by Ty Patterson
He scattered the photographs on the water and sent them floating towards the yakuza facing him. They bobbed gently, moving in the ripples, some of them turning. Several eyes went to them. No one picked them up. No one touched them.
‘Gaijin thinks he is a hero.’ A short, squat man, eyes unblinking. Not bothering to look at a photograph that was against his chest. ‘Heroes die. As he will, today. We have to decide if it is here, in the water, or outside.’
‘Hai,’ the rest murmured.
So, I was right. They have been ordered to kill me. A deep satisfaction filled him despite the thick tension in the bath. I am on the right track. The yakuza are involved. If they weren’t, some of them would have burst into my room. Roughed me up and sent me packing. Killing means someone is panicking.
He bowed to the speaker. Deeply. ‘Gaijin knows he will die.’
He felt the shock race through the yakuza, many of them looking at each other. Gaijin could speak their language. Fluently.
‘But gaijin is happy. You have confirmed gaijin’s suspicions. Those dead men are yakuza. There is no other reason you have been asked to kill me.’
The skin around the squat yakuza’s eyes tightened. His lips compressed. But he didn’t speak.
‘There are thirty of you. One of me. You will easily kill me. But before doing so, won’t you hear why you have been ordered to kill me?’
No one responded.
‘Those yakuza killers tried to kill a woman. One who had no connection to you. To your gangs. Nothing. She was clean. She was a civilian.’
He described the attempt on Sarah Thompson. He spoke about Shira Levin’s execution. The beheading. He watched the impassive faces as he narrated. He thought he saw something move in some of the listeners’ eyes. Maybe it was anger. Or sympathy. He wasn’t sure. Or it could be nothing, just his imagination.
He talked about Theresa Leclair’s killing, and when he was finished, he waited for any of them to speak. No one did.
‘I thought the yakuza didn’t go after civilians,’ he taunted. ‘Those three women—they had nothing to do with your gangs. If you wanted to attack their fathers, why didn’t you go after them?
‘What happened to the yakuza honor?’
A deafening silence.
‘Did those killers belong to your clan?’
No one replied.
‘Your orders are to kill me. But I will give you a choice. One that will save your face and leave with honor.
‘I will fight any one of you. Your toughest fighter. If I win, I leave. Alive. You can tell your kumicho there was no honor in killing me, after what you heard.’
‘And what if you lose?’ the yakuza challenged him.
‘Then you kill me.’
A ripple of surprise and shock went through the yakuza.
The yakuza turned their heads as one and looked at the short man, who seemed to be their leader. His face was stony. ‘We don’t disobey orders. That’s the yakuza code. Even if they are wrong.’
He’s acknowledging they are wrong?
‘I challenged you. You had to defend your honor. In any case, your best fighter will kill me, won’t he?’ he mocked.
The squat man didn’t react for a long time and then nodded abruptly. He brushed past Zeb without acknowledging him and climbed out. The rest of the yakuza followed.
Zeb grabbed a towel from a pile of freshly laundered ones and wiped himself dry. He drew on his jeans and followed the gangsters to a side room. A training room, a dojo.
It was less elaborately laid out than Keishicho’s. No racks on the wall. The wooden floor was scuffed. But there were shinai in a corner, and another corner had bokken, wooden swords.
Zeb wiped his feet dry on a mat and went to the center of the dojo while the yakuza lined up against the walls.
The squat man didn’t come forward. A taller yakuza did, the same height as Zeb. Same flat eyes as the rest of the gangsters. Zeb thought he saw bullet wounds on his torso, but the ink concealed any detail.
Zeb bowed low and the next moment he was on the ground, when an elbow rammed into his neck.
‘Not a training fight, gaijin,’ the yakuza said hoarsely, amusement leaking out of him, as Zeb rolled out of his stamping feet and rose.
The fight was fast and brutal.
The yakuza used a marriage of styles, wicked strikes and punches and flying kicks. The last, the kicks, were murderous. Hollywood made a big deal of flying kicks, but in reality, when it was a matter of life and death, experienced fighters didn’t go for them. They left the body exposed, for prolonged moments of time.
