by Ty Patterson
It bought him time, which was what the water jets and fake explosions were designed to do.
His first burst took the lead attackers flush in the face. Always the face, never the body, since they too could have been wearing armor like him.
The remaining attackers were good. Very fast. They realized the noise was just that, noise. They moved away from his line of fire and out of the reach of the jets.
One of them raised his gun, thought better of it when he saw Zeb kicking out with his feet and moving several inches. He wouldn’t have time to change his aim. Zeb could shoot him.
He lunged, a sliver of light catching the gleaming blade in his hand.
Zeb threw his now-empty Glock at the fourth attacker and kicked out with his left leg.
Knife Man stabbed at the flying leg. Missed. Last attacker moved further to get a better angle. Raised his gun to end the fight before it had even started.
Zeb’s right hand scrabbled, made contact with a chair, and heaved. The wooden structure flew and crashed into the gunman. He went down. His weapon clattered.
Then Knife Man was on top of Zeb.
Hands seeking purchase. Slipping and sliding on wet skin and clothing. Harsh breathing. Intent eyes, dark, narrowed, locked on each other. Zeb locked on his knife arm, grappling desperately. Something fell away. It felt like a digit. He’s cut himself.
Knife Man’s breath whooshed out, but he persisted with a wicked strike. Zeb parried it. Finish it fast. Gunman will rise soon.
‘Don’t shoot! I want him alive!’ he roared at a nonexistent person. A dummy move.
Knife Man fell for it. He hesitated for a moment. A second was all Zeb needed.
His fingers arrowed and gouged into Knife Man’s eyes. A second strike finished him.
Zeb didn’t stop moving. He wrenched the blade away from the dying man and threw it at the gunman who was rising.
He followed it up by throwing a coffee table, rushed, and kicked away the man’s gun. The attacker didn’t give up.
He started drawing his blade, at which Zeb dropped on him, his knee bent. His full weight behind his fall.
Fourth man down.
Movement at the door.
Grab gunman’s weapon. Dive. Turn around.
Fire a burst without aiming.
A fifth masked man at the door. Disappearing.
Zeb went cautiously to the door. No sign of the masked man. He went down the stairs, the weapon ready and primed in his hands.
The man was not in the building.
He returned to the hallway to find the couple staring at him in shock.
‘Stay inside,’ he told them. They obeyed without a word.
He went back to his apartment and turned off the water jets. He reset the player that had the explosions on it. He loaded his Glock and wiped his hands against his jeans.
Less than ten minutes of intense action.
Four dead bodies and not a single captive to reveal anything.
A typical day in the life of a Special Forces operative.
Chapter 24
His crew came rushing in twenty minutes after he briefed them. The NYPD arrived ten minutes later, led by Chang and Pizaka.
He cleaned up as best as he could, before they arrived. He turned off the water, which was now an inch deep in his living room and had spilled over to the hallway. He lifted a floor tile beneath which was a drain. Underneath which was a motor. The motor kicked in silently and rapidly sucked away the water.
He didn’t touch the bodies.
The punctured milk jug went in the trash can, as did the groceries. Guess I’ll have to make another visit to the store. Small things to remind himself that he was alive. If the water and explosions hadn’t delayed the attackers, he would be dead.
Bwana, Bear, and Roger were the first to enter his apartment, their faces tight in anger. They ghosted out when he told them one attacker had escaped. He knew they would search the street, question people. It would be futile, but it would be an outlet for their fury.
Meghan was less restrained. ‘We told you so many times. Remove your name from the apartment’s records,’ she blazed at him when she entered, her sister behind her, then Chloe, and lastly, Broker.
Zeb raised a hand in acknowledgment. He didn’t want to get into another argument. His team brought up the topic every now and then, and he stubbornly resisted. I need to be a target. Otherwise my enemies will keep hunting, might find them, and go after them.
He had tried explaining it to them and he knew they got it. They just didn’t want to accept it.
‘You think we don’t know the risks?’ the women had shouted at him once, red-faced in rage.
