by Sable Jordan
“Told you this is the shoulder of a dead girl?”
Kizzie’s head whipped around.
“I forget to mention that?” Phil beat a quick exit, boots thudding up the plane steps.
Hooking his wrist to angle the phone better, Kizzie studied the picture again and Xander closed the space between them. His warmth seeped into her skin, and whatever spicy cologne he wore obliterated the smell of jet fuel. Tempted as she was to snuggle closer, she stilled, squinting to cull more information from the same pixel composition. “Sumi’s…dead?”
Sumi was the only lead to the salted bomb. With her dead, this entire trip was a waste. “We should still follow up on it.” Although she had no idea how to go about doing that.
“That’s not the only one.” Xander flipped to the next picture. “These came in before we left Paris.”
In terms of clarity, this one was better. A face, the skin pale and lacking the glow of life. Eyes closed, same went for the mouth, and straight black hair hung limp around the head. No way to tell how long she’d been deceased. Touching the screen, Kizzie selected the ZOOM function, scoured every detail again.
Several more shots from different angles brought Kizzie to one conclusion. “It’s not Sumi.”
“I know. But this is the girl with that tattoo.”
“Not a coincidence, either, so who is she?” Xander shrugged; Kizzie struggled to make the connections. “Send those to my e-mail, I’ll check into it.” And by ‘I’ll’ she meant Fletcher. “Anything else I should know?”
Phil returned with his bag and headed to the car not far away. “Still haven’t told her?”
“I’m getting to it.” Xander picked up Kizzie’s bag and then his own. “It doesn’t matter who the dead girl is. Not to us, anyway.” He backpedaled a few steps and then pivoted.
Didn’t matter? Their cavalier attitude toward this situation was starting to wear on Kizzie’s frayed nerves. She followed behind him, came to a stop where he stood by the open trunk. “Why not?”
Xander set their bags inside. “Network’s live.” The trunk lid slammed shut and he faced her. “A quick run through Tokyo and we’ll have Sumi. Sumi leads us to her Mistress; her Mistress gets us…?”
Kizzie smiled. “Harvey.”
Tokyo, Japan
The newest hit from the tracer put the necklace in Kabukichō, a neighborhood filled to bursting with neon lights, love hotels, hostess clubs, and the run-of-the-mill unsavory types needed to occupy them. And just like any other sin city, this one was run by the mob: the Yakuza—Japanese mafia. Sprinkle in the Chinese Triad gang for flavor and it all boiled down to one hard rule for foreigners: Don’t make waves.
Evidence of the city’s rep met them in the form of a body sprawled on the sidewalk, face down in his own vomit. The crowd flowed around the poor sap—who’d probably had his pockets picked dry by now—and continued down the narrow pedestrian walks. The deeper in, the more intense things became. Peep shows abutted nightclubs, and nightclubs flanked sex shops and bars with the occasional eatery thrown in for good measure. Nearly every available surface had been plastered with fliers, which only added to the leaflets being handed out at random intervals, all advertising sex in some form or fashion, the entire place one unified, orgiastic soup.
A wall covered in lime green sheets caught Xander’s attention and he snatched one off as they passed; tucked it in his pocket. Beside him, Kizzie lofted a smart comment to yet another tout who’d grabbed for her arm, but it was her earlier words that echoed in Xander’s head: “The Point left me…”
Kizzie didn’t elaborate. He’d caught her off-guard at the outset, her reaction too quick to school the visceral response and drop into the snark she usually hid behind. But that was it, a handful of seconds with her guard down. After that, the harder Xander pushed the more Agent Baldwin emerged, a trained, emotionless machine—held eye contact, steadied her breathing, turned his questions around on him. Repaired the tiny crack he’d made in her wall. Still, she’d given him something to go on.
Joe.
A friend. A former friend. Possible boyfriend.
Was Joe connected to why she’d left The Point?
Information was gold in Xander’s line of work. Knowing an opponent’s secrets gave him the upper hand, and Kizzie wasn’t exactly on his side. They were still using each other—3-19 for her, Harvey for him. There was no telling if she’d actually live up to her end of the bargain and let him walk off with the nuke. No telling if he’d actually give her the truth about 3-19. Worst-case, whatever her secret surrounding The Point, it could pay huge dividends in keeping her in line later.
