The Yakuza Gambit

by David DeLee

  “The entire contents of my personal safe is gone. Everything.”

  “You’ve answered you own question, Kwon,” Bannon said. “It’s not rocket science. He wanted something—or everything—in your safe.”

  “Where would he go?” Kwon demanded.

  “What part of we had nothing to do with this, aren’t you understanding? We have no idea.” Bannon turned his back on Kwon. “And I’m getting tired of this.”

  Tara sidestepped so that for a split-second Bannon was positioned between her, Kwon, and the twins, blocking their view of her.

  “Stay where you are!” Kwon demanded. “Stop moving.”

  It was all the time she needed to hike up her dress and pulled the Sig silently from its holster. She clutched it behind her leg.

  “A beautiful night.” Bannon took another step toward the rail, ignoring Kwon. He spread his arms. “For a swim!”

  Tara swung the Sig up. Bannon’s tuxedo jacket slipped from her shoulders. She fired a shot at Kwon. The Yakuza leader ducked and returned fire. The Sanu twins reached for guns secured in holsters at the small of their backs.

  By then Bannon was up on the gunwale. He grabbed Tara by the hand and yanked her up off the deck. Unsteady, balancing on the thin edge of the gunwale, Bannon squeezed her hand tightly and yelled, “Jump!”

  She did.

  Behind them Kwon fired again.

  But they were already below the gunwale, leaping out and away from the yacht. Their hands slipped apart. Tara extended her arms out over her head, still clutching the gun. She closed her eyes and sucked in a deep breath of air. Her hands pierced the dark water of the Atlantic and the bracing cold water shocked the air from her lungs.

  She dove deep and leveled off before kicking furiously in what she hoped was a direction away from the Bakuto. She couldn’t see Bannon in the inky underwater blackness and only had a vague sense of up and down herself.

  With a powerful breast stroke, she kicked and swam for all she was worth. When she couldn’t hold what little breath was left in her lungs, she aimed for the surface, swimming hard and fast.

  Tara breached the water and gasped, sucking in a deep lungful of air. At first, all she saw was the unbroken surface of water and the night sky. She turned, treading water.

  The Bakuto was behind her. A blazing, floating jewel of light, disappointingly close.

  Gunfire cracked the night air.

  Bullets plucked the water around her.

  Tara took in another lungful of air and dived.

  When she resurfaced, the Bakuto was farther away, but still too close.

  The shooting had stopped. She was out of pistol range.

  Grateful for that, she hoped there were no high-powered sniper rifles aboard. Spotlights illuminated the water, panning back and forth over the dark surface. She was beyond their search pattern. Kwon had again underestimated them.

  Tara looked around for Bannon. She didn’t see him anywhere. Panic gripped her burning chest.

  She called out, “Brice. Brice!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “Brice!” Tara cried out, louder this time.

  Where the hell was he?

  Frantic, she wiped wet hair from her face and twisted one way then the other. She splashed, her sound discipline forgotten, all concern about the Bakuto were gone while she looked…

  For Brice.

  For…a body.

  On the Bakuto, people rushed back and forth across the upper deck. Flashlights and then larger spotlights snapped on, panning the water. She was still too damn close to the yacht, but first she needed to find….

  “Brice, damn you.” Under her breath, she swore. “You better not be dead.”

  She heard a splash. Tara spun toward the sound.

  A dozen feet ahead of her the water bubbled and Bannon’s head broke the surface. He sputtered and blinked his eyes, then wiped water from them. He looked around, as disoriented as she had been upon surfacing.

  Relieved, she swam to him. “How’d you get that far out?”

  He grinned. “I’m not a slacker.”

  “No, just a show off.” She glanced back at the Bakuto. “This is the second time in as many months I’ve been forced to dive off boats into freezing water while getting shot at. I’m getting tired of it.”

  Her teeth chattered.

  “Sorry about that,” Bannon said, between deep breaths. He wiped more water off his face. “But didn’t see as we had much choice. We better start swimming.”

  “That’s your plan?” she said, treading water. “Swim? It’s twelve miles back to shore.”