‘You do. But I don’t want to lose any of you.’
‘And what about us losing you?’
‘I am already lost.’
Chang and Pizaka arrived at the tail end of the argument, several cops behind them. Chang flicked each of them an expressionless glance and bent over the bodies. He toed a gun and Knife Man’s weapon.
‘Why’s the floor wet?’ Pizaka stepped gingerly, not wanting the shine on his shoes to spoil.
‘Water. Zeb didn’t elaborate.
‘From where? Your bathroom’s ways away. As is your kitchen.’
‘He’s got concealed vents all over the place, Pizaka,’ Meghan answered impatiently. ‘Don’t touch that wall. He’s probably electrified it.’
Pizaka jumped back, at which Meghan sniggered and Chloe smiled. Beth’s eyes were still furious, but her lips twitched.
Zeb exhaled silently in relief. I’d rather go another round with those attackers than face their wrath.
‘So what’s the story?’ Chang asked, hands on his hips, observing the byplay.
Zeb broke it down for them as they all stepped away and let the NYPD’s team get on with their job.
‘Chinese, Japanese, or South East Asian killers,’ Pizaka pointed with an elegant shoe. ‘The London killers were Southeast Asian too. Shira Levin’s probable assassins were Vietnamese. You see a pattern?’
‘We’re not blind, Pizaka,’ Broker growled.
‘We questioned several Triads members,’ Pizaka continued blithely. Insults and sneers bounced off him. ‘As you can imagine, they first denied being part of any organized crime gang. Then they denied involvement in any killing.’
‘We’ll do the usual here,’ Chang commented morosely. ‘Run their prints and DNA. Check cameras. I know what we’ll get. A big fat zero.
‘There something you aren’t telling us? An operation you, the Mossad, and the other intelligence agencies have been involved with? Against such gangs?’ Chang directed the question at Zeb. Pointedly.
‘Nope. None that come to mind.’
‘As if he’d tell,’ said Pizaka, sotto voce.
‘We would, Pizaka.’ Beth sighed. ‘There’s no benefit to us in keeping any such operation under wraps. We’re all under attack.’
‘It could be the North Koreans,’ Chang voiced. He meant it as a joke, but then he saw everyone’s faces. ‘I was just—’
‘First sensible thing you’ve said, Chang.’ Beth pulled out her tablet and fired several commands at Werner.
‘Zeb, what do you…?’
Zeb didn’t pay attention to her. His eyes were on the Knife Man’s digit. He had cut himself while attacking Zeb.
That’s what I thought initially. Zeb crouched and picked up the digit with thumb and forefinger when a NYPD technician gave his permission. It’s not flesh. It’s a prosthetic fingertip. For his smallest finger. Left-hand finger.
‘They’re not North Korean,’ he said, rising, ‘or Chinese, or from any of the Southeast Asian countries.’
‘Any tatts on the London killers?’ He passed the tip to Meghan, who inspected it and gave it to her twin.
‘No,’ Meghan answered after thinking back. ‘I made it a point to ask Sir Alex. No gang tatts. Why do you ask? Why are you so sure they aren’t Southeast Asian?’
Something else clicked i
n Zeb’s mind. Patterns, Bear said. Four. The number four.
‘Theresa Leclair was killed four days after Shira’s execution. Susan Thompson was attacked four days after Theresa’s death. Four. Pattern.’
‘Will you just get to it, Zeb?’ Chloe stomped her feet, grinning to take the sting out of her words.
‘Oh no. Let the Wise One revel in his moment of glory. He has so few of them,’ Beth groused.
‘The number four is considered unlucky in several Asian cultures. China, for one. But not China alone. Japan too. And then that fingertip. It’s called—’
‘Yubitsume,’ Broker finished for him. ‘A ritual in which a gang member cuts off the tip of his little finger. Done to appease another gang member, a senior, who he has offended.’
Meghan clicked her fingers in dawning comprehension.
‘Yakuza!’
Chapter 25
Zeb was on the Gulfstream the next day, heading to Tokyo.
