Thomas Caine series Boxset

by Andrew Warren

  “And what will you do with her if you find her?”

  “I’m not here to hurt her. That’s all I can say for now.”

  Mariko was silent for a moment. She glanced at her partner. He gave her a quick, uncertain look. He muttered something in Japanese, but Caine couldn’t catch his words. She turned back to Caine.

  “This girl, Hitomi Kusaka. She is interesting to me for two reasons.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “First, I have suspicions that Arinori Kusaka has been secretly funding Tokyo Black. In my investigation, I uncovered evidence that he was funneling money to them through his numerous companies. When I presented my findings to my superiors, I was suspended. They said I had acted without permission, exceeded my authority.”

  “So that’s why you were in such a hurry to leave the Dome.”

  A frown crossed her face. She looked away. “Kusaka-san is a highly respected man. He has political connections, friends in the government. I was foolish to make such an accusation without more proof. I should have waited until I had evidence that could not be ignored or explained away.”

  “Sounds to me like your superiors are dirty. Wouldn’t matter what evidence you had. Either way, your hunch was right. Hitomi said she’s running from her father. She said Tokyo Black works for him.”

  Mariko reached into the back pocket of her jeans. She pulled out a folding knife and flicked it open. The passing lights glinted off its blade.

  “That is the second reason this girl interests me.”

  “Her father’s connection to Tokyo Black?”

  Mariko reached out and sliced the plastic restraints on Caine’s wrists.

  “No, not just that.”

  Caine massaged his wrists as the blood began to flow back into his hands and forearms.

  “Okay, what then?”

  “According to official records, Kusaka-san has no children.”

  Caine and Mariko walked down the busy Shinjuku sidewalk, while her partner parked the grey sedan around the corner. She sauntered confidently ahead of him, as if they had been working together for years. Caine found her sudden trust in him strange, and remembered the flash of emotion she had betrayed when he had mentioned Kusaka’s name.

  Something about her story was bothering him....

  She pointed to a neon sign two blocks down the street. “That’s the address you gave me. The Space Age. Very popular karaoke bar.”

  Caine nodded. “Mariko, before we go in, I have to ask.... If you’re suspended right now, why are you still after Kusaka? Is this personal?”

  “My duty is to protect Japan. If Kusaka is a danger to this country, I must stop him.”

  “Isn’t it also your duty to obey your superiors?”

  She glanced over at him, a curious look on her face. “Is that what you do?”

  Caine laughed. “Not exactly.”

  Mariko stopped walking and turned to face him. “You are familiar with the 47 Ronin? The famous samurai story?”

  “I think I saw the movie.”

  “The ronin began as samurai. They became ronin, masterless warriors, when their lord was assassinated. They vowed to find the killer and avenge him. But the shogun, hoping to preserve peace, ordered them to stand down.”

  “What happened?”

  “They waited a year for the perfect opportunity to strike. Then, under cover of darkness, they raided the assassin’s castle and clashed with his army. Eventually, they fought their way to their lord’s killer and beheaded him.”

  “And they lived happily ever after?”

  She shook her head. “No. Justice was served, and their lord could finally rest in peace. But they had still disobeyed the orders of the shogun. He ordered that the men commit seppuku, the ritual suicide of the samurai.”

  “So, did they make a break for it?”

  She gave him a strange look. “No. Don’t you see? Even though they had avenged their lord, the men were still ronin. By committing seppuku, the shogun gave them the chance to die as samurai. Their honor was returned. Balance was restored.”

  “That’s a nice fairy tale. But it still sounds pretty personal to me.”

  She paused. “Remember the man I told you about, the one who started Tokyo Black?”

  Caine nodded. “Atsutane Yuasa. Bobu’s mentor.”

  “I barely remember ... I was just a little girl. But that subway attack ... the one he planned. I was there when it happened. I survived. But my mother....”