  “That’s just the first part of my plan,” he said between strokes.

  She swam to catch up to him, spitting salt water. “What’s the other part? Getting eaten by sharks? Drowning once hypothermia kicks in?”

  “You’re starting to sound a lot like Skyjack, you know that?”

  “He must be rubbing off on me.”

  “You could do worse.” They swam. Then Bannon said, “You still have your Sig?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  He stopped swimming and twisted around in the water. Treading water, he looked at the Bakuto. “We’re going to need it for part two of my plan.”

  She turned to see what he was talking about. Two bright orange, soft inflatable lifeboats had launched from the yacht. The high-pitched buzz of their outboard motors reached their ears. Flashlights stabbed the darkness around the approaching boats. It didn’t take long before the lights found Tara and Bannon.

  “So far I’m not seeing how this is much of a plan,” Tara said.

  Before Bannon could respond, gunfire erupted from the first boat.

  Tara didn’t flinch. “I am getting damn tired of being shot at.”

  “Now, you really sound like Skyjack.”

  In the dark she couldn’t determine how many men were in the boat, at least two, with a third operating the outboard motor. The boats sped straight at them. Muzzle flash helped her pinpoint the shooters’ location. Tara returned fire. Two taps of the trigger and her efforts were rewarded with a couple of sharp cries of pain and no more gunfire.

  The boat swerved, making a sweeping turn. Bannon swam towards it and leaped before it passed them. Along the tube-like hull were handholds spaced every few feet. Bannon managed to grab one.

  The lifeboat sped up. He held on.

  Bannon swung his leg out of the water and hooked his foot over the safety line looped through eyelets along the polyurethane hull. He clung to the side of the lifeboat like a bug against a windshield as the orange lifeboat peeled away from Tara.

  She turned her attention to the second inflatable.

  It had picked up speed, as it bared down on her. The bow riding high in the water. The engine grew louder as it neared, the driver gunning it. His intention was clear: run her over. Slice her to ribbons with the spinning blades of the outboard motor.

  Tara dived under water, kicking hard, doing her best to put distance between herself and the boat as it buzzed over her head. She stopped, turned, floated, and looked up. Her hair swirled around her head like black seaweed. The boat passed by.

  She swam for the surface, burst through the water, gasping. One of the lifeboats was baring down on her again. She couldn’t tell which one.

  About to deep dive again, she stopped in time to see Bannon leaning over the gunwale with his hand outstretched. She grabbed it as the boat sped by. Bannon kept one hand on the throttle control and dragged her by the arm through the water while the second boat pursued them.

  Torrents of water splashed in her face. She clutched for the safety rope and then a handgrip, gulping down water, vaguely aware of more gunfire. She tossed the Sig into the boat, hoping it wouldn’t bounce out, but she needed both hands if she was going to haul herself into the inflatable.

  Gasping, she rolled around the hard panel deck. Bannon was alone in the boat. He’d somehow dealt with its previous occupants.

  “Grab the gun,” Bannon shouted
, looking over his shoulder at the pursuing lifeboat.

  She scrambled around the bottom of the boat, in the dark, until her hand landed on the cold, wet metal of the gun.

  “Hold on,” he shouted and jerked the boat into a deep turn.

  Too late, she tumbled across the deck and rolled into the port gunwale before managing to pull herself up on her knees. Bannon kept the lifeboat in a tight turn, bringing it around. He was going to make a run straight at their pursuers.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” she said peeling wet hair off her face. “Isn’t the point of escaping to travel away from your enemies.”

  “The best defense…” He shouted.

  “Is a suicide run?”

  A bullet pierced the polyurethane hull. Escaping air whistled. The torn fabric flapped. Like rigid inflatable boats the tube was sectioned into chambers, reducing the effect of a single puncture. That didn’t mean more bullets holes wouldn’t eventually sink them.

  “When we get close,” Bannon shouted. “Shoot.”

  “There’s at least two gunmen.”

  Her point being, there was only a better than slim chance she could take them both out before one of them shot her, or Bannon, or sunk the lifeboat out from under them. Bullets were already flying.