Overnight, phone lines had burned as his team and the NYPD had shared updates with the Mossad, MI6 and the French secret service.
Yakuza. Sir Alex said he hadn’t considered that angle. Neither had Levin or Mandel Leclair. There had been joint operations against organized crime. The yakuza were organized crime. Excitement crept into all their voices. They promised to get back with details of all operations.
By the time Zeb boarded the aircraft, there was more intel. A snuff film ring had been busted in California. A drug trafficking gang had been taken down in Tokyo. An Indonesian terrorist gang had been stopped as they were planning to bomb a Jakarta nightclub.
All those operations had yakuza connections. In all of them, the Mossad, MI6, and the French and the American agencies had collaborated. The yakuza had suffered severe losses. There were rumors that they had vowed vengeance on the intelligence agencies.
The problem is, which Yakuza gang? Or have they all come together?
The yakuza weren’t one homogenous gang. Just like the Chinese Triads, the name yakuza was given to criminal syndicates whose origins went back centuries.
The early recruits to such gangs were tekiya, gamblers, and bakuto, street peddlers who sold fake goods. In the strongly hierarchical society that was Japan, these people were seen as the lowest of the low. Misfits. Outcasts.
In fact, the word yakuza itself meant ‘good for nothing.’ The word came from a Japanese card game similar to blackjack. A hand of eight, nine, and three was a losing hand and was referred to as yakuza.
The yakuza gangs started to organize themselves as they grew, taking on responsibility for protection of markets stalls, allocation of such stalls, and collection of rent for the stalls. The gangs became larger, became clans and families, and demanded the utmost loyalty from their members. They diversified into blackmail, extortion, gun running, sex trade, and killing.
The parent-child relationship transferred to the gangs. At the top was the kumicho, the overall boss, who had senior advisors, the saiko komon. Then there were the second-in-commands, the local bosses, the parent-child relationship, the family structure, reflecting in each level of the gang down to the street soldiers.
Yakuza gangs had elaborate rituals to emphasize the structure and code of conduct. Such as the sakazuki ceremony, the sharing of sake.
It was a highly theatrical initiation event at which an oyabun, a father, poured sake in a cup for the kobun, the child, and one for himself. The two would then drink from each other’s cups, and this signified the kobun had joined the oyabun’s clan, his yakuza gang.
It wasn’t just anyone who could join the gang. Would-be members had to go to secretive camps where they were trained in martial arts, the basics of business, and meditation. They were given tests, and only those who passed got rewarded with the sakazuki ceremony.
The yubitsume was another ritual, and then there were the tatts. The body art too, was highly stylized and intricate. Gang members got themselves inked not just to demonstrate loyalty but also to indicate their toughness. The tattooing was a highly painful process, using toxic inks, and those who went all the way to get a full ‘body suit’ were the elite.
As the country had progressed and transformed, so too had the yakuza gangs. The rituals became less elaborate. The prosthetic fingertips appeared on gang members’ fingers to make it more difficult for them to be identified.
The gangs branched out into white-collar crime. They funded politicians and built a nexus with political parties. They occupied board positions and pressured companies into making payments to ‘charities.’ All done politely, with respect, to save face and honor for the victims.
The gangs hadn’t gone underground as society had modernized. Sure, the guns had disappeared out of sight, and swords came out only on ceremonial occasions. But the gangs operated in the open. Many of them had offices in business districts, and all of them did charitable work. Many of them registered themselves with the police; after all, joining a yakuza gang wasn’t illegal in Japan.
The killings became less frequent. But they didn’t disappear. At their hearts, the yakuza were still criminal gangs, and sometimes blood had to be shed.
Zeb landed at Tokyo’s Narita International when it was growing dark. He had a backpack with him, and a carry bag, one of the few occasions he had extra luggage. The carry bag had some new toys that Broker had been experimenting with.
No Glocks or knives. Japan had strict gun laws, and while Zeb had all the necessary permits, he didn’t want to draw attention to himself. He knew people, trusted people, who could supply him with weapons.
