For all Hardas knew, the Bureau could have been monitoring Shaw’s phone line as well, which meant they knew about Kobe’s place. He had to get out of there.
Rising from his chair, he pinched the remains of his cigarette between yellow fingertips. The Lone Star was five minutes away at a run. He made his way to the back of the bar and found Kobe sitting staring at a small television.
Kobe’s face was a sickly hue in the reflected light of the screen. But his eyes shone with a contained energy. He was slight and seemed lost in the folds of a leather kimono. When he raised a hand to wipe away a tear of laughter, Hardas glimpsed the tattooed tail that flicked about his wrist to envelop his arm in a red-green dragon. A potent reminder that this man was yakuza.
“One minute, Commander, this is the best part.”
Hardas glanced at the screen. The picture quality was grainy black and white. A fat man in a tight suit stood beside a ridiculously thin man who was scratching his head in confusion to the accompaniment of a tinny piano.
“That’s another fine mess, no,” Kobe mimicked, before muting the television.
“I have to leave,” Hardas said. “I was expecting someone, though. If he arrives, could you make certain he remains here till I return?” He pulled out a photograph of Lightholler, the one Shine had lifted from the Bureau assassin. He passed it to the gangster, who rotated it a full three-hundred-and-sixty degrees before passing it back. “And keep him out of sight.”
“I don’t know. You all look the same to me, Mr Hardas.” Kobe rolled his eyes.
Hardas reached back into his pocket and withdrew a wad of ten-thousand-yen notes. He peeled a number of bills off the top of the roll and handed them over.
“I feel a sudden improvement in my vision,” Kobe said with a smile.
“I bet you do.” Hardas smiled back through his teeth. “If I’m not back in the hour, could you send him on to the Lone Star?”
Kobe’s eyes returned to Hardas’s billfold.
Hardas took some more notes from the roll and handed them over. “Is there a way out back?” he asked.
“Always.”
Kobe took the rest of the bills from Hardas’s hand unceremoniously. Slipping them somewhere within his kimono, he replied, “If I see this man, I will take care of it. Consider your contribution an insurance payment.” He patted his kimono. “That’s the best deal you’ll get in Osakatown.”
Hardas watched the red-green dragon writhe on gold hairless skin and said, “I know it.”
Kobe led him out of the bar.
XV
The Hotspur was perched at the lip of the tunnel entrance, waiting for the traffic to pass. The driver snapped on his lights and a single beam illuminated the car ahead.
“You ought to get that fixed,” Lightholler said, addressing the back of the driver’s head. “A sentry might pull you over.”
The two agents traded a look. Collins withdrew a gun from his shoulder holster and let it rest in his lap. A Dillinger parabellum with a customised leather grip.
“What tipped you off?” Collins asked carelessly.
“You had no idea about the Lone Star.”
“We do now, Captain. Thank you.”
Lightholler felt the panic seep. Cold fear worked its way from the nape of his neck to his fingertips. There was a lurch as the Hotspur waded into the tunnel’s traffic.
“Who are you?”
“CBI, Captain, like we said,” Shaw replied. “Kennedy sold us out. You’ve sold us out. Keep your nose clean and you just might have an exciting story to tell your grandchildren.”
Lightholler felt the muzzle of another gun poke up against his right flank. There’d been no telltale click of the safety’s release but that meant little. Familiar enough with small arms, he entertained no confidence in snatching the other agent’s weapon in time to gain any advantage. Besides, he’d done nothing wrong.
They were only a few car lengths into the tunnel when the traffic started to pile up. The far left lane, usually reserved for the aristocracy, was empty. Amazingly, the driver veered into it. Clearly, he was new to New York. Lightholler felt a faint swell of hope.
“Hey, what are you doing?” Collins called out.
The driver opened up the throttle and the Hotspur coughed into fourth gear. “I’m making time,” he replied.
A red light began to flash at the tunnel’s far end, above their lane.
“Fuck,” Shaw said.
“What’s going on?” The driver spoke out of the corner of his mouth.
“What are you? An idiot?” Shaw snarled. “Never touch the left lane unless you’re on horseback or dragging a shitload of rich nips in the back of a limo. Jesus, just pull over. I’ll deal with this.”
