The Yakuza Gambit

by David DeLee

  Li Qiang dragged himself across the floor. He propped himself up against the wall. With both hands he put pressure on his knee. They were slick and shiny with fresh blood. He ground his teeth. His scalp slick with sweat. He glowered at Kayla with hateful eyes.

  “You’re dead,” Wang said.

  “We all are, sooner or later,” Tara said.

  “You shall not see the next sunrise. I promise you that.”

  “Blah, blah, blah,” Tara said. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to shut up and listen. Toi Kwon. You’re going to take us to him.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  Tara pressed her gun tighter to his head. “Remember that.”

  She pulled him off the open door and pulled him along toward the front room.

  Kayla helped Huan up from the floor where she cringed, her arms around her bare legs, hugging them close to her body. Her eyes were wide and her cheeks tear-stained.

  “I am sorry,” Huan said. “I did not know you and your friend could do such things.”

  “It’s okay,” Kayla said. “Come on.”

  With a protective arm over the girl’s shoulder, she led to the door, keeping her Sig trained on Li Qiang, but the large man made no attempt to get up, no attempt to stop them.

  In the hallway, they followed Tara.

  She pushed Wang. He stumbled but kept walking. They reached the front room.

  The girls were gone, the door left hanging open. But the way was blocked by Wang’s two thugs. They stood blocking the door and showed no signs of giving up their positions.

  “Tell them to back away,” Tara said. “To go downstairs. Now!”

  Wang hesitated.

  Tara spoke close to his ear. “I know Chinese. Play games and tóu bàozhà.”

  Loosely translated, what she’d said was head explosion.

  She tapped her gun barrel against his skull. A reminder.

  Wang’s face drained of color. He gave the order, shouting in rapid Chinese.

  The men stepped back, watchful and reluctant, but they made their way into the corridor.

  Kayla left Huan long enough to go to the corridor and watch the men go down the stairs. When they were out of sight, she came back into the room. “You know they’ll just wait for us to go downstairs, go outside, eventually.”

  “No they won’t.”

  Tara shoved Wang to the sofa.

  He dropped into the cushion with an angry but timid look in his eyes. “Whatever this is, you’ll never get away with it. You have no idea who you’re messing with.”

  From outside, there was the sudden burp of a police siren, followed by an unnaturally loud voice barking commands through a bullhorn. Beyond the room where the receptionist desk was set up, from between the closed Venetian blinds, electric blue light splashed across the walls.

  “When did you get a chance to call the cops?” Kayla said.

  “I didn’t. I had a friend ping my phone’s GPS, with instructions, if I remained stationary for more than ten minutes, he was to surround the place and stop anyone who left.”

  “He?” Kayla asked.

  “Later.” Tara aimed the gun at Wang’s face. “Tell me where Toi Kwon is.”

  “How should I know?”

  “You know,” Tara insisted. “You’re his son-in-law.”

  Shocked, Kayla said, “What?”

  “Last night on the Bakuto, Kwon poured out his whole life sob story to me. How as a kid, his father sent him and his mother away, for their own protection. How he refused to do that to his own family. How he didn’t exile his wife and daughter, and instead, had to suffer through her marrying a dim-witted nobody. A worthless piero, a clown. A man so worthless Kwon had to support him, give him a job.” To Wang, she said, “Kwon’s holding a hostage. I want to know where. You’re going to tell me.”

  As if Wang had suddenly grown a spine, he said, “And if I don’t?”

  “We set up a good old fashion prisoner exchange.”

  Wang barked a laugh. “Stupid girl. Kwon cares nothing about me. You just said, he thinks I’m dim-witted, a worthless burden.”

  “Sure. But he loves his daughter Soo-Jin.”

  Wang’s eyes went wide. “My wife.”

  “His daughter,” Tara said. “The choice is yours. Tell us where Kwon’s holding Billy Palmer or we go get Soo-Jin. Once I put the word out we’re holding her…” Tara let the statement drop.

  Wang sank deeper into the saggy cushions. “He’ll see it as my fault. Either way I am dead.”