  She shuddered. “I ran out the door of the subway car. We were going to the dentist, and I was scared. I was causing trouble. My mother tried to stop me, but it was too late. I saw her looking through the glass; she was terrified for me. A policeman found me crying on the platform. He brought me to the next stop, but that was the train they attacked. She never made it to the next station. Nobody on board did.”

  There was something in Mariko’s voice … a tiny quavering, a slight dip in volume. Whatever it was, it cut through Caine’s hardened shell. After a lifetime of fighting and violence, Caine had seen more death and despair than he cared to remember. He knew the wounds of grief and loss could cut far deeper than any physical pain.

  His face softened. “I’m sorry.”

  “What about you?” she asked. “Is your interest personal?”

  Caine nodded as they reached the club.

  “Definitely personal,” he said.

  They passed through a set of glass doors and entered an elevator under a flashing neon sign.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Mr. Douglas sat up and gasped for breath. The dank, dingy air of the bathroom filled his lungs and cleared the haze from his eyes. The sting of the pepper spray still lingered, but that was secondary to the throbbing in his head. He gingerly explored the damage. His blond hair was matted with blood, and he felt a tremendous lump just behind his left ear.

  “That goddamned bitch,” he muttered.

  He had been careless. Bernatto’s file said the target was a bureaucrat. Basic field training only, no operational experience. He had underestimated her. He should have followed operational procedure, instead of relying on a file given to him by another bureaucrat. After all, that’s what Bernatto was, no matter how deadly and thorough he may have seemed.

  The girl was smart. Tenacious. She had played both of them.

  He wiped the dripping blood from his face, flinging spatters to the floor as he stood up. Immediately, a wave of nausea hit him. He stumbled to the sink, leaned over, and dry heaved. After a few minutes, it passed. He took a deep breath, wiped the spittle from his lips, and stared at his face in the cracked mirror. The damage looked severe and he might have a concussion, but he had suffered worse.

  In his reflection, he noticed the large, dark hole in the wall behind him. She must have broken through the drywall.

  He checked his watch. He hadn’t been out long, which meant she couldn’t have gone far.

  He patted down his pockets. She had his pistol.

  Fine, he thought.

  He strode out into the hall. He walked past the dark room where Bernatto was watching TV. The older man called out to him.

  “Everything all right?”

  “No,” he answered. “She’s on the move.”

  He kept walking. Bernatto raced into the hallway and followed him as he entered the room where his weapons were organized.

  “What are you talking about? How could you let this happen?” Bernatto shouted.

  Mr. Douglas clenched his jaw and grabbed an identical HK pistol to the one Rebecca had stolen from him. He loaded it, racked the slide, and slipped it into his shoulder holster. Next he slung an HK MP5 submachine gun around his neck. He slid several spare magazines of ammo into pouches on his belt.

  “She hasn’t gone far. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Listen to me. I need her alive. Do you understand? Alive!”

  Mr. Douglas stopped and stared at Bernatto. “Right now she is alive. Should I stand down? Or do you want me to p
ursue? If I pursue, I will do my best to deliver her alive. But I think we both would agree her death is preferable to certain other outcomes.”

  Bernatto lowered his gaze. “Fine. Go. Do what you have to.”

  Mr. Douglas added one more weapon to his arsenal ... a collapsible spring baton. He whipped it through the air a few times, testing its heft, then slid it through a loop at his belt.

  “Trust me, I prefer alive as well. For now.”

  He strode from the room as Bernatto cursed under his breath. He checked his watch. Time was running out.

  Scrapes and bruises covered Rebecca’s arms. She winced as she dragged herself forward through the darkness. The crawlspace was only a few feet tall and pitch-black. Occasionally, she would run into a twisted shaft of iron rebar jutting from the ceiling.

  The narrow, dark space was silent, aside from the occasional drip of water. She had half-expected to hear the frantic scuffling of a pursuer ... Bernatto or even Mr. Douglas. She realized that, in her haste to escape, she had forgotten to check his pulse. Was he dead? Or just unconscious?

