The two men split up, each moving around a different side of the table. Caine launched towards Lanky first, moving as fast as his leg chains would allow. He surprised his opponent with his reckless advance.
Lanky bellowed and raised his weapon over his head. As the baton swung down, Caine used his left arm to divert the force of the blow. He swung his right arm and landed a vicious punch on Lanky’s jaw. Before the stunned man could retreat, Caine grabbed his wrist and yanked him forward. He wrenched the baton from the man’s weakened grasp.
Stepping back, he swung the club up between Lanky’s legs. As the painful blow struck, he raised his elbow and dropped it with all his weight on the back of Lanky’s neck. The man hit the ground like a sack of flour.
Caine dropped to his knees beside him, slamming the baton into the small of his back. Lanky’s eyes popped, but instead of a scream, only a hissing breath escaped his lips. His fingers clawed at the dirt. He dragged himself away from Caine an inch at a time. Caine let him go. He stood up and focused his attention on Scorpion.
The big man charged towards him, his mouth open and rolling like a rabid animal. His meaty left fist launched forward in a punch. Caine stepped back, avoiding the powerful blow while rapping the man’s knuckles with his baton. The big man yelped and attempted a follow-up punch with his right hand. But the pain from Caine’s counterattack had thrown him off-balance, and Caine dodged the clumsy strike with ease.
Scorpion shifted his weight, and Caine saw the signs of another left-right combo. He didn’t have to plot his next move. It was like listening to music. He simply knew which notes should finish the tune.
Sure enough, Scorpion launched forward again with his left fist. Caine whipped his left arm in front of him, knocking the blow wide and leaving his attacker open. Stepping forward, Caine slammed the baton into Scorpion’s gut. As the big man gasped and bent over, Caine clubbed him on the back of the neck and the giant crumpled to the ground.
Caine hesitated for a second, staring at the now-defenseless inmate. Get it done! the voice in his head roared. If you don’t make him an example, these guys will never stop coming. He knew what to do, knew it was necessary. Still, he waited.
Scorpion groaned and began to pick himself up. Caine blinked, and the voice in his head took control. He straddled Scorpion’s head. With a quick jerk of his ankle, Caine wrapped the chain between his legs around his enemy’s neck.
Caine threw himself to the ground and pulled with his legs. Scorpion gasped as the chain grew taut around his bulging neck. He thrashed his body, struggling to loosen the chain. Caine threw all his weight into the stranglehold. Strong, fat fingers clawed at his ankles, but Caine grit his teeth and ignored the pain. After a few moments, the man stopped moving. Caine heard the death rattle leave his enemy’s throat, a last gasping wheeze.
Caine relaxed his legs and let go. He staggered to his feet and surveyed the crowd that had gathered around him.
The other prisoners were cheering. They exchanged money, cigarettes, and drugs as they paid off their bets on the fight. Judging by the amount of money changing hands, Caine guessed he had not been expected to win.
He looked down at Scorpion’s bloated corpse. He thought of how different a dead body looked from its living, breathing incarnation. After a person died, the stillness of death became like a new state of reality. The memories of it walking, talking, and living were like echoes, whispers in the wind that grew fainter with every passing second.
He looked around and saw Lanky had managed to drag himself under the picnic table for shelter. He wasn’t moving, but Caine could tell he was still alive.
That’s okay. One is enough. This time.
As the crowd parted, he saw Narong, still standing by his table, still holding the rusty pair of pliers. The old man grinned, raising the old tool in a jaunty salute. Caine could just make out the small, white tooth in the pliers’ grip. His emaciated patient nodded and clapped his hands. Blood and saliva dripped from his mouth.
That was the last thing Caine saw before the guards forced their way through the crowd and began pummeling him with their batons. He made no move to resist. He sank to the ground and let the blackness fall over him like a blanket, numbing the pain of their blows.
When he fell unconscious, he was smiling.
Chapter Five
Rebecca sighed and leaned back in her office chair. As she massaged her temples, the plastic clicking of computer keys filled the air. It sounded like the mocking chatter of a high-tech rodent.
