She smiles back, half-confused, half-bemused. “Right…”
I hold up one of the Raptors. “Now imagine that same person has just been given a bottle of whiskey.”
She holds my gaze for a moment. Then her expression softens. She smiles. “I understand what you’re saying.”
“I… we … have to wage war on a family of Yakuza. On their turf. That isn’t a choice for us, Ruby. It’s the difference between life and death. Simple as that. Now, factor in that crazy bitch, Miley, who has managed to give me a thirst for violence so bad, I can’t remember a time when I felt like this. So, yeah, I’m scared. Scared of who I’ll become. Scared I won’t be able to quit again.”
She takes the gun from my hand. Lays it on the sofa behind her. She holds my hand and squeezes gently.
“Look at me,” she says.
I stare into her eyes.
“You have my word, Adrian. I won’t let that happen to you. We’re in this together. We’ll finish it together. Then we’ll get back on the wagon together. Do you hear me?”
I nod. “Yeah, I hear you. Thank you.”
…
…
…
Uh-oh.
It’s gone silent, and we’re still staring at each other. My heartrate has picked up again. I think hers has as well. It doesn’t feel awkward, but I’m suddenly very aware of how restless and vulnerable I am.
“Can I… ask you something?” says Ruby.
“Um, sure.”
“Back at the club, before Ichiro rescued us… it didn’t look great for us, did it?”
“Heh… not really, no.”
“We were both convinced we were about to die.”
“Yeah.”
“And… well… it got a little tense there for a second. Between us.”
“Yeah, I guess it did.”
“Adrian, what you said to me… did you mean it?”
I take a breath. Stare into her eyes. Examine her face, taking in every inch of her.
“Every damn word.”
She smiles. So do I. We both lean forward, our foreheads resting together, like they did during what we thought were our final moments. We laugh together nervously. As we part, I place my hand on the side of her face, using my thumb to caress her cheek.
“Every word,” I say.
We kiss as if it’s the end of the world. Her lips are soft. Her skin sizzles. My heart thumps against my chest.
Right now, nothing else exists except her.
…
…
…
We part. A lifetime of emotion passed in just a few seconds. It felt amazing. It felt—
“Ugh! Dammit!”
I wince as her knee accidentally digs into the stitching on my gut.
As I recoil, she gasps with apology, putting a hand to her mouth.
“I’m so sorry! Are you all right?”
I smile. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just battered and bruised. And rusty.”
Her wide eyes soften. Her smile becomes a laugh.
“Well, it has been a while for you, hasn’t it?”
I roll my eyes. “Oh, don’t start that again!”
I stand, which takes considerable effort.
“Where are you going?” she asks.
“I need to freshen up too.” I step around the table and head for the stairs. “Besides, I could probably use a really, really cold shower right about now.”
I smile, which she reciprocates. Then she shifts on the sofa and kneels, facing me.
“You don’t have to have a cold shower right away.”
We lock eyes again. My heart begins to beat faster. I’ve always been the first to admit that Ruby is arguably the most attractive woman walking the planet, but I’ve never looked at her… y’know… in that way. Not seriously, anyway.
Until right now.
Never mind stopping traffic, she could stop time.
I shake my head, clearing the distracting—though not unpleasant—thoughts from my mind.
“Probably best to focus on staying alive for now. We can celebrate after we’ve killed everybody.”
She grins mischievously. “I love it when you talk dirty!”
I chuckle. “Okay… that doesn’t make us sound like a pair of sociopaths at all!”
I head upstairs. This shower needs to be like ice.
18
11:15 JST
Ruby and I are sitting in Ichiro’s car, which he was kind enough to leave for us, should we need to get anywhere in a hurry now that he’s dropped off the grid. We’re parked in a wide backstreet, deep inside the maze of Tokyo’s daily chaos.
“Are you sure you’re up to this?” she asks me. Her voice is laden with concern, as well as the hint of apology. She probably feels bad for even asking.
I look over at her. She insisted on driving. She’s sitting half-turned in her seat, with a hand resting casually on the wheel.
“No question,” I reply as convincingly as I can.
“Adrian, you can barely stand.”
“I’m fine, honestly. I feel better than I look. Promise.”
Her eyes narrow with inherent and justified doubt. Finally, she nods her acceptance and gestures out the window with a flick of her head.
“This definitely the right place?”
I look out across the street at the tattoo studio opposite. The main window is half-covered with large decals of Japanese symbols, which I can only assume say the name of the place. The door to the left of it is closed. Even from here, I see the wood rotting away in places. There’s movement inside.
Open for business.
“This is the address Buchanan gave us,” I confirm. “The guy he suspects is working for Kazawa’s family should be inside any time after ten-thirty, according to his intel.”
“How do you want to play it? He might not be alone.”
I look back at her. “If I had a spare shit, I still wouldn’t give it. The more of them, the better. Saves time.”
She smiles back. Polite. Understanding. “You need to pace yourself. You’re in no condition—”
“Miley could’ve cut one of my goddamn legs off in her little live stream, and I’d still easily take out a handful of these bastards. Besides…” I pull my jacket open to reveal one of my new Raptors holstered beneath my armpit. “I’ve got my guardian angel with me.”