  She shook her head and moved forward another inch. It was too late to second-guess herself now. Either he was dead or he wasn’t. And she could sooner picture Mr. Douglas rising from the dead than Bernatto crawling after her in this filthy crawlspace himself.

  She froze when a rustling sounded above her and chips of drywall and other debris drifted down. The rustling grew louder. Someone was moving around up there.

  She had no idea what kind of building she was in or the layout of the place. Was there a subfloor directly overhead? she wondered. The sound grew closer, and she struggled to turn over in the tight space. She looked up, peering into the darkness above her.

  BANG!

  The shot exploded through the air next to her head, sending a shower of dust and debris into her eyes. She screamed and clawed her way forward.

  BANG! BANG!

  Two more shots rang out, each one closer than the last. She could feel the sizzle of hot air as a bullet streaked past her ear.

  This time, she didn’t scream. Instead, she pulled the HK pistol from her waistband. She could feel her heart racing. She could almost hear it thumping in the tiny, dark crawlspace. She slowed her breath and steadied her hand. Aiming the gun at the floorboards above her, she squeezed off two shots.

  The explosion was deafening in the enclosed space. She ignored the ringing in her ears and moved forward again. Her body twisted around the iron rebar that blocked her progress.

  More bullets rained down from above. The shots came at a slow, steady pace. The bastard was honing in on her movements, tracking her by sound. Well, two could play that game. She returned fire, using the bullet holes above her as a guide.

  Her head slammed into something solid. Another bullet smashed through the floor, just missing her knee. She unleashed a wild barrage of bullets at the floorboards above her until she heard a muted grunt of pain.

  The sounds above stopped. Exhausted and panting, she twisted her body around to face the barrier. Her fingernails clawed at the drywall. It was soft, rotted from mold and humidity. Pivoting her legs around, she began to kick at the wall. A clump of soggy plaster shifted and crumbled to the floor. She could make out a small black hole, darker than the rest of the shadows surrounding her. She kicked again and again, until it was large enough to squeeze through.

  She crashed to the ground, her clothes covered in dirt and grime. Her hair was damp and streaked with filth. She stood up and looked around, holding her pistol out in front of her. She was in a cavernous concrete room. A row of windows ran along one wall, vanishing into the darkness. They were boarded up from the outside, but shafts of moonlight penetrated the cracks.

  The ceiling above her was a maze of pipes and industrial lighting. All the bulbs were shattered. A fine dust of broken glass sparkled on the floor. A few rusted oil drums lay scattered about the chamber. The writing on the barrels was in Thai, but the black stick figures and universal symbol for fire needed no translation.

  She was in some kind of industrial building, she realized. An abandoned oil refinery or maybe a chemical plant. That meant they would be on the outskirts of the city. Far from the crowds. Far from help. She took a few tentative steps out into the darkness.

  A barrage of gunfire nipped at her heels. She yelped and charged forward. The gunfire followed her, kicking up puffs of dust and powdered glass. She dove for cover, but the attack persisted. The bullets ricocheted off the concrete column she hid behind and danced around the room.

  Then the gunfire ceased.

  Rebecca bit her lip and peered around the edge of the column, trying to get a bead on the shooter. Near the hole she’d made was an air vent just below the ceiling. Squinting in the darkness, she could just make out a shadow shifting behind the vent.

  She gripped the pistol with both hands and spun out from behind the column. She fired. Her bullets sparked against the metal of the vent. She ducked back behind the column as another burst of automatic weapon fire streaked towards her.

  She spun her head around, searching for something, anything she could use. On the floor behind her were scraps of cloth and rags, most likely makeshift blankets from homeless squatters. Empty tin food cans littered the ground.

  A burst of red light filled the room, blinding her. A sizzling, hissing sound filled the air. She dropped down to a crouch and closed her eyes for a second. A familiar voice echoed out of the darkness. Bernatto.

  “Rebecca, this is pointless.”

  She blinked her eyes open. A bright pinpoint of red light flickered in the center of the room. Bernatto was using signal flares to illuminate the area.