  “Probably.” Tara shrugged, not caring. “But one way keeps Soo-Jin out of it. Safe.”

  Wang slumped his shoulders. “You win. I will tell you to where you must go.”

  Tara nodded to Kayla and smiled. “Now that’s more like it.”

  Kayla stiffened at the sound of footsteps racing up the corridor stairs.

  Tara called out, “In here, Detective Martin. The apartment’s secure.”

  Tara kept her gun trained on Wang as two BPD tactical officers charged through the open door, automatic rifles at the ready. Behind them came two uniform street cops and a handsome man with a square jaw, a cleft chin, and amazing blue eyes. He wore a gray overcoat and a gold badge.

  “Stand down, boys,” he called out. “I know this one.”

  The cops stood to one side, keeping a wary eye on Tara and Kayla and their guns.

  “Tarakesh Sardana,” Detective Martin said. A smile tucked at the corner of his mouth upon seeing her. “What have you been up to?”

  “Curtis.” Tara smiled back.

  Kayla arched an eyebrow.

  Martin ordered his men to check out the rest of the apartment. Tara told them about Li Qiang. They went to check it out. Martin holstered his weapon.

  “You were able to round everyone up?” Tara asked.

  “Four goons, five very frightened girls, and one extremely foul-mouthed madam.” He nodded at Huan. “Who’s this?”

  “One of the girls forced to work here,” Kayla said, stepping forward. She held Huan by the hand. “Her family in Taiwan is in jeopardy, threatened by Kwon.”

  “And you would be?”

  “I’m a friend of Tara’s. Lieutenant Kayla Clarke, Coast Guard Judge Advocate General’s Office,” Kayla said. “I have the full authority of the Office of the Secretary of the Department of Homeland Security.”

  “DHS, huh?” Detective Martin said with a laugh. “You had me at I’m a friend of Blades. We’ll take good care of her, Lieutenant. You have my word.”

  “Thank you. Huan, go with this man. He’ll help keep you safe.” Kayla said. “And I’ll have my people ensure no harm comes to your family.”

  The girl nodded, still nervous.

  “You’re safe,” Kayla assured her. “I promise.”

  Huan nodded again.

  Martin said, “Fill me in, Blades. What’s going on?” He jutted his chin, indicating Wang. “Who’s this?”

  “Yong Wang. He’s Toi Kwon’s son-in-law. And someone we need a few minutes with. Alone.”

  “You give me the full scoop afterwards?” the cop asked.

  “Everything.” Tara looked at Wang. “Including him, and he’ll be ready to sing like a bird.”

  Wang arched an eyebrow. “I will? Says who?”

  “You,” Tara said. “If you want to live. You said it yourself. Kwon will kill you. The best chance…the only chance you have of coming out of this alive is cooperating with me, and then with the police.”

  Wang slumped further down in the sofa. If he caved in on himself any further, he’d disappear into the cushions forever. She turned to Martin. “Detective?”

  “Do what you’ve got to do,” he said. “I’ll just take this young lady downstairs and get her set up with the victim advocacy group we use.”

  “Thank you, detective.” Kayla watched him go. When they were out of earshot, she said, “He’s dreamy. We need to talk.”

  “Another time.” Tara turned her attention to Wang. “You�
�ve got two minutes to start talking or we invite Soo-Jin to the party.”

  He frowned. “What do you want to know?”

  Tara said, “Everything.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  “What were you thinking?” Singleton demanded, he and Bannon still in Meredith Palmer’s driveway. The gathering dusk had gained its nightly momentum, driving the late afternoon sunshine into hiding. Ribbons of dark clouds stretched across the lower sky over the crest of the surrounding maple and oak trees, most of which had already shed their leaves for the coming winter. The approaching darkness matched Bannon’s mood.

  He leaned against the fender of his truck, folded his arms over his chest, and crossed his ankles, letting the cop launch into his tirade against him. Bannon owed him that much.

  Singleton pointed at the house. “You can’t tell her something like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “That you’ll bring her son back home safe and sound, much less promise it.”

  “Why not?” Bannon said. “I will.”