  “Not them. There!” He pointed.

  Tara realized what he wanted her to do. She stretched her arms out, laying across the rubber-like gunwale to support her two-handed grip. She aimed. “You need to get closer.”

  Bannon throttled the engine, aiming the high rising bow at a straight run at the stern of their pursuer’s boat. Tara sighted in—or tried to. Not an easy task in a bouncing inflatable boat, sea spraying in her face, and people shooting at them.

  “Stop bouncing around!”

  “You don’t think I’m trying?” Bannon shouted back.

  She pulled the trigger.

  The bullet pinged off the cowl of the outboard motor.

  She aimed again, lower this time and double-tapped the trigger.

  She wasn’t sure, but thought she saw a spark.

  A second passed.

  The driver of the boat who’d ducked away from her gunfire sat back up. He glanced down at the outboard engine. Then he looked back at Tara. They were close enough for her to see fear in his shiny face.

  “Pull away!” she shouted to Bannon. “Pull away!”

  She’d hit the fuel line. The hot bullet ignited the gasoline spewing from the severed line. Fire consumed the spilling gasoline like a hungry demon. The pooled gas burned hot and blue, a line of flame raced along the fuel line, reaching the boat’s gas tanks.

  Bannon twisted the outboard hard, executing a hard-right turn.

  The other boat erupted in a loud, roiling, black and orange fireball.

  The polyurethane hull sections blew out like exploding mylar balloons. One of the gunmen, consumed in fire, ran for the bow of the boat, screaming, and waving his arms. He leaped into the water.

  The splash cutting off his screams.

  A wave of heat washed over Bannon and Tara. She raised her arm in defense and squinted as the fireball rolled skyward, her ears ringing from the blast. Tara fell back against the opposite gunwale, cold, wet, and bone weary.

  Debris—what was left of the boat—rained down from the sky like orange confetti. The forward section of the boat, burning, sending a column of black, foul-smelling smoke into the air, floated on the waves, slowly slipping under the water.

  Bannon swung their inflatable away from the paltry sinking remains of the fiery lifeboat and the bodies left floating on the water.

  He goosed the throttle. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Tire Iron drove McMurphy, Tara, and the rest of their kidnappers from the wharf to a side road off D Street in South Boston. It was a block away from the convention center, a green space called the Lawn on D—a popular outdoor space that hosted live music, lawn games, food and drinks, and other events—and several hotels.

  They pulled up in front of a low, single story brick building with blacked out windows and neon beer signs wedged between the closed shutters and the panes of glass. Across from it several empty over the road trailers were parked, overflow from the package delivery service company down the road.

  When Tire Iron shut the suburban off, Dennis climbed out and poked Kayla in the ribs with his gun.

  “Hey!”

  “Get out,” he ordered.

  McMurphy leaned forward, looking past Kayla. He stared hard at Dennis. “Do that again and we’re gonna dance. Just you and me. Gun or no gun.”

  Dennis paled but backed up. He waved the gun, directing them to an opening between a low chain link fence. He pushed them along the sidewalk. The slabs were cracked with sections heaved upward from years of weather and neglect. They reached the front entrance of the building. Over the door a sign read: Jimmy’s All-Nude Girl Revue. It even had a blinking neon bikini clad stripper and a pole.

  Kayla stared at the sign. “A strip club, Skyjack. Really?”

  He frowned. “Does any part of this seem remotely like my idea?”

  Dennis opened the door, releasing a blast of dance music so deep McMurphy felt it in his chest. Inside, the bass-heavy beat reverberated so loud it was an assault on the ears. The hazy, smoke-filled air soured McMurphy’s already twisting gut.

  That late in the night—or early in the morning depending on your perspective—there were few patrons left in the club.

  Those that were there, were bleary eyed drunks who’d let life get the better of them. With nothing better to do, they spent their nights at the bar drinking overpriced, watered-down booze and watching naked women with vacant eyes dance across a carpeted stage and twirl around greasy metal poles in front of a smeared floor-to-ceiling mirror.