Pants, as Naima would say.
The job had nothing to do with his curiosity.
It was her eyes. The haunted gaze that filled Kizzie’s pretty browns when she spoke of Joe was the same pained look he’d glimpsed after whipping her in Helsinki, like her entire world was held together by a single strand of spider’s silk. Xander wanted to know what caused that look and break it.
He balled and unballed his fists in his pockets, struck by the primal urge to hit something for her.
On the edge of his awareness, Kizzie rattled something off in effortless Japanese, and her fourth harasser in ten minutes backed away. Without thinking, Xander took her hand, laced her slender fingers through his. Her brow squished together and she discreetly tried to pull out of his hold. He dragged her back. “They get a kick out of harassing single women. And you’re running out of insults.”
Hand in hand, he guided her through the throng, refocused on their purpose. The necklace and Sumi were close, so much so they no longer needed the network to amplify the range. A little patience and they’d have her, and a way to reach her Mistress.
Up ahead, Phil stared into the window of a “health club”—a massage parlor where the treatment undoubtedly finished with a happy ending. Not a bad way to get the heart rate going.
“You good?” Xander asked, pulling alongside him.
Phil nodded slightly, glanced down at his phone, and then moved on, once again putting distance between them. Phil wouldn’t admit it, but he was walking dead right now. They both were. It was just after one in the morning local time. Too many flashing lights and too little sleep had an ache tap dancing behind Xander’s eyes. And like anything with talent, the pain took the act on the road, stopping to entertain for his temples before a full-on performance at the base of his skull. The quicker they located Sumi the better.
At the back of the red-light district, the crowd thinned to businessmen in search of spread thighs. Two women exited a building, one of them wobbling so badly she needed the other to prop her up. Both wore short skirts, skimpy tops, and strappy heels that made the going even rougher.
A dark figured peeled away from the shadows to join them. Male. Yelling. The sober girl recoiled from his raised fist. More yelling, and then he shoved them forward, propelling the pair up the street. He glanced back over his shoulder before tailing them.
Phil crossed to the other side of the alley.
Someone started singing. The drunk girl. A slow, intoxicated wail. She staggered to her left and almost smacked a pole. Her friend nearly fell trying to keep her upright.
Phil signaled Xander.
“Up ahead,” he whispered, giving Kizzie’s hand a slight squeeze. Approaching from the back he couldn’t see their faces, but from what he recalled of Sumi—similar height and shape, straight black hair—either of the women fit the profile.
A cough. A moan. A gag. The drunk girl turned her head and lost it.
The side view ruled her out, which meant the other one was Sumi. The man spun toward Phil, who lifted his phone and started speaking into it as though lost. Phil went past the trio, headed toward a larger throughway 50 yards ahead.
“That’s not her.” Kizzie slipped her hand free of his, steps quickening. “Neither one.”
The second girl stooped to help the first, her face visible to Xander now and he almost pulled up short
. No idea how Kizzie knew, but she was right. Phil had a lock on the necklace, but Phil didn’t know what Sumi looked like. Something was wrong.
More yelling from the man in Japanese as Xander and Kizzie approached. Phil was out of sight now, having made it to the main street and turned the corner. The sober girl got her footing and hauled the drunk up with her. In the same moment the guy looked up and his gaze locked with Xander’s.
Then he pushed both girls down again and ran.
“Shit.” Xander took off, darting past the screaming girls. Kizzie ran beside him, light and fast, also swerving around the two bodies on the ground. Xander picked up speed, gaining on the guy. Where the hell was Phil?
The throughway loomed ahead, well-lit compared to the street they ran down, and with a bit of a crowd. Bad sign. Two gaijin chasing after a local? That made one hell of a wave. Things could get messy. Fast.
Xander sprinted faster, needing to limit the attention this pursuit might cause. Kizzie’s boots struck the ground not far behind, a rapid staccato echoing off the cramped buildings around them. Their target banked left just before reaching the main street and Xander followed without hesitating. A handful of surprised touts were in the alleyway blazing a joint. He sprinted by, coughing through the cloud of skunky smoke, tempted to turn and make sure Kizzie wasn’t bothered but her footsteps didn’t falter.