  Frustrated, Singleton waved his arms in the air. “You can’t know that! You tell ’em you’ll try. You tell ’em you’ll do everything in your power, but you don’t make a promise like that. When you can’t deliver that false hope, it’ll crush her. They teach that day one in the police academy.”

  “Good thing I didn’t go to the police academy then.” Bannon pushed off the fender. “Look, Chief, you and I have never worked together before.”

  “I’m not working with you now.” His tone made clear his frustration.

  “If you did, you’d know I don’t make promises lightly. And I never break them.”

  “I’ve looked into you, Bannon. Checked out your service record, and yeah, you’ve done some crazy ass things. Pulled off impossible missions in the war. But this isn’t Afghanistan. We’re not at war and—”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. This is a war. One I intent to stop. As for in there,” he nodded toward the house. “I will get her son back. If you’d had real good look at my record, you’d know I always deliver.”

  Singleton opened his mouth to speak, snapped it shut, then waved his hand in the air, giving up the fight. He rubbed his eyes. He looked tired. Bannon wondered if he’d gotten any sleep since Alex Ricci’s body was discovered.

  “Whatever,” the cop said. “You’re the one’ll have to face her if you’re wrong. Now, tell me the rest of it.”

  “Rest of what?”

  “What you wouldn’t say inside. You didn’t gather all this information having a friendly chat with LaSala and Kwon. How’d you dig all this up?”

  “Isn’t there an unwritten rule to not ask a question you don’t want the answer to?”

  “Don’t ask a question you don’t already have the answer to,” Singleton said. “That’s for lawyers, not cops. What have you got? All of it.”

  Bannon said, “I might’ve bent a few rules—”

  His cell phone rang. He held up a finger to Singleton and answered it. “Bannon.”

  Tara’s voice, barely above a whisper. “We’ve found where they’re holding Billy Palmer. We’re pretty sure anyway. Brice, you’re not going to believe it.”

  “You haven’t taken any action?” he asked.

  “Oh, we took action,” she said. “But no, we haven’t gone in here…yet.”

  “Good. Is it somewhere you can sit and wait?”

  She hesitated before answering. “Sure. For a little while, but not for how long.”

  “Send me your location,” he said. “I’m leaving now.”

  “Is Skyjack with you?” she asked.

  “No. He’s tracking down another lead. Why?”

  “Kwon picked this place for a reason,” Tara said. “We’re going to need all hands on deck.”

  “Kayla still with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Keep her there and sit tight.” Bannon looked at Singleton who stared back with a quizzical expression. “I suspect I won’t be coming alone. Text me the location.”

  He hung up. Before he could pocket the phone, it beeped, signaling an incoming text. The location. Seeing it, he frowned. Tara was right. He didn’t believe it. Ballsy. He had to give that to Kwon.

  “Tara—”

  “Your bartender?”

  “Trust me,” Bannon said. “She’s way more than that. She and another…associate of ours, they’ve found where Kwon’s holding Palmer.”

  “Great. Tell me where.” Singleton pulled out his phone and started to dial.

  “Who are you calling?”

  “The BPD’s got an Organized Crime Task Force for this sort of thing,” Singleton said. “They can get a Special Operations Unit mobilized—”

  Bannon snatched the phone from his hand.

  “Hey!”

  “No disrespect, Chief, but there’s a lot more at stake here than just Billy Palmer. Stuff I haven’t had a chance to tell you about yet.”

  “What could be more important than saving a man’s life?”

  “Saving a lot of lives.”

  The cop stared at him with a hard, no nonsense stare. “Then you better come clean, Bannon. And I mean fast.”

  “Will do. Besides, Palmer’s not being held in Massachusetts. BPD can’t help us. No local department can.” Bannon hitched a thumb toward his truck as he went for the driver’s side door. “Jump in. If you want a part of this. I’ll fill you in on the way.”

  Bannon pulled the door of his truck open, but Singleton hadn’t moved. “Clock’s ticking, Chief.”