“You’d better let Cooper know,” Collins said. There might have been the slightest edge of alarm in his voice.
Lightholler felt the gun’s muzzle slip away as Shaw reached for the radio. Collins placed his own weapon beneath the flap of his jacket, his hand still firmly on its grip. From another pocket he withdrew a thick roll of yen notes, saying, “This ought to take care of it.”
“Behave nice, Captain,” Shaw growled. “We don’t want to spark off an international incident now, do we?”
The others seemed to find this comment amusing and were still chuckling as the car rolled to a halt. Lightholler peered into the tunnel.
Ahead, into the single beam of the Hotspur’s headlight, stepped a solitary figure.
XVI
Kennedy had selected the Lone Star Cafe for a number of reasons. Its owner, Friedman, was an old friend—a veteran who’d served under his command in the Second Ranger War. It was situated in a busy neighbourhood. It had three exits. As one of the last outposts of Southern culture remaining in the Union, its sheer obviousness made it ideal. The perfect place to hide a Confederate conspiracy was among a group of bitter Southern sympathisers who spent their afternoons exchanging tales of the glory days between mouthfuls of whiskey and cheap Texan beer.
The café’s door was tattooed with the mandatory faded yellow rose that grew from the sawdust-paved floorboards. Dim light filtered through bronze-tinted windows in a permanent sunset. The walls were adorned with flags, including the old Texas State banner and a tattered Confederate battle standard. Between them hung the flag of the Second Confederacy: a blue star ringed by eleven smaller stars, surmounted on a concessionary field of red and white stripes. Beneath the flags hung maps marking out the territories that had rushed to join the new Texan Republic following its secession from the Union in 1930: Florida, Georgia, Tennessee, Alabama, Oklahoma, Mississippi, Arkansas, Louisiana, New Mexico, Arizona and Nevada.
There was an eclectic assortment of photographs that ran the gamut from Hank Williams to President Patton, all arranged around a centrepiece depicting the last meeting between Lee and Jackson. To one side, a more recent portrait of Thomas Clancy—incumbent president of the Confederacy—had been defaced. Someone had added a monocle and spiked German helmet to his photo. Friedman had left it hanging with no attempt at removing the crude alterations. For all Kennedy knew, he might have made the “improvements” himself.
Kennedy and Morgan sat at a wooden table in the back. Kennedy had his back to the wall. He let his hand slip down the side of the chair leg to feel the reassuring presence of the leather satchel beneath his feet.
“Another drink?” Morgan ventured, breaking the silence.
“Coffee, thanks,” Kennedy replied. “You could probably do with one yourself.”
Morgan eyed him sourly and made a beeline for the bar.
Kennedy’s glance swept across the mixed crowd of Confederate wannabes. He felt displeasure rise within him at the young Union business types and tourists who thought that wearing a string tie or a faded grey shirt conferred upon them the immediate status of Johnny Rebel. Then again, hadn’t an affinity between South and North been one of the more peaceful precepts of Camelot?
Perhaps, but the South was a nation. North was jus
t another direction on the map.
It was almost midday and still no word from Hardas. Kennedy’s forces were scattered, spread wide across the board and largely unsupported. He needed to regain some semblance of control.
The saloon doors swung open. Kennedy rose from his chair at the sight of Hardas’s silhouette. He was alone. He caught sight of Morgan at the bar and followed him back to the table.
“Anyone see you come in?” Kennedy asked.
“No.”
“Sit down. Talk to me.”
“Shaw and Collins didn’t show.” Struggling with the words, Hardas stared at the floor.
“If they had him, they would have brought him in by now,” Kennedy said.
“I left a snapshot of Lightholler with Kobe,” Hardas offered.
“We’re not waiting. Whoever neutralised Shaw and Collins is going to come after us.”
“Kobe took my money. He won’t talk,” Hardas said.
The yakuza held little love for any authority, East or West, that was true enough. Currency was their creed. Under reasonable circumstances Hardas’s words might have been a guarantee. But Kennedy was familiar enough with Bureau extraction procedures. He felt a stab of remorse. He said, “Whoever’s on our tail will make Kobe talk. We have to cut our losses. Our flight is booked for 2100 hours.”