The rabbit hooked a right down another alleyway, this one heading toward the main street again. He risked a look over his shoulder, then his torso jerked abruptly and his feet left the ground. For a second his body was airborne, and then he slapped concrete with a nasty thud. Heart racing, Xander slowed to a stop near where the guy had landed and Kizzie pulled up beside him not long after.
“Hate it when they run,” Phil said, fronting the guy, his breathing also hurried. He hefted the groaning man up by the plackets of his coat, and then swiped his legs out from under him, slamming him down again. An audible whoosh left the man’s lungs, and then caught as a choke in his throat when Phil yanked him upright once more.
“I need him conscious,” Xander said.
Phil shrugged, locked the guy’s arms behind his back.
On closer inspection, he was really young. Late teens, early twenties at the oldest. Nothing more than a kid.
Xander went through his coat pockets. A phone, butterfly knife, and a wad of yen. He tossed the haul to the ground and Kizzie reached for the boy’s hip. She tugged hard enough to rip the belt loop of his too-tight jeans.
“What do you want?” the kid wheezed in Japanese. “Money?”
Kizzie held up the gold lock with the ruby centerpiece that Xander had given her in Helsinki. It was connected to a silver chain, the other end linked to a wallet. She ripped apart the Velcro keeping the billfold closed and removed an ID. “Koji here is just nineteen.”
“And already living the fast life.” Xander tsked, head shaking. “Poor misguided youth… Don’t catch ‘em early and they end up… well, they end up like me.” He grinned. “You speak English, Koji?” When no answer came, Phil tightened his grip. Koji’s head jerked furiously.
“Good.” Xander pointed to the lock. “Where’d you get this?” The kid’s gaze shifted to Kizzie and back. “If you’re thinking about lying to me, Koji, don’t.”
He blinked rapidly, still trying to catch the wind Phil had forced from him. “There was a girl…a-at the tattoo shop.” His wiry limbs shook harder than a stripper working for tips. “She sold it to me.”
“Sold…” Xander inhaled a long breath; glanced down at the sleeve of his jacket and dusted away non-existent lint with the back of his hand. “You right or left handed?”
“W-w-why?” Phil made another adjustment and Koji groaned. “Left! Left!”
Xander looked to where Kizzie had removed the wallet. “Break the right one.” He turned on his heel.
“What? Wait! No! Aaaahhhooookay, okay, I stole it! I stole it. Please…you’re hurting my arm.”
“Kinda the point.” Phil grunted, exerting just enough pressure at the shoulder to hyperextend the ligaments.
Xander pivoted, nodded at Phil to ease up a bit. “He’ll snap it in three spots next time you lie to me. The hand, too, for making this difficult. Which means jacking off with your left hand for the next six months ’til the right heals. And even after it does, the stroke’ll never be the same. You get me, kid?” Koji nodded and Xander continued. “What’d the girl look like?”
The description was minimal—big bright eyes, tiny bow mouth. On the short side, tattoos on her shoulder and ankles. “Dressed like an otaku,” Koji said.
“A what?”
“Otaku. Manga…animé. A cartoon character.”
“Which one?” Xander asked.
“Fuck if— Ahhh! I don… I don’t know. Long blue hair.”
Xander turned to Kizzie who pulled a face and shrugged. “You know her name?”
The frosted tips of Koji’s longish hair shook. “I swear, she was outside the tattoo parlor. I watched her a few times; picked her pockets.” His eyes lolled and he swayed in Phil’s unwavering grip. “I think…I think I’m going to pass out.”
Koji did look a little green around the gills. Phil increased the pressure and Koji cried out. “You awake now?”
“Where’s the chain?” Xander asked.
“W-when I snatched the lock, it broke,” he said in a rush. “Please…make him stop. My arm….”
Make him? No one “made” Phil do anything. “Princess?”
“The tattoo shop?” Kizzie asked. Koji lifted his head but didn’t respond.
“I’d answer her if I were you,” Xander said. “I’m the nice one, and that’s her necklace you broke.”
