Rogue Empire (Blake Carver Series)

by William Tyree

  No time to dwell on that now. He had to collect evidence that might help him identify these men. He would then destroy anything that could tie him to the shootings.

  Using a plastic bag over his right hand to avoid leaving fingerprints, Carver also searched the car, but found nothing of potential value except the rental agreement. He took it, along with the rental company’s license and registration.

  He heard the buzz of helicopter blades in the distance. He thought of the local hospital in Williams. Hadn’t there been a helipad? Carver froze, steadying his breathing as he surveyed the skies.

  Relax. Nobody’s going to come looking for these guys. Nobody even knows that they are in the country.

  The sound dissolved into the ambient tapestry of bird chatter. Carver relaxed and resumed his work.

  He lifted the hood of the rental car and disconnected the battery, making the car nearly impossible to ping from a remote server. Then he removed the license plates along with the silver plate from the interior that was inscribed with the Vehicle Identification Number. Later today, he would dump them in a different location.

  Now Carver broke off the rear view mirror from the rental car and pressed a fingerprint sample from both men onto it. He wrapped it in cloth and put it into his father’s truck for safekeeping. Surveying the stripped vehicle, he considered setting it ablaze. No. That might just draw unnecessary attention. Instead he collected dead brush and laid the branches over the top of the vehicle, making it harder to spot from the air.

  At last he would dispose of the bodies. He had observed long ago that shallow graves were the undoing of many killers. Better to leave them unburied, he knew, but away from the road. This country was thick with all sorts of carnivores. Mountain lions and bobcats and coyotes and bears. By dawn, he reckoned the bodies would be eaten to the bone, and within three days, the bones themselves would be scattered across several square miles of wilderness.

  He lifted one of the corpses and carried it to a nearby wash where he had seen coyote tracks that morning. He began removing the man’s clothes, which he would dump elsewhere. He used a hunting knife to cut the pants and shirt away from the body. Meanwhile he inspected the flesh for any tattoos or birthmarks that could help with identification. Seeing nothing on the man’s chest, arms or legs, he turned the body, and in doing so, found more than he could have hoped for.

  The symbol was imprinted on the man’s lower back, just above the beltline. A symmetrical design about four inches in diameter. An orb with thick bands emanating from the center. The Rising Sun, the Japanese war flag that had first been used during the 1870s, and had become internationally notorious as the symbol of the Imperial Japanese Empire during World War II.

  But it wasn’t a tattoo. The Rising Sun had actually been burned into the man’s flesh. He had been branded.

  The only other time he had seen something like this was in college. Members of the Omega Psi Phi fraternity had the omega symbol branded on their arms or chests. It had always seemed to Carver like an unreasonably high price to pay for membership.

  Now he sat up and took a deep breath, considering the significance of such body art. For decades, Americans had tattooed themselves with all manner of Asian imagery, ranging from dragons to Kanji. But this – a brand burned into the flesh – had to mean something more than just whimsical body art.

  His curiosity piqued, he dragged the other body to the wash, turned the assassin, and cut the shirt away. And there it was. Four inches of raised scar tissue on the lower back. The Rising Sun brand.

  These guys were part of the same club, all right. And he was betting it was no friendly frat.

  Tokyo

  As Eri returned to Autograph for the second time in as many hours, the last drunks were just stumbling up the steps to the street. Taka was shuttering the place. He froze when he saw her, as if caught in headlights. He reached out and wiped a bit of her smudged eyeliner away with his thumb.

  “Can I crash here at the bar tonight?”

  Taka’s typically jovial face transformed into one of pure concern. “You’re in trouble?”

  She nodded. There was no use in pretending. “Two of my colleagues are dead. Murdered.”

  “Did you try the police?”

  “They think it was suicide.”

  “How – ”

  “It’s complicated, Taka.”

