My ojiisan. Grandfather. My jiji. A proud Samurai. Your spear-chucking Hawaiian rodents killed him when his plane crashed on Miakamii. Not killed in battle; murdered him when he tried to leave. Twenty-two years old. He left one child behind: my father. This month we celebrate my jiji’s hundredth birthday. I choose to honor him,” Yabuki said proudly, “by avenging his death. Mark my words, Lanakai”—he gritted his teeth, then scowled while he spat out his intentions—“I plan to eliminate every fucking Miakamiian descendant I can get my hands on. That includes Ms. Mawpaw, because I do not expect my man to lose this match. We’re not sure how many Miakamii rodents are left on the island itself, but whatever the number is, it’s too many.”

  Lanakai pushed his forehead into Yabuki’s, drilling a stare. “Your jiji deserved it, you cold-blooded asshole.”

  The blades came out, Yabuki’s tantō, Lanakai’s small machete, each man backing up to take measure of the other. Their hands went in motion, feinting, sweeping, jabbing. On the outside of the boxing ring, raised hands with guns jerked side to side, repositioning themselves, selecting their targets across the room from each other.

  From behind Yabuki’s posse came a single shout from a booming voice: “Oyabun-san!” It sliced through the tension, forcing everyone to listen.

  The crowd parted, and a large Japanese man emerged, stepping across the spray-painted line on the cement, halting the knife play. He presented himself to Yabuki in the center of the ring with a bow. “I am at your service, Oyabun-san,” he said.

  “Mifumo,” Philo whispered to Patrick.

  “Yeah,” Patrick said, “sure is, sir.”

  Ass- and leg-hugging black spandex, a second-skin short-sleeve stretch tee in a burgundy red that revealed mass
ive biceps, toned pecs, and mountainous trapezii. First impression, a superhero in costume; second impression, steroids gone wild. His height, the same as Philo’s, far as he could tell. Mifumo followed his bow to Yabuki with a bow to Lanakai.

  “Yoshio Mifumo, Lanakai-san,” he said, introducing himself. “I am known as Jerry Mifumo in the United States. My pleasure to entertain you.”

  Lanakai’s heaving chest deflated. He lowered his weapon; Yabuki mirrored him. The blades returned to their sheaths, the guns returned to their holsters. Yabuki spoke.

  “Yoshio is not only Yakuza, he is Samurai, with genealogy tracing back to the Shogun clans. I am honored that he represents me. Thank you, Yoshio-san,” he said, and the two traded short bows.

  Philo removed his jacket, handed Patrick his holstered Sig, and walked his lanky underdressed frame—jeans, white sleeveless tee, sneakers—into the middle of the room.

  “So you are Lanakai’s fighter,” Yabuki said to Philo. “Interesting. I have to say I’m a bit underwhelmed, Mr. Trout. You look undersized, and old.” He smiled at Lanakai, then Mifumo. “This shouldn’t take long.”

  “Yeah, I’m his fighter,” Philo said, “for today at least. That was good, Yabuki, that comment. Smart. It’s in my head now. It took me off my game a second, made me want to cut your balls off with your little dagger, so it worked. But here’s what it also did. Your fighter—Jerry here—he’s thinking about it too, feels a little pressure now, can’t lose to an older, smaller guy, and he needs it to be over quickly, to satisfy your expectations…”

  Philo stared down his bareknuckle opponent. “By the way, Jerry, this old guy is undefeated in sixty-five fights, and I hear you’re not.”

  Philo called to Lanakai. “If anyone is gonna referee this thing, get his ass out here now. I’m ready to go. And Yabuki, here’s the thing, you old Yakuza fuck—

  “My father was a Navy pilot during WWII. He lost friends because of your jiji. We all have heroes we avenge. My father is mine.”