The yakuza had no such qualms. He rose in the air when Zeb was on the back foot, when he couldn’t attack. His leg usually smashed into Zeb’s side or head, like a concrete pillar.
Ten minutes later, Zeb was bleeding. His eyebrow was split. His lips had cracked. A fingernail had ripped out.
But he was alive. He was still moving well. He felt confident. The yakuza was good. Very good. But he hadn’t been through what Zeb had.
Zeb stepped back from a lightning-fast exchange of punches and took a breather.
The yakuza didn’t need a breather. He came low on the ground, feinted, and when Zeb evaded, his left leg swung out and kicked Zeb’s legs from underneath.
Zeb fell on his back, and before he could roll to safety, the yakuza was on him.
Then he wasn’t, when Zeb smashed an elbow to his face, followed it up with curled fingers to a jab to the ribs. The yakuza grunted in shock but didn’t let up on the attacks.
He rained blows on Zeb’s head and throat, many of them connecting, dimming Zeb’s vision.
The beast usually came to Zeb’s rescue. Filled him with extra adrenaline and lent speed to his punches and moves. This time it didn’t. You brought this on yourself, it seemed to mock. Deal with it. Zeb did.
Zeb gritted his teeth and held his hands protectively over his head. A defensive pose, but then he turned it into offense. He reared up and head-butted the looming yakuza. His curled knuckles broke the yakuza’s nose and he drew blood.
A gasp spread through the room. The yakuza had been confident their man could overcome the gaijin. Now their man was bleeding. Sure, the gaijin was hurt too, but he was still fighting.
The fighter drew away to make room.
And Zeb rose off the ground.
A Tibetan move that a few monks used to defend themselves. That a Brazilian master had turned into an attacking one. From prone, on the ground, using the left hand and the left leg to raise himself. Using a concentrated burst of chi to focus and fly several feet.
Body twisting and turning. Right leg sweeping out in an arc. Chi flowing down his limbs, turning the leg into a hammer.
Hammer catching the yakuza’s ribs at the height of its arc. The fighter’s chest visibly caving. And then the yakuza was falling, groaning loudly. Zeb landed on his side. Rolled swiftly and pounced on the yakuza.
Applied a judo lock and squeezed inexorably, a move that would snap the yakuza’s neck if he didn’t surrender.
The yakuza gave up, one hand flailing helplessly, a palm slamming on the floor repeatedly in the gesture of surrender.
Zeb let off immediately and stepped back. He bowed to the watching gangsters, aware of the excited whispering. He turned to the squat man and bowed and then went back to the fallen yakuza.
He gripped him beneath the shoulders and helped him to his feet. He half-carried him to a bench, several yakuza coming to his aid. The fighter lay on the bench, steady moans pouring from him.
Zeb felt his ribs and winced inwardly. It looked bad. ‘He needs a doctor. Immediately. His lungs could be punctured.’ He directed his words to the squat man.
The yakuza issued a string of orders, and several yakuza leapt to respond. They dressed rapidly and in no time had carried their man away.
‘You should leave.’ The short yakuza was unyielding, his face a mask.
‘Were those killers from your gang?’
‘You sh
ould leave.’ No inflection in the yakuza’s voice. Just that sphinxlike expression.
‘Which gang do you belong to?’
The yakuza’s finger shot out and pointed to the door.
‘Can I bathe first?’
The yakuza searched his face to see if Zeb had a hidden intent.
He nodded after a while and left with several gangsters following him.
Zeb undressed again and went to one of the stalls. He sat down on a stool with a sigh, aware of several gangsters observing him. No one entered the bath. The photographs had disappeared. A few men went to neighboring stalls and washed themselves.
There was quiet talking which he couldn’t catch. He didn’t sense any threat. Honor, he thought. They’ll respect their leader’s word. They won’t attack me. Not tonight.