  And it was. Just one thing was for sure – she couldn’t go home again. Ever. She thought about leaving the country, but there was still one loose end. Blake hadn’t responded to her message. She feared it was too late. But she had to hold out one more day at least. Just in case he decided to come.

  “Taka…”

  “Shhh. Eri, don’t say another word. You can come to my place tonight.”

  “No. That’s far too generous. I can just stay here.”

  He sported a wry grin. “And leave you alone here with my booze? No way. You know that American saying about leaving the fox in the henhouse.”

  Kaibab National Forest

  It took Carver longer to change the truck tire than it did to move the bodies. As he had predicted, no one else had come in on the pipeline road, and their only company was the turkey vultures that were already circling over the corpses. Now he used a tree branch to sweep up his tracks in and around the kill.

  Satisfied, he opened the truck door and motioned for Duke to jump in. The dog looked at him sheepishly, wagging his tail.

  “So I’m not the only one who’s sore,” Carver said. He bent down and scooped the dog up into his arms. He lifted Duke into the passenger seat. “Make yourself comfortable, bud. We’re taking the long way home.”

  To minimize the chances that they were seen leaving the area, he would avoid the direct route back out I-40, where he knew there were both wildlife cameras and highway patrol. Instead he drove his father’s truck deeper into the backcountry, navigating a series of logging roads that had devolved over the years into little more than muddy ruts. Eventually, he knew, he would get back to the main pipeline road and head out to the two-lane highway headed toward Flagstaff.

  The slow crawl through the mountains afforded him plenty of time to think about his would-be assassins. The Rising Sun brands mystified him. Japan was a place where pristine skin was held in especially high regard. Most spas and gyms wouldn’t admit anyone with a single tattoo, much less branded flesh. A notable exception was the Yakuza, for whom extensive ink was a rite of passage. But Carver, who had studied his fair share of Yakuza body art, couldn’t recall a single instance of the crime syndicate branding their members.

  The Rising Sun flag itself was associated with Japanese imperialism, having been the official Japanese flag from 1877 until Japan’s surrender to American forces in 1945. These days, it lived mainly on the ships of the Japan Maritime Self Defense Force.

  Was it possible that Japanese sailors had taken to branding the symbol onto their backs? Maybe. But even if they had, it did nothing to explain why these two wanted him dead. The more he drove, the more convinced he became that there was some connection to the embassy bombing.

  He switched on the radio for the first time today. Willie Nelson sang out in a surprisingly clear voice. Carver didn’t follow country music, but as with any song he’d heard at least once, he knew all the words.

  You're like the measles, you're like the whooping cough

  I've already had you, so why in heaven's name can't you just get lost?

  Around 2:00 p.m. they came to a utility road that took them out to a two-lane highway heading to Flagstaff. He thought of his sister and young nephews. Although he saw them twice a year at most, they talked often, and his sister sent lots of videos to keep Carver abreast of their development. Still, for them, each visit was as if they were meeting their uncle for the first time. In adults, he found memory loss highly irritating. With the boys, however, he found it cute.

  He stopped at the first full-service auto repair shop he came across. His first order of business was getting a new
tire to replace the one that had been shot up. He pulled his black beanie over the tops of both ears. The notched left ear stung like crazy, but at least it was hidden, and would not be a conversation piece for every person he met.

  Out front, there was a dirty and disused public pay phone. To Carver’s great surprise, it still had a dial tone. The phone rang seven times. At last, a wave of relief washed over Carver as his father picked up.

  “Expected you back by now,” the old man said.

  “The pond was frozen over, so I decided to do some exploring. Hey, did you get any visitors out to the ranch today?”

  “Nope. Were you expecting someone?”

  “No, Pop. Okay then. I’ll see you tonight.”

  Inside, the shop owner said he could have a replacement tire – and a matching mud flap – delivered within two hours. He pressed $20 into the man’s grease-blackened palm to hurry things up.

  While he waited, he tossed his would-be assassins’ license plate and hand-shredded rental contract into a dumpster bin around back, along with his cell phone SIP card and the spent shotgun shells.