Koji’s nervous gaze flitted to Kizzie. “Ink-scribed.” He mumbled an address in nearby Shinjuku, and Kizzie confirmed it on her cell phone. “That’s all I know.”
“Which means you know more.” Phil’s vice grip became too much for poor Koji to bear. Tears streamed from the kid’s eyes.
“She was trying to find somebody I think,” he said quickly. “I don’t know who, but she kept going by there. Saw her just last week. I used to see her around here sometimes, but not anymore.”
“Ever see her with another woman?” Kizzie asked.
Koji shook his head, eyes wide. Sure they’d wrung all they could from the boy, Xander nodded at Phil who had one final warning.
“Treat another lady like you treated those two back there, you won’t have to worry about your hands. I’ll hunt you down and crack your nuts.” More furious nodding from Koji and Phil pushed the kid away. Koji nearly crumpled, knees wobbly as he inched off. “Don’t forget your belongings,” Phil added politely.
Koji slunk back, stooped to reclaim his things. Kizzie pocketed his ID and gave him a meaningful look. Then she snapped the thin chain connected to his wallet and tossed the cheap pleather pouch to him. He tried to catch it and winced. The case fell to the ground and he bowed once more. All of his items finally gathered, he hurried toward the beckoning neon glow at the end of the alley.
A safe distance away, Koji yelled, “You in Yakuza territory! My cousin is oyabun! When he finds out about—”
Phil started in the kid’s direction, snapping the threat off as Koji quickly rounded the corner. “Everybody’s got a cousin who’s the boss,” he muttered. Then he turned and fixed Xander with a hard look. “All things considered, that went well.”
Tension lingered in the statement, but Xander didn’t know why. In his periphery, Kizzie gaped at him strangely. “What?”
“Nothing… S’just, you run pretty fast…for an old guy.” Her smile melted his worry and he chuckled. Then her palm landed flat on his chest. “How’s the ticker holding up? Need oxygen, gramps?”
“Cute.”
Two quick pats over his heart and her hand slid away. He wanted to grab it and put it back, let the warmth sink in.
“What are the chances of us waltzing in and finding Sumi at this tattoo parlor?” Kizzie as
ked, tossing the gold lock to Phil. “Without the tracer on her we’re screwed.”
Maybe. Maybe not. Xander took her hand again. No reason for it this time, none he could justify, but he did it anyway. As they made it out of the winding, dark alleyways, not once did Kizzie let go.
* * * *
A frustrated heave and Kizzie pushed through the door of the hotel suite. She stepped into the common area without really seeing it and through the double doors housing the bedroom. The décor was a lovely shade of who-the-hell-cares—the bed looked soft, exhaustion hit hard, so the color of the walls didn’t register. The temptation to sleep fully clothed lost out to the promise of hot water.
A sitting area was on the other side of the bed, two comfy-looking chairs facing a huge window that framed the city’s lights. She tossed her bag near a chair, closed the curtains, grabbed a tank and undies, and headed to the shower. A quarter-hour later she was at the bathroom mirror, working a comb through her damp tresses. A quick French braid and she picked up her clothes; opened the door and jumped.
Xander smiled through a grimace and stepped past her before she had a chance to formulate words. They traded places, and the door shut with her on the outside. Kizzie looked left—his luggage sat on the floor—and then over her shoulder at closed bathroom door. The water started in the shower again, and her eyebrows squished together.
Back at her duffle, she dropped her clothes and grabbed her phone, thumbed the sequence over the blank screen. After ordering a cheese and olive pizza—which sounded kind of good at the moment—she slid beneath the white duvet and answered the call back moments later.
“Who’s the kid?”
“Kizzie…” Fletcher groaned. “We’re a little backed up here. Between new threats—”
“Was I backed up when you needed me three years ago in Lima?” He barely got his ‘no’ out before she added, “Or that time in Suriname when I got food poisoning? Have you ever had colitis, Fletch? Absolutely horrible condition. Painful, too. Injections twice a day for weeks, and I hate needles… But what have I done for you lately, right?” A heavy exhale filtered through the phone; a corner of her mouth ticked up. “Got a bad feeling about this. Galletti might have his hands in more than just information trafficking.”