“Okay, then. Let’s do this.”
She moves to get out of the car, but I reach over and place a hand on her arm.
“No. I need you to stay here.”
She looks back at me. Her brow furrows. Her eyes narrow. Her mouth opens.
“Why?”
I hold her gaze. Set my jaw. Become the evil that festers inside of me.
“Because you don’t need to see what I’m gonna do to this guy to make him talk.”
Her hand slowly releases the door handle. Her expression softens. She stares into my eyes and sees the familiar monster looking back at her. She nods without a word. She’s seen the look on my face before. Knows what it means. Knows there’s no point arguing.
I climb out of the car, turn my collar up as I hunch against the cold wind, and walk calmly across the street. I reach inside my jacket. Take out my Pilot and clip it in place. Same with my Ili.
I make a fist with each hand in turn, testing myself. I take a breath and feel the familiar sting of my war wounds. I cast a momentary glance over my shoulder to make sure Ruby isn’t looking—which she isn’t—before taking out the pain meds the hospital gave me from my jacket pocket. I pop one and swallow it dry.
That should hold me.
I can’t afford to show any sign of weakness now. Not for one second. So much of my world is about perception. Not too long ago, even knowing I was in the same time zone would scare the crap out of people. I need Kazawa’s people to believe I’m indestructible. It’s the only way I’ll survive long enough to get to the sonofabitch.
And to Miley.
Oh, I’ve got a bullet with her fucking name
all over it.
I tap the butt of my gun through my jacket for one last piece of reassurance as I reach the other side of the street. I push the door open without breaking stride and step inside the parlor.
I’m greeted by the high-pitched whirring of a tattoo needle, coming from behind a black curtain ahead of me. There’s a musty smell too—a cocktail of sweat and stale air. A makeshift counter stands against the wall to my right. A young woman leans casually against it, chewing gum. She’s wearing dark eyeliner and bright purple lipstick. Her sleeveless black tank top has a skull on the front, clinging to the shape of her chest. Her exposed arms are covered in tattoos. She looks up at me.
“You lost?” she asks, her voice translated and digitized in my ear.
I smile politely. “I’m looking for someone I understand is a customer of yours.”
“That right?” She pauses to look me up and down. “We don’t give out personal information without warrant. You got warrant?”
I shake my head. “No. Do I look like a cop to you?”
She shrugs. “You look like asshole to me. A real stupid asshole. You know who own this place?”
“I can guess.” I hold my hand out flat, level with my head, just below my eyeline. “Is he about this tall? Bad haircut… total dick… poor choice in women?”
She laughs but not because she found me funny. The expression didn’t reach her eyes.
“You in wrong part of town, asshole.” She reaches down and produces a large handgun, which looks out of place in her delicate grip. She rests it ominously on the counter in front of her. “You go. No come back. Or you no see tomorrow. Clear?”
I take a quick look around. The studio is effectively divided in two. Where I’m standing is the waiting area. There are seats under the main window; a low, wide coffee table with magazines scattered across it in front of them; some horrific music that sounds as if it’s being played at double speed blasting from a radio on the floor in the corner; and, of course, our friendly hostess here.
An archway leads to the back half of the building, which has four defined areas. Each contains a reclining chair, a rolling cart of tattooing accessories, and a curtain rail. Only one of them has the curtain pulled closed, signaling it’s occupied. That must be my guy.
Beyond that is a fire exit door. No other sign of life.
Target. His tattooist. The goth chick with the over-sized gun.
Three people. No realistic threat.
I look back at her.
“Listen, Twilight , I’m not in the mood for your misplaced confidence or idle threats. I’ve had a shitty few days, and what patience I have is wearing thinner than the ice you’re skating on.” I brush my jacket apart, revealing my own gun. “I need to speak with the piece of shit getting some work done right now. So, either go get him… or go home.”
She stares at me with disbelief for a long moment before placing a hand over her mouth and gasping behind her palm. Her eyes ping wide.
I’m guessing she’s just realized she’s addressing an overnight internet sensation.
She moves for the gun. Before her hand is even halfway to grabbing it, mine is drawn and raised, aimed steadily at her head.
I shake my head slowly from side to side. “I wouldn’t, if I were you.”
Her gaze alternates between me and the door. She takes a deep breath, glances at the black curtain, then bolts around the counter and out onto the street, quickly disappearing out of sight.
I smile to myself.
Still got it.
Keeping my gun held low by my side, I make my way through the studio, toward the drawn curtain. The buzz of the needle is getting louder, which is good—neither of them are likely to hear me approaching.
I take a deep breath. No sign of the all-consuming pinches of pain from my history-making ass-kicking. Damn… those meds don’t mess around!
Without warning or hesitation, I yank the curtain back.
What the…?
I see the tattooist first. It’s another woman. Can’t be much older than the one who just ran out the door. She has what I actually think is a nice design covering half her face. It’s a tribal-style piece running right down the center, dividing her nose and mouth. She snaps her head around to look at me. Her eyes are wide, but she’s frowning, as if offended by the intrusion.