  The metal door to the chicken farm’s death room burst open, two men quickly invading Kaipo’s space to grab her by her handcuffed arms. They slammed her onto her back on the flat conveyor belt and held her down. Swinging arms, fingernails, sharp elbows, and sharp teeth—all of her defenses went into motion, bloodying one man’s nose and gouging the other man’s eyes. She struggled, grabbing hair, ears, and genitals, but after another two men arrived she was no match for the four of them. They pulled her wrists forward, had her momentarily subdued. One of them produced a key for her handcuffs.

  Excellent, she told herself, her adrenaline off the chart. With my hands free, now they’re gonna see some shit.

  The man held up the key in one hand to taunt her with it, smiling knowingly, then unholstered his handgun with his other hand. His smile turned into a grim dash before he raised the gun’s butt end above her head.

  Lights out, Kaipo.

  She awoke on her back, head throbbing, wrists by her sides, attached with plastic cable ties to the conveyor belt rails. Her ankles were restrained the same way, all zip ties tight and unforgiving. The men were gone, the door was closed, daylight showing through a window. The stink of dead chickens made her stomach rise again; she vomited off the side of the conveyor belt. Exhausted, she fell asleep, dreamt horrifying scenes of death and dismemberment, the PTSD from her cleaner-fixer work for Ka Hui kicking in.

  The door swung open, jolting her awake. A gasoline generator on squeaky wheels entered, a man pushing it. He set it up in a corner, left the room without even a nod in her direction. The door swung open again, the same greasy-haired Japanese man entering, this time pulling a large piece of travel luggage, more like a trunk on wheels. He found a spot he liked for the suitcase and tipped it over to lay it flat on the floor, then went for the heavy-duty zipper that kept its payload in place, unzipping the top and finding other zippers for other compartments. The first item out was a folded plastic mat in blue, heavy, with the consistency of a boat cover; he laid it flat. Then came the suitcase’s contents item by item, with him placing each on the mat.

  All this activity, the generator, the luggage piece, what was in the luggage… all was familiar to her. The same M.O. for when she worked for Ka Hui.

  On the mat were vise grips, knives, needles, a bone saw, a sternum saw, an electric circular saw, scalpels. To the side, multiple Styrofoam coolers, their lids off. The only thing missing was the lye. It wouldn’t be needed if the body parts were meant for delivery somewhere.

  He stepped into a one-piece hazmat coverall, found the rickety chair in the corner, and sat. He retrieved his phone, spoke one brief phrase into it in Japanese. When the call ended, he slipped a headpiece with a plastic face shield over his greasy-haired head, then worked his hands into a pair of nitrile gloves. Hazmatted head to toe, he placed his hands on his knees, which allowed for perfect posture while he waited. He was now looking at her from across the room, an eerie visage, although she couldn’t see his eyes, a human form inhabiting a space-age protective suit, about to do an inhuman thing. A déjà vu experience for her, the vantage points reversed.

  She didn’t understand what he’d said on his call, but she was sure she knew what it meant: I am ready.

  Kaipo knew now she was going to die. Her only unknown was how much torture would be involved.

  32

  They met in the middle of the slaughterhouse floor. Magpie, the largest of all the men present, accompanied Philo. Mifumo’s cornerman oozed pure ancestral Samurai in a leather chest piece and arm coverings, leather headpiece, and colorful robes underneath, and two sheathed swords by his sides. Mifumo’s entire body dripped sweat, his shirt and tights and exposed skin glistening as though he’d been spritzed for a TV workout commercial, including his bare feet. Philo had worked up his sweat by pacing, shadowboxing, and, what he didn’t want to admit to himself, fretting.

  The referee, one of Yabuki’s men, looked the part with a white shirt and black trousers, and wasn’t nearly large enough to separate the two men if they didn’t want him to. He searched each of their faces before speaking. The man’s hand squeezed Philo’s shoulder in a few places, then left his bicep to grip his forearm, then traveled from his forearm to his wrist. Philo had the distinct feeling he was calibrating his physique to decide how much of a bet to place on Mifumo.

