Pacific Poison

by David Liscio

He decided to check with Carrington one last time. He pushed the radio’s transmit button. “Target engaged.”

  “Take him out.”

  It was a textbook headshot. The man went down a nanosecond after Decker pressed the trigger. The powerful rifle kicked when fired, momentarily forcing Decker’s eyes away from the scope.

  Decker looked at Reb for confirmation. Reb grinned and relayed the news to Carrington. “One down.”

  The second target proved more elusive, bobbing and weaving as though he knew he might be in a sniper’s crosshairs, though Decker sensed the erratic running pattern was more likely due to the jagged terrain. The bodyguard’s long braided ponytail swung wildly across his back as he ran. Decker was suddenly reminded of hunting with his uncle in the Pennsylvania hills, an activity he cherished every fall and early winter since he was old enough to carry a rifle.

  When the bodyguard suddenly stopped and fired his machine pistol at the fleeing woman, Decker put a .50-cal. round through his skull, taking with it every bit of bone and flesh above the neck.

  Reb pressed the transmit button. “Second target down.”

  Carrington acknowledged. “Received.”

  Mashima glanced at Carrington with a look that questioned the legality of the lethal shootings.

  Carrington understood. “Say it, Mashima. Say what you’re thinking.”

  “I’m a police officer, not CIA. I have an obligation to arrest those who have broken the law and ensure they receive a trial. I’m not both judge and jury.”

  “Would you have rather they caught up with the girl or maybe kept shooting until they killed her?”

  Mashima didn’t utter a word. He knew there was no right answer.

  Decker peered through his riflescope, studying the terrain. He was trying to plot where he and Reb might intercept the young woman along her escape route. From what he could see, it appeared she didn’t yet realize she no longer had any pursuers.

  41

  Everyone to the Rescue

  Saipan

  Northern Mariana Islands

  April 1990

  Decker was puffing hard as he ran along the cliff-edge trail, followed closely by Reb who carried both rifles but was only slightly winded. Hiraku shrieked when the pair burst from the underbrush of tangan-tangan and banyan trees, sweaty and wild-eyed.

  Decker held up a hand in a way he hoped she would recognize as a friendly command to stop. “Are you Hiraku?”

  The young woman backed away from the soldier, whose full-grown black beard glistened in the sunlight. She teetered on the brink of the cliff, the ocean crashing into jagged rock hundreds of feet below, glancing over her shoulder as though considering a fatal escape option. “Hai. Yes. I am Hiraku.”

  “Please. Step this way. My name’s Decker. This is Reb.”

  Decker considered extending a hand so that she might take it and move away from the cliff edge, but there was always the chance she’d see it as a threat and leap to her death. Instead, he casually pointed a thumb at Reb. “We’re here to help you, but first we need to know what’s going on inside the house. Can you tell us what happened to the tall blonde American woman?”

  Hiraku seemed confused. “I didn’t see any such woman, only Krill. She’s the one who helped me escape, though I fear she may be in great danger now.”

  “So you never saw a tall blonde woman?”

  “No. I would remember if I had. I was locked in the cellar with no windows.”

  Carrington and Mashima were hustling along the trail. Reb shouted to them. “Over here to your left.”

  Just as Carrington and Mashima joined them, Hiraku sank to her knees in desperation, tears flooding her eyes, shoulders shaking with grief.

  Reb crouched beside her and smiled. “I presume this is the girl you were looking for.”

  “Mashima grinned sheepishly. “Yes. This is Hiraku. A very brave young woman.”

  “Great. Now I’m going to find Hannah.”

  Decker snarled. “Stay here, Reb. Hannah is my responsibility. I’ll find her.”

  Carrington set a hand on Hiraku’s shoulder but she flinched. “Nobody is going to hurt you. Do you remember the two Americans — Stevens and Cahill – the ones you and your uncle spoke with in Tokyo?”

  “They’re dead.”

  “We don’t know that for sure, but they were part of our team.”

  “Their bodies were fed to the sharks. That is how the yakuza work. The yakuza kill anyone who opposes them.”