I stare at her, emotionless.
“Leave. Now.”
She looks quickly back and forth between me and her client, then springs to her feet and backs away toward the door.
I focus my attention on the guy in the chair.
Fuck me.
I’m all for freedom of expression, but this guy must have some serious self-esteem issues.
He’s topless, displaying a chiseled physique that’s covered almost entirely by one large, intricate tattoo that must’ve taken years to complete. But the thing about him that stands out the most are his eyes. The pupils are bright red, like hellfire. But his orbs are black, not white. I’m pretty sure… yeah… his eyeballs are tattooed!
The second thing that’s hard to ignore is that the corners of his mouth have been surgically cut, maybe half an inch on both sides, allowing his mouth to open slightly wider than normal. And his tongue… Jesus Christ! His tongue has been split from the tip, forking it like a snake’s.
He also has multiple piercings on his face, including two nose rings.
He glares at me, flicking his tongue and flexing his jaw open, like something kind of human desperately trying to intimidate a predator.
He jerks his body toward me, clearly intending to tackle me, then either fight or run. But he doesn’t get chance. As soon as he sits upright in the chair, his forehead rests against the barrel of my shiny new gun.
“Sit down, dipshit,” I say.
No sign of a Pilot on him, so I wait for the Ili to translate. He looks at the gun. Then at me. Then he sits back in the chair.
I smile. “There’s a good dipshit. Now… I need your help.”
The staring at each other while I wait for the translation is a little awkward.
“Do you know who I am?” he asks. “You a dead man.”
I can’t help but roll my eyes. “I don’t care who you are. But I do care about who you work for. Tetsuo Kazawa. Where is he?”
He stares at me much longer than he needs to. I see the cogs at work behind his eyes.
“You Adrian… Hell. Yes?”
“Alive and kicking.”
He smiles and flicks his tongue at me again. “Not for long, you American asshole!”
“You might be right about that,” I reply, shrugging. “But before my time’s up, I’m gonna bury your boss and everyone associated with him. A little bird tells me you might know where that piece of shit is hiding.”
“Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.” He makes a slow and deliberate gun gesture with his right hand, firing at me and smiling. “So, fuck you, Adrian Hell. You want to find Kazawa? Find him yourself.”
I lower my gun and smile back at him. In part, it’s to hide my disappointment that he didn’t just tell me what I wanted to know. Not that I really expected him to, but still—a guy can dream. But mostly, when a guy with a gun starts randomly smiling at you, I’ve found it can be quite an unnerving sight. And judging by the change in his expression, I see this time is no exception.
He holds my gaze for as long as he dares, but after a minute, he starts to look nervous. His eyes narrow and begin looking in any direction that isn’t mine. His breathing gets slightly faster. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat.
“Y’know… there’s a small part of me that’s kind of glad you’re not being helpful. Don’t get me wrong—it’s annoying, and before we’re done here, you are going to tell me everything you know about where I can find Kazawa. But I think we all know I’ve not had the best few days. I’m feeling a little… cranky. Like I need to blow off a little steam. You understand?”
He nods slowly. Fearfully.
“The problem I have is… ho
w do I torture you? I mean, look at you. You’ve done all that shit to yourself! What could I possibly do to you that you wouldn’t simply think of as fashionable?”
I suppress a smile when I see him shrug, as if he’s given it some genuine thought.
I continue. “But it occurs to me that perhaps the way to get information out of you isn’t to torture you, necessarily, but to… undo all this work you’ve had done. For example…”
I snap my hand forward and pinch one of the nose rings between my thumb and index finger. I pull on it slightly, feeling it resist against the skin of his nostril. His eyes widen with panic. He gestures wildly with his hands, waving them as a desperate plea for mercy.
Not today.
With a short, sharp motion, I yank my hand away, bringing the nose ring with me. I hear it tear effortlessly through the thin flesh. He clutches his nose as a thin stream of blood begins trickling down his face. He screams with pain.
I study the small item of jewelry for a moment before discarding it with a subtle flick.
“Now, that looks like it really sucked. What you need to remember from here on out is that shit’s going to keep happening, and it’s only gonna get worse for you.” I jab his forehead with the barrel of my gun. “I want Kazawa. Tell me where he is, or tell me where I can find someone more helpful than you.”
His head is lowered, his face partially covered by his blood-soaked hands. He looks at me through his eyebrows, boring a hole into me with a gaze laced with instant hatred. I stare into his dark orbs, seeing them flicker with indecision. My guess is he’s thinking of the best way to make it out of here alive.
Spoiler alert: he’s not going to.
It’s fun watching him though. Even in the Yakuza, where loyalty is as natural as breathing, only a select few will ever choose their family over self-preservation. You just need to know which buttons to press.
“Fuck you, Adrian Hell. I don’t know where Kazawa is.”
I nod. “Fair enough. So, who does?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know. Word is he’s gone to ground. That little bitch of his caused big problem, putting you online.”
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