He hailed a cab and told the driver his address. The driver’s eyes met his in the mirror, astonished.
‘For a gaijin, you speak very good Japanese,’ the driver exclaimed. ‘How did you learn it?’
‘I lived here’—he eyed the driver’s name on the dangling plastic card—‘Chiba-san. For a few years.’
The driver grinned toothily and chattered away, asking about Zeb, where he had come from, where he was going.
‘I have a meeting with the police, the Tokyo Metropolitan Police.’
Chiba’s smile faded. ‘Business, Carter-san?’
‘Yes. Business.’
* * *
Keishicho, the Tokyo Metropolitan Police, were headquartered in the Kasumigaseki district in Tokyo, an area where most of the country’s cabinet ministries were located.
The building was a short walk from Zeb’s hotel, and he set off the next day, joining throngs of office workers hurrying, many of them in suits, clutching briefcases and dodging slower-moving people.
Kasumigaseki, in Tokyo’s center, was like any midtown in the world. Tall buildings. Most of them glass-fronted. What differed was the sense of order and neatness in the city compared to Western ones. People lined up for buses. There was no raucous yelling. The city was clean, with little of the litter seen in its counterparts.
Zeb, dressed in his usual loose tee, tucked into a pair of jeans, and sneakers, towered over most people. He entered the police headquarters and gave his name to the visitors’ desk, where he was given a badge. A suited man bowed to him and led him to the basement.
Zeb wondered for a moment if Shizuya Nishikawa, Superintendent General of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police, the police chief, had moved his office to the lower level. Then he remembered. It was just past eleven. It was Nishikawa’s time for asageiko, training, in the basement dojo that the police had.
The police officer took Zeb past a large wooden-floored training room in which several police officers were performing their moves. He opened a side door and gestured for Zeb to enter. He didn’t utter a single word. Probably thinks I can’t speak the language.
The side door opened into a hallway. A short walk, and another door opened into a smaller training room. Dark wood on the floor. Bright lights. High ceiling. Several armored police officers, paired up and practicing kendo, sword fighting with bamboo swords.
The police officer bowed and left. Nishikawa is somewhere out there in one of
those pairs. These are the higher exponents. He’s kyoshi, seventh dan, and also a master of kendo. He would be here. Kyoshi was the second highest ranking, with Hanshi being at the top.
On the walls were racks of equipment. Shinai, bamboo swords, were neatly mounted on one rack. On a sidewall were parts of the bogu, body armor that kendoka wore while training. There was the men, the mask that protected the face, the kote, for covering hand and forearms, the do, for protecting the torso, and the tare, groin and leg protectors.
Zeb observed for a long while, aware that several police officers gave him sideways glances. No one approached him, however. A pair of fighters broke off and one of the kendoka looked his away. He spoke softly to his training partner, who bowed and approached Zeb.
‘Carter-san, do you want to practice?’ he asked in fluent English.
It’s not a request. Nishikawa’s way of honoring me.
Zeb practiced regularly in New York. Their office had a dojo, where he and his team trained for an hour each day. In addition, he went to another dojo every week. Kendo, kenjutsu, shinkendo—he practiced several styles.
He went to a wall and grabbed various parts of the armor and went to a changing room. He selected a sword from the rack and went to where the kendoka was waiting. It was Nishikawa. He could see his smile through the slats of his mask as he went closer.
Nishikawa bowed and Zeb reciprocated. The two men assumed the fighting stance and then Nishikawa attacked.
A fast jab to the face, so fast that Zeb could parry it only at the last instant. A murmur ran through the watchers, and when Zeb snuck a glance, he saw all the police officers had lined up against the wall. The dojo’s floor was clear, but for him and Nishikawa. Wanting to see how their chief deals with the gaijin.
That momentary glance proved to be a mistake as Nishikawa struck again in a series of feints and deceptive moves. He moved like a ballet dancer, his robe rustling, his voice loud at each strike. Zeb went on the defensive, his bamboo sword whirring in the air, doing just enough to avoid a strike.
