by Ty Patterson
‘Hai.’ Harata bowed slightly and drew himself up proudly. ‘I am Hayagawa-gumi’s physician. Their finger maker. I have been serving them all their lives.’
Zeb was so intent on Hayagawa-gumi, the name on the plastic file, that he paid scant attention to the change in Harata’s tone. He didn’t heed the beast’s sudden yapping.
When the study’s door crashed open, he reacted swiftly, but he was behind the curve. So behind that, by the time his hand was reaching for the Glock, the Taser had reached his neck and thighs.
He lay writhing on the floor, watching helplessly, as a dark-haired man stepped into the room, followed by more yakuza.
He immediately recognized the lead yakuza, who bowed to him mockingly. ‘Noriya Shinoda, Carter-san. I have seen you a few times. I was the biker in London. Welcome to Hayagawa-gumi, the most dangerous yakuza gang in the world.’
Zeb twitched and trembled as a grinning yakuza turned him over and tied his hands and legs. He rolled him over onto his back, and Shinoda leaned over him in satisfaction.
‘You are a good opponent, Carter-san, but you made so many mistakes.’ Shinoda shook his head regretfully, as if genuinely unhappy that Zeb had been caught. ‘You should have known that we would be watching Harata-san’s house. That store opposite? That’s where we were.’
‘Take him to Okinawa,’ Shinoda ordered his men as he rose. ‘Keep him alive.’
He bought a boot crashing down on Zeb.
Chapter 40
Senior, Naoki Hayagawa, had insisted that Carter be kept alive. ‘He might prove useful,’ he had successfully persuaded Junior, Mineyuki.
Naoki had tried to make contact with Carter. He had gone out of his office one evening, figuring he would make a call to the number in the newspaper ad from a pay phone. It was then that he had spotted his tails.
Mineyuki has men watching me!
That presented a dilemma. Knowing his brother, he knew his house would be watched too. He might have bugged it. Bugged my phone and computers too. If I try to shake the tails or remove the bugs, he’ll be onto me.
There had to be another way, but none had presented itself, and he had waited in growing fear as Mineyuki’s men tried to capture Carter.
When Shinoda called to confirm Carter was in custody, Naoki saw that as his last chance. I can make some excuse to go interrogate him. Use that opportunity to seek his help.
The irony of it didn’t escape him. Carter was captured. He would be in Okinawa soon, in their safe house. He was beyond helping himself, let alone anyone. Still, it was a straw, and men as desperate as Naoki clutched at such faint glimmers of hope.
‘Is the kill team ready?’ he asked Mineyuki as he watched his brother play with a miniature katana on his desk.
‘Yes, brother.’ Mineyuki didn’t hide his sneer. ‘Soon, the woman will be killed and our threat will disappear.’
‘Will it go down according to our plan?’
‘Yes. Perhaps you should check on the various vehicles involved.’
Naoki took the hint and left his brother alone, his unease growing. He didn’t see the success that Mineyuki and their father, Masaaki Hayagawa, saw. He could only envision failure, and death, for himself.
Because it was clear to him that Mineyuki and his father seemed to be collaborating to sideline him. He had attempted to meet his father several times and had managed to secure just one meeting. He had accused the patriarch of favoritism. He had said the test was just a show, to demonstrate how impartial Masaaki was. In truth, Masaaki wanted Naoki to win.
His father had exploded in rage and had banished him from his office.
No, we might kill the gaijin woman and avert the danger, but I will die. Unless I can meet Carter and see if he can do something. I know Mineyuki. He will kill me as casually as he kills his other victims. That I am his brother has no meaning for him.
* * *
The object of Zeb’s thoughts was rudely brought to his consciousness when he rolled and crashed into an unmoving object.
Aircraft. Old one.
Its inside had been hollowed out and all the seats had been removed. There were dim lights hanging high above him that gave out a yellowish glow. Military plane, he worked out, once his awareness returned. The kind used to transport troops.