  “Last time I saw you fight on UFC,” Philo said, glancing at Mifumo’s hard stomach under his tight top, “I had you and your fat ass on the way to going full sumo. Look at you now. Thank God for steroids, right? Don’t forget your shoes…”

  “When we’re done here, Trout,” Mifumo growled, “I am going to eat you.”

  The referee pushed both fighters back a step so he could insert himself between them. He spoke in Japanese-accented English, Philo still mumbling about Mifumo needing shoes.

  “Only instruction is to Mr. Mifumo. Mifumo-san, please do not kill this man.” Then came the bluster appropriate enough for the bareknuckle fight parlance each boxer knew was coming, the referee puffing out his chest to deliver it.

  “Mifumo-san! Trout-san! Bring your toes to the line!”

  No touch of each other’s fists for good sportsmanship, no head nods in deference to each man’s stellar pugilistic resume, just death stares, something Philo never knew he had in him, yet always had to muster. But still on Philo’s mind…

  “What about your shoes, Jerry—”

  Mifumo flexed his upper torso, bounced from bare foot to bare foot. He barked a Japanese slur at Philo, then followed it up with, “Your promoter insulted the oyabun! Prepare to get the beating of your life.”

  “But your shoes…”

  Mifumo inserted his mouth guard, Philo mirrored him.

  “And… fight!” the ref said.

  Philo knew what no shoes meant—mixed martial arts, not a bareknuckles bout—knew he’d need to adjust, but didn’t expect it to be this soon. Open hand deflections met thrown fists as each fighter felt the other out, speed, power, reflexes, and their abi
lity to parry, until a spinning leg kick whizzed into Philo’s jaw, knocking him sideways into a stutter step before he regained his balance. Heel to mouth, one of the hardest blows he’d ever received in a fight, bareknuckles or otherwise, and a near knockout so soon after the referee’s opening break. He wiggled his jaw to check it. It had been broken before; not this time. But damn, this guy’s legs and feet were just as juiced as the rest of his body…

  Lanakai bolted forward, Magpie restraining him, an arm across his chest, Wally barking through Magpie’s hold.

  “What the hell is this, Yabuki! We agreed no MMA! Bareknuckle boxing! No martial arts…!”

  “You insulted me,” Yabuki yelled, “which means you insulted Yakuza, which means you insulted the Samurai. You shouldn’t have done that.”

  Now on notice, Philo stayed in retreat mode, readying his head for a different kind of fight. Sixty-five wins, no losses in bareknuckle boxing; 0-0 in mixed martial arts. Philo’s heavy hands were devastating, his best physical trait, so many men KO’d by punches that were crisp and with pin-point accuracy, but in MMA, fists were only part of the required weaponry.

  Mifumo waded in, cutting off the ring. Kicks went to Philo’s calves and thighs, meant to sweep his legs out or cripple him, which they didn’t, but they redirected Philo’s retreat each time they connected. Thwap, thwap, thwap…

  Philo’s jeans took some of the brunt and canceled the sting he would have otherwise gotten from bone-to-bone contact. Plus Philo was now gauging the timing, the repetition of the leg kicks, their order, left-left-right, right-right-left, then left-left-right again. On the third sequence Philo snapped an open-fisted grab at the right leg, snagging an ankle in his large hand, raising and twisting it until Mifumo lost his balance and left his feet. Philo was on him, a knee to Mifumo’s chest, fists a-blazing to the man’s head until Mifumo could only defend himself by a tuck inside his arms and a roll, stumbling into a crouch on a single knee, now out of breath. Rather than attack, Philo used the breather to kick off his sneakers and socks. His corner erupted, screaming at him to screw removing his shoes, just go for the kill. Mifumo regained his footing, was steadying himself but remained dazed. The spectators exploded, the noise now at a fever pitch, one side imploring their fighter to engage, the other imploring their fighter to avoid engagement.