She returned her attention to the pile of dossiers spread before her. Assassins, mercenaries, disavowed agents ... a grim cast of unsavory players covered her desk, a collage of dark, bloodstained history. Each sheet of paper detailed the secret career of a highly trained killer. These assets were used discreetly by the CIA, but never appeared in official agency records. They were independent contractors in the world of espionage.
Across from her, Ethan’s fingers scurried over the keyboard of his custom PC rig. Twelve liquid-cooled processing cores sifted through mountains of data. Every now and then, a promising dossier filled his screen. These were printed and added to the ever-growing pile of paper on Rebecca’s desk. But each time she read them over, something wasn’t right, some element was missing. What Allan was asking for, the timeframe he had given her ... only the perfect candidate would have any chance of success, and so far, that candidate was proving elusive.
“Ethan, at the very least, I need someone who can speak Japanese, for God’s sake!”
Her information specialist didn’t even look up from his keyboard as he printed up another batch of options. “Hasn’t exactly been a hotspot for us lately, you know? Speak Arabic, welcome aboard, pop the champagne. Speak Japanese? Enjoy your tentacle porn. Know what I’m saying?”
She threw several useless dossiers in the trash.
“Uh, aren’t you supposed to shred those?”
“Let’s just burn the office down. It will be easier in the long run.”
The problem, she thought, was that Ethan had it exactly right. For at least the last fifteen years, CIA asset recruitment had focused on the Middle East with a laser-like intensity. True, they had successfully infiltrated cells of Al-Qaeda and similar extremist groups. But the agency now found it difficult to rapidly mobilize elsewhere in the world.
She stood up and stretched her arms above her head. “This operation is going to crash and burn. And Allan set me up to take the fall. The Extra Departmental Assets Group is bullshit.... This whole thing is a big red bull’s-eye painted on my ass.”
“My ass, too, boss.”
A soft electronic chime sounded from Ethan’s computer. “Hold the phone ... what do we have here?”
Rebecca walked over to his desk, leaning over his shoulder. “What have you got?”
“Curiouser and curiouser ... I’ve been running traces on old aliases ... you know, fake identities, backstopped covers that we provided. Sometimes these freelance players are so far removed from their original identities, it’s easier to track down the alias, right?”
“Yeah, I get it. What’s so interesting about this one?”
Ethan looked up over his shoulder. “Do you mind? Personal space.”
Rebecca bit her lip and took a step back.
“Okay, so if any official agency runs a check on one of these IDs, I get a flag here. And a fingerprint ID check was just submitted to Interpol by the Royal Thai Police for one Mark Waters.”
“Who the hell is Mark Waters?”
“That’s the point.... He’s no one. Mark Waters was a deep cover identity we created. And the fingerprints the Thai police have on file match ours, so we know it’s the same asset, but it’s not supposed to be active. Whoever was assigned this identity, he’s using it on his own now. And according to this file, he’s been arrested by the Thai police for smuggling, racketeering, and ... looks like arms dealing.”
Rebecca grabbed a chair and sat down next to Ethan. The young man shifted
uncomfortably, but she ignored him.
“Who the hell is this guy? Show me.”
Ethan’s fingers danced over the keys. “Ladies and gentlemen, I present Mr. Mark Waters....” The Interpol file on the screen faded away, replaced by a CIA personnel dossier. The photo showed an attractive man in his thirties. He had short brown hair and intense green eyes. “Also known as ... Thomas Caine.”
Rebecca gasped.
Ethan looked up at her, his eyes peering over the rims of his chunky black glasses. “According to our files, he’s supposed to be dead. You know this guy?”
Rebecca stood up, brushed back her long red hair, and stared at the screen. “Yeah. I knew him.”
“Well, obviously he’s alive and kicking it in Thailand. What’s his deal?”
“Officially, he was one of our best deep operators. He was posing as an arms dealer, to make a connection with the White Leopard drug cartel in Afghanistan. According to his handler’s report, he went rogue. Killed his partner and disappeared with a shipment of guns and heroin. Then he resurfaced and tried to sell it on the black market. When the White Leopards found out who he really was, they killed him and took back their drugs.”