  The stage was ensconced behind the bar that ran the length of the room, providing a buffer between any overzealous handsy customers who’d want to do more than watch. Two women performed, wearing only sparkly panties. They halfheartedly spun around their poles, tried to look sexy, but their bored expressions belayed their minimal efforts.

  Dennis led them down the length of the bar to a door in the back next to the entrance to the kitchen. The air thick with a greasy, burnt smell. McMurphy didn’t want to think about the food that got prepared there or the hefty payoffs made to the health inspectors to not look too closely.

  His thoughts were on the confrontation about to occur with a man he hadn’t seen or spoken to in over five years.

  Down the hallway beyond the door, the pounding music faded, muted by the closed doors behind them but still felt through the floor and walls. At the far end of the hall, Dennis swung open a second door and stepped to one side. “In here.”

  McMurphy and Kayla entered a storage room filled with stacked cases of beer and whiskey, old kegs, and metal racks full of bar supplies; glasses, paper napkins, industrial size cartons of beer nuts, bite-size pretzels, and trail mix. A hand cart stood in the corner next to a slop sink, mops, buckets, and brooms. The room was dimly lit by a weak overhead bulb dangling from a cord. An old, gunmetal gray desk sat under a bank of windows high on the wall. The office chair behind it, black leather, had a large tear through it where the stuffing leaked out.

  No expense spared, McMurphy thought.

  At the far end of the room, a large, wide-shouldered man stood with his back to them. He held one meaty hand behind his back while he poured whiskey into a glass with the other at a makeshift bar. He wore a sport coat a size too small.

  Without turning, he said, “Leave.”

  “You sure, Jimmy?” Dennis said, “They’re…”

  “Dangerous?” Jimmy Flanagan turned with a cut crystal glass in his hand. McMurphy knew the dark amber liquid over ice was Jameson whiskey and cranberry juice. “The day I can’t whip my boy’s ass if I need to—”

  “Your father is Paddy Flanagan?” Kayla asked. “The head of the Irish mob?”

  McMurphy i
gnored her question. He stepped toward his father, confrontational. “What the hell is this, old man?”

  Flanagan glared passed McMurphy’s shoulder to address Dennis. “I told ya, get outta here. And take the broad with ya.”

  “No,” McMurphy said. “She stays.”

  Father and son locked gazes. McMurphy fisted his hands. A physical confrontation with Flanagan wouldn’t be their first. An uncomfortable second passed. Paddy sighed, giving in.

  “Fine. The girl stays. Dennis, don’t make me tell ya again.”

  The henchman stepped out and pulled the door shut behind him.

  Kayla moved into the room, taking a stance beside McMurphy. The thumping music, dulled by distance and sound dampening materials embedded in the walls, still made the walls and floor feel like they were alive. The pulse of a beating—angry—heart.

  McMurphy stared as Flanagan sipped his drink.

  His old man wore a blue denim shirt under his sport coat. The top couple of buttons undone, red and gray wisps of his hairy chest bubbled out. His hair was thinner, the streaks of white at his temple more prominent, than McMurphy remembered, but the same bright red as his own. In truth, the old man looked…old, and tired.

  “We had an understanding,” McMurphy said. “I’d leave you alone if you left me alone.”

  Flanagan stepped passed McMurphy and reached a hand out in greeting to Kayla. “All these years, my son’s still got no manners. I’m Jimmy Flanagan. You can call me Paddy. But you already know that.”

  Kayla dismissed his offered handshake. “I don’t appreciate being brought here, by force, against my will, Mr. Flanagan.”

  Flanagan smiled. He looked at McMurphy. “She’s got pizazz. I like her.” He turned back to the bar. “Drink?”

  “Why did you bring us here?” McMurphy demanded.

  Flanagan refreshed his drink, pouring a generous amount of whiskey over very little juice and ice. “If you’d just pick up the phone when I call. This all could’ve been avoided.”

  “Cut the crap, old man.”

  Paddy slammed his drink glass down on the bar and advanced on McMurphy in the blink of an eye, fast for a man of his size and age. Father and son, toe-to-toe, eye-to-eye, they stared at each other, both seething with anger.