He sat for a long time, pouring warm water over his body, letting the various aches and bruises settle. The bleeding from various cuts had stopped. He knew he wasn’t damaged in any serious way. He underestimated me. He was too eager. He was good, however. Those kicks—a few more, and I would have been a goner.
He didn’t know how long he was in the stall. He came back to the present when a stool creaked in the stall next to him and he heard the sounds of washing.
He looked behind him. There was no one else in the bath.
His Glock winked at him. His clothing was undisturbed.
‘Gaijin.’
His head snapped to face the next stall. He stared at the wooden partition. Wet from thousands of baths. Drops of water streaming down.
‘You conducted yourself well. You were right. We were ordered to kill you.’
The voice was low. Zeb had to strain himself to hear the words.
‘You gave us an out. It won’t be easy for the oyabun’—he means the short yakuza—‘but he can defend himself. There was honor involved.’
‘Who are you?’ Zeb demanded.
‘Be happy you are alive, gaijin.’ The yakuza seemed to chuckle. ‘Maybe what you are seeking isn’t here.’
His next words sent a chill through Zeb.
‘Maybe what’s behind the killing is something bigger.’
Chapter 28
‘You what?’ Shinoda stared at his cell in disbelief. ‘You let him get away?’
The voice at the other end was calm, unruffled. It explained what had happened in the bath.
‘You had orders,’ Shinoda hissed. ‘Your kumicho asked you to kill him. The gaijin was not supposed to leave the bath alive.’
‘I will deal with my kumicho,’ the voice retorted. ‘I had told him killing the gaijin was dangerous. And certainly not in the bath. There will be other opportunities to kill him.’
‘You had him in your hands. Now we have to look for other openings,’ Shinoda raged.
‘There was no honor.’
‘What about your word to your kumicho?’ Shinoda yelled.
‘My self-respect is more important.’ The voice was cold and the caller hung up.
Shinoda flung his phone in his car and leaned back in his seat. He calmed himself. Clear thinking was important. He didn’t give any more thought to the short yakuza. The matter was between him and his kumicho. Not Shinoda’s problem.
He retrieved his phone and made another call. Yes, his man confirmed. Carter hadn’t checked out of his hotel. In fact, he was approaching the hotel. Right now. The watcher could see him. His face seemed to be bruised, but he looked okay.
‘Stay on watch,’ Shinoda ordered.
‘Hai.’
Shinoda thought for a moment about taking Carter out in his hotel. He rejected the idea immediately. Carter would be ready. He would be primed. A hotel was too public a place, anyway.
No, Carter would have to be dealt with differently.
He made another call, to Junior. It wasn’t one he was looking forward to.
Not my fault, he told himself. If that other gang had taken care of Carter, this situation wouldn’t have arisen.
* * *
Senior got word of the bath incident through his network, before Junior told him. He listened with a bland expression as his brother summed it up for him.
‘He got away. We should talk to that other gang. Ask their kumicho why their yakuza disobeyed orders.’
‘I will talk to him,’ Senior told his brother.
Junior acquiesced. He was in a dark mood. It wouldn’t do for him to question the other gang. He was likely to lose his temper. Hot words weren’t good when the alliance was uneasy. Senior was better at these diplomatic exchanges.
Senior made a perfunctory call to the kumicho. The kumicho apologized profusely and said he had lost face. His men had disobeyed him but had said they couldn’t carry out the order when the gaijin challenged him.
He would ask the leader to perform yubitsume.
‘That isn’t necessary.’ Senior swallowed his irritation. Yubitsume. So pointless when the deed was done. The past stopped these folks from moving on. ‘Did he say anything to your people? Any clues? Like what he would be doing next? Where he would be going?’
‘No,’ the kumicho replied. ‘He fought with my best man. Defeated him.’ The kumicho seemed to be amused.
‘You do realize the seriousness of this, don’t you?’ Senior chided him. ‘This man could wreck everything.’
‘I am not worried.’ The kumicho’s voice was softer than silk. ‘After all, it was your father’s idea.’