  “You and your uncle gave Stevens and Cahill information about how the yakuza are smuggling heroin through Saipan. Isn’t that true?”

  Hiraku stared at the ground as she spoke. “The American man and woman promised to take us to the United States if we provided information. We gave them many details but they wanted more. They were supposed to give us a new start in America, a new life away from the yakuza, away from Japan.”

  Carrington’s face showed deep concern. “We’ll still do that for you.”

  “I don’t care about America. My uncle is dead. I’m alone and now the yakuza will find me.”

  “Your uncle’s death was a great loss. From what we’ve been told, he was a masterful artist and a caring person who was trying to do the right thing. I can see you’re very upset and I certainly understand why, but right now you have to tell us about what you saw inside in the house.”

  Hiraku shakily attempted to stand, her legs barely able to support her waifish body. Mashima gently braced her arms and spoke a few soothing words in Japanese that seemed to provide comfort.

  “Did you see any guards?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many?”

  “Akumu is there. She is Tanaka’s private servant and bodyguard. The others are kobun — yakuza soldiers. Six or eight. Maybe more. When Krill came for me, two of the guards were on the floor outside the room where I was being held. I think they were dead.”

  Decker raised a fist in approval. “That’s welcome news. Two more of Tanaka’s bodyguards, the ones who were chasing you, are equally dead.”

  Hiraku seemed confused, as though she had been unaware of the latter threat. Mashima again spoke to Hiraku in Japanese, his voice little more than a whisper. He unveiled how the two bodyguards had been eliminated.

  “I heard gun shots but I didn’t know they were shooting at me.”

  Reb smiled at Hiraku as he patted the stock of his rifle so she would understand.

  “Domo arigato. Thank you.”

  Reb smiled. “Our pleasure.”

  Mashima put an arm around Hiraku and she nestled her face into his shoulder, her eyes welled with tears. He continued talking almost intimately in Japanese and she responded likewise. Hiraku covered her face with both hands and wept.

  Mashima shared what he had learned from their conversation. “It seems Krill stayed behind, perhaps to give Hiraku a better opportunity to escape. Krill pushed Hiraku out a side door and told her to run. When she looked back, the door was closed and Krill was gone.”

  Hiraku muffled a sob. “When he finds out what she has done, Tanaka will kill her. Or he will order Akumu to do it. Then he will come after me.”

  Mashima tightened his hold around her shoulder. “Nobody is going to hurt you. I can take her in my truck to the Susupe Jail, but I think it wiser to hide out in the caves until this matter is resolved.”

  Carrington tossed Mashima a two-way radio. “Stay in touch. Let me know your location when you get there.”

  “I will do that, but once we are inside the caves, the radios will be useless.”

  Hiraku’s face paled at the mention of the caves. She had heard plenty of stories about ghosts and haunted underground chambers filled with dangerous monsters and spirits. She sometimes believed the tales of walking dead who roamed the island, their bodies made lifeless nearly four decades ago by the ravages of war. Some of the dead were Japanese soldiers, others Chamorro or Carolingian natives. What horrors had been done to them?

  Mashima sensed her
fear. “I’ve been in the caves. Even as a boy we explored them. There were no evil spirits, only rusting guns and bayonets, and an occasional unexploded round from the American battleships.”

  “I’ll radio you when we arrive. If I don’t get a response, I’ll try again at midnight.”

  Decker checked the slide action on his Beretta 92FS handgun and grabbed his rifle. “Good enough, Mashima. Take good care of her.”

  Decker avoided looking directly at Reb and Carrington. “You guys can figure out things here. I’m going to Tanaka’s house.”

  Reb picked up his rifle. “I’m going with you.”

  Carrington made a show of inspecting his weapons. “We’ll all go to the house.”

  Decker pouted. “I’m going in alone.”

  Carrington was incensed by the insubordination. “In case you forget, this is a classified CIA operation and I’m the senior officer here. I’m telling you we’re going in together – you, me, and Reb. We all want to rescue Hannah – nobody more than you or I.”

  Decker sneered. “Oh, I’m sure of that. But only because you’re her field supervisor, right? Nothing personal.”