Ethan nodded. “Okay. And unofficially?”
Rebecca paused for a moment, staring at the pixilated photograph.
“Unofficially ... I knew him. I debriefed him once, after an operation. We ... became close.”
“How close?”
Rebecca didn’t answer. She returned to her desk, shoved aside the white sea of dossiers and personnel reports, and grabbed the folder Bernatto had given her.
“Bury that report. I don’t want any other internal system flagging it.”
Ethan laughed. “Right! So you’re saying you want me to hack every computer inside the CIA?”
“And Interpol if you have to.”
She dialed her desk phone and waited for the operator to pick up. “Just do it, Ethan. Kill that report.”
“Science and Technology, Special Activities Division,” said a voice on the phone.
Rebecca cradled the receiver against her shoulder as she stuffed files into her leather briefcase. “Yes, video archives please? I need any footage we have on Thailand politicians. Something compromising. I need to lean on someone.”
“Who exactly do you need to lean on?”
“Anyone tied to the warden of Bang Kwang Prison.”
She hung up the phone, grabbed her coat off the back of her chair, and eyed Ethan. “When they deliver the footage, send it to my phone. And Ethan, not a word of this, to anyone. Do you understand? Especially not Bernatto.”
Ethan stopped typing again and looked up. His eyes looked wide and concerned behind his thick glasses. “Well, where are you going to be, if anyone asks?”
Rebecca slung her bag over her shoulder and hurried out of the office. “Tell them I’m visiting an old friend.”
Chapter Six
Genki Ink was a small tattoo parlor on Takeshita Dori, a pedestrian street in the trendy Harajuku area. The shop had a reputation for quality work, but its bosozuku gang clientele tended to scare off more casual customers. A small group of these gang members lounged outside the shop. They smoked cigarettes and ran combs through their greased hair as they watched the crowds go by.
Inside, the air smelled of sweat, mixed with the antiseptic sting of alcohol. The heavy electronic buzzing of tattoo guns was constant. Not even the Japanese punk rock music blasting from the shop’s speakers could drown it out.
In the rear of the shop, the gang’s leader, a Japanese man in his late twenties, lay face down on a table. He was shirtless, and his body was already covered with ink, a mix of various tattoo styles. His thick black hair was pushed up into a sweeping, shiny pompadour. A tattered black leather jacket hung off a chair next to him. The name “Sonny” was stitched across the back in bright red letters.
The jacket, tattoos, and hairstyle were the hallmarks of the bosozuku, the speed tribes. These motorcycle and street racing youth gangs served as a breeding ground for future yakuza. Sonny was a senpai, the head of the gang known as the Crimson Scorpions.
Sonny grunted as the needle buzzed back and forth. The red patch of ink beneath his skin grew darker and darker. He actually found the pain of the needle relaxing, in a strange way. Like a hard shiatsu massage, it hurt, but it was a welcome pain. His head lolled on the table as the artist continued working on the elaborate scorpion shoulder tattoo. The deep bass of the shop’s punk music, the pulsing, painful warmth of the needle ... after a long night of drinking and partying in the Roppongi bars, he nearly fell asleep.
As Sonny’s thoughts turned to dreams, he let his mind wander to the future. He pictured his eventual transformation from a bosozuku senpai to a yakuza kobun. At twenty-nine, Sonny was old for a bosozuku. Government crackdowns on the yakuza families had lowered the demand for new members. Enrollment opportunities were limited, but Sonny knew his turn would come soon.
He’d turned the Crimson Scorpions into the most respected gang in the Kanto region. He had prioritized their profitable activities: stripping stolen cars for parts, theft, low-level street drugs, and muscle for hire. He ran the gang like a business, making sure his members contributed to the bottom line and stayed out of trouble. Honor and pride had their place, of course. But it was the money he brought to the table that would secure his position in the yakuza.