  In the adjacent convenience store, he bought a first-aid kit and took it into the restroom. He disinfected the wound on his ear and slathered it in liquid bandage. It looked a bit worse than he had expected. A semi-circular piece of flesh and cartilage was missing. Not the kind of thing that would simply grow back perfectly. If he wanted both ears to be symmetrical again, he would have to see a plastic surgeon.

  But not today. The best he could do today was keep it from getting infected. After that, he would try to find out who was trying to kill him, and why.

  By the time he had tucked the bandaged ear under the beanie once again, he had decided that the easiest way to learn their identities was to log into the Guardian portal and plug his assailants’ passports into the system. Given that Julian had put him on administrative leave, it was a risky move, and one that could come with additional repercussions. But if he could get a match, perhaps something from their profiles — however incidental — would trigger a revelation.

  There was just one problem. His laptop was stitched into his mattress at the Two Elk Ranch, with neither an Internet connection nor a cell phone signal within miles of the place. There were presumably dozens of public computers up at the university in Flagstaff, but there would also be surveillance cameras, and his online activities might be tracked or even blocked by the university’s IT department.

  Then he remembered that his sister had a computer in the den of her home, where the kids did their homework. Her place was maybe 30 minutes away. Besides, it would be good to see the kids.

  He put more change into the pay phone and called his sister. She answered on the first ring, sounding more relaxed than he had heard her in ages. “I decided to drop into town,” he told her. “Mind if I stop by?”

  Instead of an invitation, he received a scolding. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? We’re up at Lake Powell. Do you realize you missed Luke’s birthday?”

  Carver apologized his way through the rest of the call, deflecting pressure to drive several hours north and join the family up at the lake. He considered asking for permission to go to the house and use the computer anyhow, but arrived at the inevitable conclusion that common courtesy would bring more harm than good. What possible reason could he come up with? None. He would simply have to break in.

  Flagstaff, Arizona

  His sister’s family lived in a modest rambler on a half-acre lot near the Lowell Observatory. A smattering of early snow, mostly melted and dirtied over the course of three days, whitened the shadowy portions of his sister’s front yard in the late afternoon sun. Carver parked down the road a bit behind some trees. Then, with Duke on the leash, he cut through the forest until he came to the back of the home. There was no fence, affording an unobstructed view of the snow-capped peaks in the distance.

  He immediately set about looking for the hidden key. Not that she had ever mentioned hiding one. He knew her too well.

  Sure enough, Carver spotted the fake rock hide-a-key from Walmart beside the back door. As if any fool wouldn’t have noticed how different the texture was from the volcanic rocks around it. He made a mental note to give her an alarm system for Christmas.

  He let himself in, and then went straight to the fridge, where he found several leftover sausages in a Ziploc bag. He fed one to Duke, and then ate one himself. Cold, so as not to smell up the place.

  Carver lingered on the family photos on the fridge. The boys, all dressed up in their youth hockey uniforms. The boys, riding on Pop’s tractor. The boys, snuggled up with Mom on the front porch. Man, they were growing up fast. He had to get out here more often.

  He went the living room and sat before the family computer. The mammoth size of the screen felt luxurious. With Duke at his feet, he logged into an anonymous web browser and routed the connection through an IP mask that made it seem as if he was logging in from Washington. Then he inputted the 32-digit alphanumeric URL, and tried signing into the Guardian network.

  It didn’t work. Somewhere, Carver knew, an IT security person at the Office of the Director of National Security had just received an intruder alert. He severed the connection before it could be traced.

  Julian’s voice popped into his head. These are serious accusations. As of this moment, you’re on administrative leave. Somehow, he had thought Julian wouldn’t sever the umbilical cord so officially. But he had. All semblance of trust was lost.

  What now? His ear stung like crazy. He rose, went to the freezer, and found a bag of frozen peas, which he strapped to his head with a jumbo-size rubber band that he found in his sister’s kitchen junk drawer. The cold numbed the pain.