  42

  Guess Who’s a Guest?

  Saipan

  Northern Mariana Islands

  April 1990

  When Hannah regained consciousness, she was lashed with hemp rope to a hardback chair in the center of the room where Hiraku had been held captive. Her ankles were bound with duct tape. Akumu was standing near the door, an adhesive bandage affixed to her swollen nose. She scowled at Hannah.

  “I need to use the bathroom.”

  “You can piss all over yourself for all I care.”

  Tanaka was eavesdropping from the cellar hallway. “Let her use the bathroom.”

  “I’m doing nothing for her unless it will be very painful.”

  Tanaka snarled. “Do as I say. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

  Akumu grabbed a Japanese throwing knife from the array of torture implements on a small table and begrudgingly sliced the duct tape binding Hannah’s legs. She immediately stepped back to stay out of range in case Hannah decided to try another kick.

  Hannah sat uncomfortably on the toilet, hands still bound behind her back, while Akumu stood in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest, and stared with hatred in her eyes.

  “Can you please close the door?”

  “The door stays open.”

  When Hannah finished, Akumu ordered her to again sit in the chair. Hannah arched her back as she sat and inhaled as much air as possible, filling her chest cavity to maximum capacity as Akumu retied the hemp rope around her torso.

  From her CIA training Hannah knew doing so would provide more wiggle room when she eventually exhaled and relaxed her body while trying to escape. Akumu added an additional rope around Hannah’s neck, gleefully giving it a taunting tug, and again wrapped her ankles with duct tape.

  “Akumu. Do not harm our guest. She will be coming with us and she must be in good condition to travel.”

  When Akumu failed to respond, Tanaka returned to the basement room and knocked her to the floor with an open-handed slap. Akumu didn’t move as Tanaka spun on his heels and left the room without saying a word. Hannah heard Tanaka climb the stairs to the main level and wondered whether his departure was a sign for Akumu to begin her interrogation.

  While waiting for what she sensed would be inevitable torture, Hannah tried to focus on how to escape, but her head throbbed from where Tanaka had struck her with the pistol and her vision was blurred.

  Tanaka telephoned The Lucky Carp. Tony the bartender was chewing betel nut and spitting the shards into a rusted coffee can behind the bar, his teeth stained by the red juice. He begrudgingly got up from his seat and shuffled to the end of the bar to answer the phone.

  Tanaka’s voice was all business as he instructed Tony to take a detailed message. Tony assured Tanaka the information would be delivered personally. Tanaka then telephoned Blue Pacific Aviation, the private helicopter service that had covertly ferried Decker and Reb from Tinian Island to Saipan.

  The pilot seemed frightened that a yakuza underboss was requesting his services and insisting it was an emergency. When the pilot hesitated, Tanaka offered $50,000 cash.

  “I need only a very short flight from my home to the airport. If you leave now you’ll be back in your office within the hour, and $50,000 richer.”

  When the pilot didn’t respond, Tanaka momentarily envisioned himself as Don Vito Corleone in The Godfather — one of his favorites movies — as he paraphrased the gangster’s most famous line. “I’m making you a deal you can’t refuse.”

  “I don’t want trouble.”

  “There will be no trouble, Mr. Whirly Man. I merely want to climb aboard my jet and leave Saipan. Will you do that for me?”

  The pilot unconvincingly vowed to land his helicopter on the roof of Tanaka’s residence and fly the yakuza boss and two women passengers to the airport.

  “You must come immediately.”

  “OK. But I need to check the fuel level before I take off. If it’s down, I’ll need to hit the pump.”

  “Check your fuel. I’ll be waiting with your money.”

  When Tanaka hung up the phone, the trembling pilot sank into the chair behind his desk, lit a cigarette, and tried to ignore the ominous situation. He had no intention of flying his Bell 206 JetRanger to Tanaka’s rescue and risking a jail term if found out. He imagined standing before the judge in Garapan and being charged with aiding and abetting a fugitive, presuming Tanaka was officially a wanted man. Nervous and jittery, he headed for the office door, planning to drive north into the mountains and hide out with an old friend who lived alone in a two-room shack, far off the main road. It would be an ideal hideaway until the present circumstances blew over. He was about to lock the office door behind him when two Japanese men dressed in black two-piece suits clamped his arms, walked him to a Nissan Pathfinder and roughly shoved him into the back seat.