Okinawa has several American military bases. The Hayagawa-gumi could have bought a scrapped aircraft.
The fuselage was one long tube on the inside. Right at the front was the cockpit, and if he squinted, he could just about make out reddish lights and some figures.
He blinked rapidly and took stock of himself.
His body was one large mass of hurt. He had been tased before. All his crew, even the twins and Chloe, had been tased as part of their training. That experience didn’t make it any easier for the human body to recover. It looks like I was unconscious for some time. That helped.
There was something on his forehead that felt like dried blood. His lips were cracked and a tooth moved when he probed it with his tongue. His hands were bound behind him, and his ankles were secured.
No gun on his body. No knife or phone. All his gear was missing. His clothing was intact, as were his shoes.
Other than the pain, his limbs were working. That was important.
The throbbing of the plane’s engines reached him as the aircraft shuddered and groaned under the wind’s buffeting.
Am near one of the emergency exits. On the floor. Windows too high to see outside. He peered in the gloom, towards the front.
Two pilots. Two more men bending over them, talking softly. No one else in the aircraft. Just the five of them.
He tried to make the yakuza out, but it was too dark. What was his name? Shinoda? The lead killer didn’t seem to be in the aircraft, but Zeb couldn’t be sure.
As if the men felt his gaze, one of them turned to look in his direction. He closed his eyes and played possum as he felt the yakuza approach and stand over to him.
‘He’s still out,’ the yakuza called out to his men.
‘He might be dead. That was some kick Shinoda delivered.’
‘He’s alive. He’s breathing,’ the yakuza replied and re-joined his fellow gangsters. They conversed softly, their words indistinct. But one word made its way to Zeb’s ears.
University.
The events of the night came back to Zeb. Harata’s confession. Shinoda’s smirking face when Zeb was captured. Oyahashi’s call, earlier.
His insides tightened when he recollected the father’s message, and Meghan’s update.
That reporter, she fooled all of us, he couldn’t help marveling despite his circumstances. Didn’t even tell her dad.
The darknet might hold a clue to how the yakuza found out.
There was one more unanswered question. Why had the Hayagawa-gumi targeted Shira Levin and Theresa Leclair? There were simpler, less risky ways to head off the report’s publication.
He settled back against the cold fuselage and analyzed the previous night. Sectioned his memories into chunks of time and looked at each incident.
That file. It was the family file of the Hayagawas. There are only three of them. Father and two sons. Didn’t the file have four sheets?
That yakuza at the front…he said something about a university.
More pieces fell into place, and panic surged inside him.
I have to get away. But how?
He breathed shallowly, getting a grip on his fear, assessing all possible options. His back itched and he rubbed it against the aircraft’s body to relieve it.
Shirt! Trousers! Broker’s latest toys.
He tested his bonds feverishly. Nope. No give in them. However, if he twisted his wrists just so, he could reach the buttons on his cuffs.
He undid the button on his left cuff as quickly as he could. His fingers were cold and the lack of circulation made movement clumsy. But he persevered, and once the button was out, he plucked at the thread on the buttonhole.
The threading was designed
to give way easily, and he felt it unravel.
Look ahead. Yakuza still at the front. No one paying attention to him.
The fabric of the buttonhole parted. More desperate working of his fingers brought out the thin sliver of plastic that was concealed inside. It slipped from his fingers and he groped around on the floor.
There. He felt it, and he moved his body to give more access.
Got it.
The plastic was several inches long and less than a quarter of an inch wide. It was flexible and felt undistinguishable from the shirt’s cloth, if fingered from the outside.
If the thin strip was held at a particular angle, it became a blade. Like a sheet of paper turning into a weapon if rolled up tightly.
Zeb fumbled and grappled, trying to grip the strip correctly. He never cursed or swore, something inside him disliking the use of rude and crude language. However as he worked to free himself, he came close to swearing.