  “Damn it.” He circled around to the passenger side of the big F-350 and climbed in. “Wherever we’re going, we’d make better time with my ride. You know lights and siren.”

  “And draw too much attention.” Bannon looked at the location on his phone again. “This op’s going to require stealth over shock and awe. And, there’s some things in the back we’re going to need.”

  Singleton closed the door harder than was necessary. Bannon winced but understood the man’s anger. “Then drive and start talking.”

  “One quick question before we go,” Bannon said. “What we’re about to do, it’s going to be an-ends-justify-the-means-type scenario.”

  “I’ve got no problem coloring outside the lines, Bannon” he said. “Provided I have the whole picture. Am I going to get that?”

  Bannon backed the truck out of the driveway. “By the time we get where we’re going, you’ll know everything I know.”

  Twenty minutes later, Bannon finished talking. The cop knew everything, every detail.

  With a stunned expression, Singleton said, “Draw outside the lines? You people torched the whole damn coloring book.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The drive east and north from Amherst took them just under an hour.

  They crossed into Maine via the Memorial Bridge, at seven that night. Bannon drove over Badger’s Island, skirting the city of Kittery, before taking another causeway to Seavey’s Island, home of the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard.

  A two-hundred-year-old shipbuilding facility, now operated by the U.S. Navy, had come into being when in 1776 they built the U.S.S. Raleigh, a 32-gun, three mast frigate. The first vessel ever to sail into battle flying the American flag. During World War I the facility switched to constructing submarines but continued to overhaul and repair surface ships as well. The last submarine built there was a Sturgeon-class attack sub launched in 1969. Since then the shipyard has continued to provide overhaul, repair, refueling, and modernizing services to the current submarine fleet.

  Bannon’s Coast Guard ID and Investigative Services badge got them past the Navy sentries posted at the entrance of the island.

  “This entire island is a military installation,” Bannon said as they pulled through the gate and drove south along John Paul Jones Street.

  “That’s what you meant, local cops don’t have jurisdiction here.”

  “Right. But the port’s home to three of the Coast Guard’s medi
um endurance cutters,” Bannon said, explaining how he was allowed access onto the island.

  “Okay, but why are we here?” Singleton asked. “Kwon’s not holding Palmer on a Navy base.” He added, “Is he?”

  “Not exactly.” Bannon pulled into a parking space in the dark, away from the security lighting, along the southwest shore of the island, just short of Henderson Point. The pavement stretched to the end of the dock, where thick wooden pylons were lashed with thick rope.

  They got out of the big Ford.

  The air was heavy with the smell of saltwater and diesel fuel. It had turned cold, too. A harbinger of the harsh New England winter that was to come. Water lapped gently against the pylons. A lone buoy clanged. An outboard motor whined somewhere in the distance. Lights dotted the dark outlines of the chain of islands between them and the New Hampshire mainland coastline south of them.

  Tara and Kayla climbed out of her little red Miata and joined them.

  “You were right, Blades,” Bannon said. “This is a surprise.”

  “But definitely our wheelhouse,” she said.

  “What are you two talking about?” Singleton asked.

  “That.” Bannon pointed out to the Picataqua River. There, low in the water, sat a dark, foreboding vessel with a midship pilothouse and single masthead.

  “It’s a boat,” Singleton said. “We’re in a shipyard. Of course there’s a boat out there. What about it?”

  “Someone’s cranky,” Tara said.

  “The Chief’s not exactly happy with me at the moment. As for that boat—”

  “Don’t, Brice. Please,” Kayla said.

  “What?” Bannon asked innocently, and turned to Singleton. “That’s not just any boat, Chief. It’s a SC497-class submarine chaser.”

  “Here he goes,” Kayla said, rolling her eyes.

  “One of over four hundred ships built between 1941 and 1944. One hundred and ten feet long, with a beam of seventeen feet, they were powered by two, eight hundred horsepower GM diesel engines, capable of speeds up to fifteen knots. They were armed with a 40mm forward gun, three 20mm midship guns, a twin 50-cal. machine gun aft, and fourteen depth charges. They crewed with three officers and twenty-four enlisted personnel.”