  Keeping the column between herself and the air vent, she kicked one of the metal cans out into the room. It clanged across the floor for a brief second before it was struck by another explosion of gunfire.

  As the can danced through the air, Rebecca charged to the next column. She caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure in a doorway. Bernatto raised his arm, and Rebecca saw the brief muzzle flash of a pistol. She darted to safety behind the column. The bullet ricocheted off the concrete floor behind her.

  The room once again fell silent, save for the sizzling flare in the center. She was just outside its radius of light, hidden in shadow behind the other columns.

  A loud crash and the clatter of falling metal echoed in the space. The air vent! She risked a quick glance and saw the dark figure of Mr. Douglas drop to the ground.

  She fired, sending several quick shots his way. He ran and took cover behind another column. He was limping. One of her shots from the crawlspace must have found its mark. She could not resist a slight smirk of satisfaction.

  “Rebecca, think this through,” Bernatto said. “You’re alone out here. You’re outnumbered. You’re out of options. I don’t want to hurt you. In fact, I need you alive. Don’t make this harder than it has to be. Put down your gun, and let’s work something out.”

  “Like you worked something out for Tom?”

  She darted towards another column. More gunfire rang out from behind her. She heard a flurry of footsteps as Mr. Douglas moved to another column.

  Bernatto tossed another flare. It landed close to her, shrinking her cover of darkness to a sliver of shadow. She fired several rounds towards the door and a double tap towards Mr. Douglas’s position. In the darkness, she knew she was firing blind, hoping to hold back the inevitable.

  She ducked back behind the column and scanned the room again. She searched for another door, an air vent ... any way out of the impossible situation facing her now. She saw more evidence of squatters. Dirty old clothes. A filthy plastic doll missing its arms and legs.

  A second voice called out into the darkness. It was Mr. Douglas.

  “There’s something else you should keep in mind, Ms. Freeling. I’ve been keeping count, you see. You’re down to one bullet. And there’s two of us. This is a fight you can’t win. So take a second, think it over. Then do what Mr. Bernatto
here says. I promise I’ll go easy on you.”

  The icy tone of his voice gave Rebecca the feeling that his version of “going easy on her” would be less than pleasant. She ejected the magazine from her pistol and checked the load. He was right ... the magazine was empty. That left her with a single round remaining in the chamber. She choked back a curse.

  She slammed the magazine back in the pistol. She could hear Bernatto’s footsteps growing closer. He ignited another flare and tossed it towards her. It rolled to a stop a few feet from the column she was hiding behind.

  As its blood-red glow chased away her shadows of concealment, she spotted something she had missed in the darkness. A makeshift cooking stove. It was little more than a homemade valve and a length of metal tube, attached to a small canister of propane gas. The contraption sat in a rusted shopping cart. A thin sheet of bent, charred metal served as a cooking surface.

  Two sets of footsteps moved closer, and Bernatto called out to her. “This is bigger than Caine, bigger than you. We’re talking about America’s future here, Rebecca.”

  Rebecca grabbed the flare and slid over to the shopping cart on her hands and knees. Just keep talking, you bastard.

  She tossed the metal grill aside and grabbed the propane tank. She forced herself to be careful as she unscrewed the metal hose from the makeshift burner. As she worked, she heard the two men advancing towards her.

  “Rebecca, this is your last chance,” Bernatto said. “Work with me. We can do some good here, I promise you. Just hear me out.”

  A part of her knew what she was attempting was crazy ... suicide, even. But as far as she could see, Mr. Douglas was right. This wasn’t a fight she could win. Unless she changed her tactics.

  A barrage of gunfire exploded behind her. She ducked down low, but a red-hot pain lanced through her back. She cried out and fell to the ground.

  Her breath turned to a series of ragged gasps. She could feel hot blood pooling beneath her back on the cold concrete floor. She hugged the fruits of her labor to her chest, as if she were clinging to life itself.