At last. He got the strip right and set it against the rope around his wrist. Rope. He sent a prayer of thanks to his Maker. If it had been plastic ties, his efforts would have been futile.
He sawed away carefully, in tiny movements, occasionally glancing towards the cockpit. He was left alone, the yakuza blissfully unaware of his attempts.
He didn’t know how much time passed. His fingers felt numb and he was sure he had cut himself several times.
Then the rope loosened. Adrenaline poured into him. Gave him renewed energy. Furious motions and the rope dropped off.
He closed his eyes, wiping his face carefully on the floor to remove sweat from his forehead.
One more look. No danger from the front.
He took a risk and sat up with difficulty. Flexed his wrists to allow circulation.
Searched for the strip. Found it, and set about freeing his feet.
A body turning at the front!
He fell to the floor and assumed his unconscious pose, watching through half-closed eyes. The yakuza didn’t look in his direction and resumed their conversation.
He got back to securing his release, the strip cutting through the thick rope like a knife slicing through butter. Or maybe it was just his imagination that gave the impression, since the bonds at his feet resisted.
He gritted his teeth, sweat pouring off his face, and moved his hand furiously till the first strand frayed and broke. The second and third soon followed, and he fell back to the floor, sucking lungfuls of air. Waking the beast for sudden, explosive action.
He pocketed the strip. It would come in handy. Could be used as a weapon.
He slid aside the heel of his right shoe, the way it was designed to slide. Removed the soft puttylike material from its inside. Shaped it like a cone and, after darting a look at the front, reached high and pressed it firmly against the window above him.
He put the heel back in position and removed the heel of his left shoe. Extracted something that had a circuit and a display panel. He jammed it in the side of the cone. Its position didn’t matter. Its function did.
The cone was a shaped charge, the circuit its detonator.
He closed his eyes for a few seconds and summoned the grey fog. It usually came when beckoned. Thankfully this was one of those moments.
The numerous aches fell away. The throbbing in his forehead and in his wrists and feet disappeared. The beast roared, and Zeb was ready.
He got to his feet, his eyes on the ticking display. Ten seconds to go. His movement got the attention of one of the yakuza.
He turned. Literally gaped, his mouth hanging open.
Nine seconds.
‘How high are we?’ Zeb asked.
‘What?’ the yakuza replied stupidly.
‘How high are we? It’s important.’
‘Twelve thousand feet.’
His blood sang in delight. At that height, the cabin wasn’t pressurized. No supplemental oxygen would be required for what followed next.
‘How far away are we?’
‘Five, six minutes,’ answered the yakuza automatically, not yet comprehending the vision in front of him.
Then he did.
’He’s free!’
Six seconds.
The second yakuza turned around. The pilot craned his neck to snap a glance.
Both yakuza reached beneath their jackets and brandished guns.
‘Don’t shoot.’ Zeb raised his hands and stepped away from the window. ‘You’ll make it worse.’
‘Don’t move! Make what worse?’
Anger. Fear. Puzzlement. All three emotions on the gangsters’ faces. Anger was the predominant one.
‘That,’ Zeb replied.
And the window blew out.
Chapter 41
The plastic explosive was so powerful that it created a man-sized hole in the fuselage. Sudden winds eddied through the aircraft, powerful gusts that sucked out loose material. Carpet fibers. Paper cups. A plastic tray.
There was no pressure differential between the outside and the inside, but still, the sudden explosion and the shrieking force of wind struck the aircraft hard.
It wobbled as the pilots lost control momentarily.
The yakuza slipped, tried to regain balance, and watched in horror as Zeb stepped out of the hole.
Wind flying at two hundred miles an hour grabbed him and pulled him down. The plane disappeared in a bank of clouds, and then he focused on his falling.
Hope it works. If it doesn’t, I’ll haunt Broker.
Thirty seconds of plunging at one hundred and twenty miles an hour. Cold air rushing against his face and body. Flattening his cheeks. Making him shiver and tremble.