The door to the tattoo shop swung open with a jingle, but Sonny paid it no mind. He was still contemplating his future: a life of flashy suits, sports cars, and beautiful girls at his beck and call. He dreamt of drinking sake from the cup of his oyabun and earning the respect and admiration of his brothers. Ignoring the common men who called him “burakamen” ... outcast. He had friends and relatives who had joined the yakuza. He was aware on some level that his dreams were fantasies, that the life had its hardships as well. Blood, tears, and loss were no strangers to those who moved up in the gangs. But, for now, he was content to dream.
Lost in his thoughts, Sonny paid no attention to the enormous man who’d entered the parlor. Clad in a black suit, his massive size eclipsed nearly all the light from the shop’s front windows. Two other men, dressed in identical black suits, flanked him.
Bobu.
The artists were so engaged in their work, no one even looked up as one of the men began lowering the shades of the parlor windows. Bobu surveyed the store, his milk-white eye finally settling on Sonny. No emotion whatsoever crossed his features as he approached. His associates drew Glock 19 automatic pistols tipped with silencers. As they made their way to the back of the store, they opened fire.
The silencers turned the explosive shots into loud but muffled coughs. One of the tattoo artists, a girl with purple hair wearing a tattered concert t-shirt, looked up and gasped. She watched as her coworker, only a few feet away, collapsed to the floor in a crumpled, bloody heap. The tattoo artist barely had time to register what was happening before the gun coughed again. A bright red hole burst open between her eyes.
Wrenched from his daydreams, Sonny’s head shot up just in time to see a half-naked, mohawked patron sprint for the front door. He almost made it before a bullet to the back of the head dropped him cold.
Sonny gaped at the senseless slaughter. He looked up as a shadow descended over his table. Bobu stood over him, gazing down. His scarred, warped features were like something from a nightmare.
The guns unloaded two more shots, and the tattoo artist next to Sonny fell backwards, crashing into a cart filled with tattoo ink and supplies. The ink spattered across the floor, mixing with his blood to form a psychedelic splatter of color next to his dead body.
The sudden burst of violence was over as quickly as it began. The buzzing of the tattoo needles was gone. Without their cricket-like hum, the shop felt quiet and empty, despite the loud music blasting from the speakers.
Sonny threw his body up into a sitting position on the tattoo table. The shock of the attack had caught him off guard. Those p
recious seconds he had wasted gawking would mean the difference between life and death.
He reached for the pearl-handled switchblade knife he stashed in the inner pocket of his jacket. It didn’t make much sense ... four inches of slim, sharp steel against a barrage of gunfire. But it was all he had.
His fingers just brushed the rough leather of the jacket when he felt a crushing pressure around his wrist. Bobu had swooped down, grabbing his outstretched arm with one of his thick, meaty hands.
Bobu followed through with a strike, slamming his other hand into Sonny’s neck. The huge man pressed forward, carrying Sonny through the air and smashing him into the wall behind the tattoo table. Sonny’s vision blurred as his skull cracked against the wood. The impact knocked several sheets of tattoo flash art to the floor.
Despite the sudden exertion, Bobu’s breath was calm and measured. He held Sonny against the wall, the bosozuku’s feet kicking and flailing several inches above the floor. His massive, hideous face hung inches in the air in front of Sonny’s. He sized up the squirming gangster with his milky eye and smiled.
“You are bosozuku?” he asked. “You wish to be yakuza?”
Sonny swallowed his panic, struggling to maintain his bravado in the face of this monster. Sonny had led gangs in turf wars and violent beatings. He had killed his enemies, watching their faces as they died. He squinted, knowing that fear showed first in the eyes.
“Who the fuck are you?” He was grateful to hear his voice didn’t waver. “Do you know who you’re messing with?”
Bobu barked a command, and one of his associates stepped forward, holding a cell phone in front of Sonny. On it was a digital photo of a girl. The expression on the girl’s face was strange. She looked haunted. Lost. To Sonny, she looked like a fallen angel.
Bobu twisted his lips into a reptilian smile.
“I apologize for the inconvenience. We are looking for this girl. It is vital that we find her. You wish to be yakuza, yes? You wish to be part of a ninkyo dantai, a chivalrous organization?” Bobu spat the words, as though the phrase left a bitter taste on his tongue. “Then you must help us. You must help Japan.”
Thomas Caine series Boxset Page 4