He’s saying it’s our problem. Not his. Senior thanked the kumicho and hung up. He looked up at the ceiling, which was painted sky blue and had stars and constellations in it. One could learn a lot about the stars by studying the ceiling.
Senior didn’t let stars define his future. Lately he had been getting different vibes from Junior and his father. Are they planning to cut me out?
Terror seized him when he thought about Junior. He likes cutting his people. Maybe he would kill me. He knew Junior had no great affection for him, just like he didn’t have any great love for his younger brother. They worked as professionals, but that was really it.
Junior will kill me in a second if it can further him.
For the first time, the stars gave him a clue.
Maybe Carter isn’t my enemy.
* * *
The object of his thinking had moved hotels.
Zeb had left the bath after finding the stall next to him empty. He had dressed swiftly and exited cautiously. He knew the yakuza would be on the street, hunting him.
He figured they would have watchers at the hotel too. Heck, the staff could be their informants.
He disguised himself once back at the hotel. Dyed his hair black. Wore a mustache. Contacts to turn his eyes black. Cheek pads to make his face look fleshier. An armored vest over his upper body. Another on top. Finally, a layered shirt. Broker had sent enough of those.
He eyed himself in the mirror. He looked flabbier. Asian enough. He bundled his belongings swiftly and replaced all pointers to his identity in his wallet.
He became Motoshi Suda, a traveling salesman with an office supplies firm in Tokyo.
He peered out of his room and, when the hallway was empty, went to the elevators wearing a baseball cap over his head. Lots of baseball caps in Japan. It wouldn’t stand out.
He punched the button for the elevator and went two floors down. There, he switched to the service elevator that took him to the staff area.
He bowed as he came across uniformed servers and hotel employees. Not meeting anyone’s eyes. That too was normal. He went through the kitchen, past clanging pots and pans, shouted orders, and the smells of vegetable fat and cooking.
He ducked into a locker room where staff changed from their street clothes into hotel uniforms. A man and a woman were changing after finishing their shift.
He went to an empty locker and made a show of putting his duffel inside.
‘There’s no shift starting now. How come you are here?’ the man addressed him.
‘I am a new joinee,’ Zeb stuttered
deliberately. A newcomer would be nervous. He would bow. Zeb bowed. ‘The oyabun asked me to come today. He will show me around.’
His answer satisfied the couple, who went back to talking about their day. They left after locking their storage boxes, which Zeb cut using a tool from his bag of tricks.
He swiftly removed the man’s uniform and slipped it over his clothing.
Cap low over his head, he exited the hotel.
Once on the street, he donned a pair of shades. These weren’t available in any store. The brand was, but not the specific ones Zeb wore.
Broker had hollowed out their stems and, in a feat of engineering, had installed two wireless cameras that looked to the rear. He had replaced the lenses with special ones. The cameras displayed their feed on a section of the lenses, giving the wearer a rear view.
Shades became an antisurveillance device.
No one seemed to take any interest in a hotel employee walking away from work.
Zeb went to the subway station. The Hibiya line went direct from Kasumigaseki to Roppongi, where Zeb alighted. It was another district in Tokyo famed for its nightlife. Clubs, bars, several museums. Many of them Japanese-owned, but not all of them. There were Nigerian-run establishments, Eastern European stripper bars.
Zeb knew the yakuza were active in the district. What better than to hide in plain sight?
He went to a seedy motel, paid in cash, and booked a room for the night. From then on, he would be on the move constantly, never staying at the same place for more than two nights.
‘Werner’s running through all those faces,’ Beth told him when he called his office once he had settled in the room.
They had received the feed from his watch and were running facial recognition programs on the yakuza, to determine which gang they belonged to.
‘You can’t make out from the ink?’
‘Trying that too.’ She was still stiff. Angry. They had all given him an earful when he had called. Accused him of being reckless, even though they accepted he didn’t have many options.
‘I was thinking. Shira’s kill was with a blade. Could be a katana. Theresa Leclair’s killing was an elaborate movie set. At least two of the yakuza gangs have investments in big-name Hollywood studios. And their porn and snuff movie business. There were pointers all along.’