Dark night. Clouds scattering past. Darkness beneath. Not darkness, but the vast expanse of water that was the Pacific Ocean. Something darker to his right. A large landmass.
Okinawa Island.
He twisted his body so that he was horizontal, belly to the water, and then he felt his shirt ripping off.
He laughed in relief as the layers, Broker’s invention, worked.
One layer turned into straps that tightened around his upper body.
Another couple of layers ballooned out above him and turned into a parachute. His body stopped its freefall abruptly and slowed to a gentle swaying. Fifteen miles an hour. A gradual descent.
Yet another layer in the shirt swelled and formed a warm jacket around him. His jeans ripped up and two giant balloons curved and wrapped his legs.
Parachute above his head. Warm jacket around his body. Safety, designed by Broker.
He looked up at the white fabric above him, attached to the shirt by deceptively thin strips, everything held together by firm stitching, and buttons snug in their buttonholes.
‘Don’t go by the appearance,’ he remembered Broker telling him as they had watched the clothing at work in a NASA wind tunnel.
‘The fabric can withstand ten times the forces and pressure anyone will experience in a HALO, HAHO, or skydive. Those buttons will stay attached to the shirt and the threading won’t rip.’
‘How does it work?’ Zeb had asked, and Broker had launched into an enthusiastic description. Zeb had tuned out, but he remembered something to do with speed.
The speed of wind would be the trigger that would unwrap the chute and the protective jacket. The fabric was similar to that used in satellites. Not just cloth, but some unique combination that would remain intact despite the horrendous speed and force of gravity working on it.
I might hug him. That will embarrass him, but gladden him.
He filed the thought away and looked below. The landmass seemed to be four miles away. That was sheer, dumb luck. He could swim that distance. If he had been further away, he didn’t know what he would have done.
I would have hoped and prayed for a ship or a trawler to find me. Or my crew, who would track me through the GPS in my shoes.
He could imagine the scene in his New York office. Werner would have alerted everyone that he was in freefall, somewhere over Okinawa. They woul
d be making calls. They would be tense. Anxious.
The protocol was that twenty-four hours had to elapse before they took any decisive action. That gave the affected team member enough time to take corrective action.
If the GPS showed no movement after one full day, if no contact was made, the crew would swing into motion. They would expect the worst and would be intent on wreaking vengeance.
They’ll raze Tokyo to the ground. Better that I rescue myself.
The ocean was warm when he splashed into it after his slow descent. Seventy degrees. He landed awkwardly and numbed his left shoulder immediately.
All his training hadn’t prepared him for jumping out of a plane with nothing but the clothing on his body and dropping in the Pacific Ocean.
He set out slowly towards land, the chute slowing him down. Don’t remove it, had been Broker’s explicit warning. It’s a safety device.
He could see why. The chute gave off a phosphorescent glow when it came in contact with water. A greenish hue spread in the water around it. The glow and the dye would be a beacon for search parties.
He tired soon, however, fatigue creeping up on him. The intensity of his fights, the yakuza attacks, the constant moving around taking their toll.
He thought he was two miles away from the shore. Thought he could see lights in the distance. But his body was giving up.
He was mortal. The beast relied needed him to be alive for it to function.
Maybe this was one mission too many. His hands flagged. His eyes started to close. In his mind, he could see two pairs of eyes. His wife’s and his son’s.
I’m coming, he said, and Zeb Carter slipped into darkness.
* * *
Makito Nakai steered his trawler through the ocean as he eyed the lights of Okinawa Island. It had been a good night for fishing. His hold was full of snappers, Taman, and various other smaller and larger fish. His looked behind him at a shout.
Toshio, his eleven-year-old son, was pointing and waving. Makito waved back and turned to his wheel. His son had done well. He had helped with the nets and the unloading of the fish. He had even steered the trawler for some time while Makito had dived to free the net that had stuck in some debris. His son would be a great fisherman one day, but Makito wanted much more for him. Toshio would go to Tokyo—