  The more talkative of the two — a pencil-thin man with unbridled energy and buck teeth — introduced himself as Sadashi and sat next to him as they sped toward the blue-and-white helicopter that was parked on the airport pad. Sadashi fidgeted in his seat, sniffing and wiping his runny nose on his suit jacket sleeve, his demeanor fueled by a heavy dose of crystal meth. “Mr. Tanaka is expecting you. I hope you were not planning to disappoint him. He wouldn’t like that.”

  The pilot’s face was sheen, the armpits of his Guns N’ Roses t-shirt darkened by sweat. “I was going drive my truck to the helicopter. I didn’t need a ride.” He adjusted his faded Boston Red Sox cap and fished for his cigarettes in the side pocket of his cargo shorts. His hands were shaking as he attempted to touch the tip with his lighter.

  The Nissan Pathfinder SUV came to an abrupt halt next to the helicopter. Sadashi was out of the vehicle in a flash. He flung open the pilot door on the aircraft and gestured with his hands. “Please get in.”

  “I need to make sure we have enough fuel before we take off.”

  “Make it quick. Mr. Tanaka is waiting.”

  The pilot slipped into the cockpit, toggled a few switches and studied the gauges. The turbine fired up and the two blades began to turn. “The fuel is good, as long as we’re only going from here to Tanaka’s home and back. Any farther and we’ll be flying on fumes. You understand?”

  Sadashi climbed into the front bucket seat next to the pilot. He rested a vintage Japanese Nambu pistol in his lap.

  “You intending to use that?”

  Sadashi laughed wildly, exposing the full extent of his rotted and brown-stained teeth. “Only if needed.”

  The pilot rolled his eyes, feeling both exasperation and fear. “Well, if you do, we’re both dead. You hit the gas tank and this bird becomes a bomb in mid-air.”

  43

  Waiting for a Ride

  Saipan

  Northern Mariana Islands

  April 1990

  Tanaka paced the roof,
gazing up at the endless blue sky dotted with puffy white clouds. It was a typical day in Saipan and good flying weather for his Gulfstream III jet, which he hoped by now was being refueled and readied for takeoff. He trusted Tony the bartender had delivered that message to the airport ground crew.

  Twice Tanaka glanced at his wristwatch, cursing himself for such a weak show of impatience. The helicopter would be landing momentarily, preceded by the welcome thwap thwap thwap of its rotor blades slicing the air.

  The first incoming gunshot rang out before the chopper arrived. The bullet zinged over Tanaka’s head and struck the concrete wall upon which flowering vines made their home. It left behind a fist-sized hole. Tanaka instinctively flattened himself to the roof tiles and crawled toward the door leading to the house. His bodyguards flanked him, their eyes darting in all directions, expecting an attack.

  Tanaka suspected something tragic had befallen Yuki and Kira because they had not answered his radio transmissions. The three bodyguards on the main floor of the house were on full alert, their Uzi machines pistols cradled and ready.

  Once inside the house, Tanaka scurried to a small room on the main level. He slid open a hidden wall panel, turned two dials and studied the needle gauges showing power output. Satisfied, he switched on a series of electrical circuits and closed the panel.

  An avid gun collector, Tanaka opened the wooden chest holding his prized World War II German MG42 machine gun, capable of spitting out 1,200 rounds per minute. American soldiers had nicknamed the weapon Hitler’s Buzz Saw because of the sound it made and its lethal bursts of firepower.

  Beneath the machine gun were belts of ammunition. Tanaka draped three belts over his shoulders, sagging under the weight. Although his bodyguards offered to carry the ammunition, he waved them aside. He hefted the gun and trudged toward the front of the house where a protective crenel allowed the gunner a field of fire without being exposed. He was pleased the gun position commanded the main approach to the house.