  With access to his investigative tools now cut off, he was going to have to call in favors. Ellis was out of the question. So too was Kyra Javan. He decided to call Arunus Roth. The kid had only been at Guardian for a little over a year, but Carver had looked out for him during the initial probationary phase and later recommended him for a permanent place on the team. That should earn him some loyalty.

  He went back to the machine, booted up the web browser’s VoIP app and the IP mask, and put in the call. Roth answered on the first ring.

  “It’s me,” Carver said. “Don’t hang up.”

  “I got a visit by some very unpleasant dudes this morning,” Roth said.

  “Office of Security?”

  “Yup. They told me not to take your calls. But seeing as how you always looked out for me...”

  “What exactly did they tell you?”

  “They wanted to make sure I knew you were persona non-grata. They scheduled a time tomorrow when I’m supposed to walk them through the investigations into Jessica Wu and Jack Brenner. Sounded kind of serious.”

  “What else?”

  “They started rummaging through your office.”

  Carver leaned back in his chair. He wiped his hand from his face. Was this really happening? Until now, he had hung onto the idea that his exile from the intelligence community would blow over after the G8, when the president would no doubt smooth this whole thing with China over. But now, for the first time, he realized he could find himself on the outside looking in for a long time. Possibly forever.

  He decided to put up a brave face for Roth. The kid idolized him. “It’s worse than it looks, Arunus. I’ll be back soon enough.”

  “I saw them talking to Ellis. Just saying, I don’t think she’s your friend right now, bro.”

  God, he hated it when the kid called him ‘bro.’ It grated on him like little else. But now was not the time.

  “Julian will handle it. In the meantime, I need a favor.”

  “Name it.”

  Carver used his sister’s scanner, uploaded the assailants’ passports, and sent them over the encrypted network. Then he held the line while Roth went to work crunching their identities.

  Ten minutes later, Roth was back. “Those passports were checked through Tokyo Narita
Airport a little over a week ago.”

  “Where to?”

  “Washington. Then they were checked again at Dulles yesterday morning for a flight en route to Las Vegas.”

  So the assailants had been in Washington when Brenner was killed. Maybe they had even been in the pub where they arrested him. If Roth was right that someone had killed Brenner by hacking into his insulin pump, what would stop them from hacking into Carver’s phone as well?

  “Good stuff, Arunus. What can you see prior to Tokyo? There was a customs stamp showing that they had flown into Beijing at some point.”

  “Weird. Nope. It’s like these passports didn’t even exist prior to that. Unless, of course, they came into Japan illegally.”

  Just as he had thought, the passports were fakes. This, coupled with the fact that they had been speaking Japanese even amongst each other, was just too strange to chalk it up to anything else.

  “Thanks, Arunus. Keep this to yourself, all right?”

  “Anytime, bro.”

  Carver disconnected and logged out.

  The assailants sounded Japanese. Looked Japanese. Were Japanese. Unfortunately, that meant Carver was back to square one. He had no idea who these people were or why they wanted him dead.

  The only thing he knew for sure was that he was exhausted. The frozen peas had thoroughly numbed his ear, and the absence of pain had made him sleepy. Duke’s rhythmic breathing was hypnotic. Carver’s own eyes grew heavy too.

  As he reclined on the couch, he heard the train pass through downtown, the predictable syncopation of its wheels against the tracks. Ch-ch-chaff. Ch-ch-chaff. Ch-ch-chaff. Everything. Everything. Everything.

  Flagstaff, Arizona

  Carver woke on the living room couch as night fell. All at once, his eyes shot open. The only illumination in his sister’s house was the blue light of the computer.

  Eri! In the madness of the past three days, he had neglected to call her back. And it just so happened that he needed her now. She worked for Japanese domestic intelligence, and as such, she might be able to pull up more information on his assailants.