XVII
The sentry stood at a distance, his dark coat haloed cherry-red in the strobe’s flicker. He seemed to be waiting for something. In the other lanes the traffic proceeded at a crawl.
Over the years, certain laws might have been observed with increasing laxity but one held firm. In a world where the stultifying progress of technology was an affront to those who held power, the older ways were held in high regard. The roadways reserved for the passage of the aristocracy were sacrosanct. You could only travel in the left lane in a horse-drawn vehicle or rickshaw, and you could only occupy such a conveyance if you held the title of daimyo or greater.
Lightholler eyed the agent’s bankroll. Money could buy you out of a lot of trouble in New York City, but not under the watchful lenses of the traffic cameras. The drivers and passengers in the other cars kept their eyes straight ahead, in careful control of their curiosity.
The sentry finally approached the Hotspur, his coat straining slightly against his stocky frame with each step. He placed a hand against the driver’s door and waited as the man wound the window down. His head was shaved to a raw stubble. He wore his collar raised. His face, shrouded in shadow, was concealed behind a filter mask.
“Officer, I can explain everything,” Shaw began, leaning towards the open window with a cheek-wide grin. His voice was infused with warmth.
There was a blinding flash of light. Lightholler heard the sound of bone shattering even before the ear-splitting blast of gunfire registered. Shaw’s body jerked and his head snapped back in a shower of blood. Lightholler’s face tingled with sticky warmth.
With ridiculous slowness the sentry brought his firearm back across Lightholler’s line of sight. A part of him noted the weapon’s singular design, the long thick bulk of the magazine clip in front of the trigger guard, the dark aperture of the Mauser meeting his own eyes briefly as it swung towards Collins, who was now fumbling for his Dillinger.
Both guns discharged simultaneously.
The Dillinger barked twice within the fold of the agent’s coat, punching small holes in the driver’s seat. Collins rolled forwards onto his weapon with a groan.
The windshield behind them was a mosaic of bone and brain. The driver was twitching spasmodically in his seat, his hands clasping his abdomen where Collins’ stray rounds had emerged. His face twisted in the rear-view mirror, then exploded with the sentry’s third bullet.
It all happened in less than a minute.
The sentry turned his gun back towards Lightholler, who was bound in a struggle with the two fresh corpses. He had one foot on a bloodied skull, slipping against the slick car door seeking purchase, squeezing behind the other’s body towards the other locked door. Warmth spread in his groin and a small part of him regarded the moisture, hoping for piss rather than blood.
“Captain,” the sentry said in English.
Lightholler threw his arms up in front of his face, biting blood out of his lower lip in expectation. His eyes screwed shut as moments stretched towards eternity.
“Captain...”
Captain?
Lightholler froze, then slowly lowered his arms.
“Get out of the car.” The sentry’s voice, filtered by the mask, was laboured.
Lightholler’s legs were water as he shifted across one of the bodies and made his way out the passenger door.
“Please...” he started to say.
“Walk.” The sentry motioned towards the road divider with his gun barrel. “Climb across.”
Lightholler clambered over the divider. Unable to ignore him now, drivers began staring at the Hotspur’s blood-curtained windows. He weaved through the cars, the sentry at his heels.
Sirens began to sound in the distance.
A cab pulled up, slowly.
“Wait here.” The sentry approached the vehicle. He hunched over for a few moments and then turned back to Lightholler. “Where were you supposed to meet Kennedy?”
“You’re out of your mind if you think I’m going anywhere with you.”
“Believe me when I tell you, you’ve nowhere else to turn.” The sentry indicated the Hotspur with a nod. “You’re a marked man.” His distorted voice sounded almost compassionate.
The sirens were closer. The whole tunnel was lit with flashing red lights. Crazy shadows began to leap the walls.
“Get in. Go.” The sentry gestured towards the waiting vehicle.
Lightholler didn’t need to be told twice.
XVIII
Hardas was gazing past Kennedy’s shoulder. Kennedy turned to see Friedman appear at his side.
Friedman said, “There’s someone here to see you, Major.”
For a fleeting moment Kennedy didn’t recognise the man Friedman escorted to the table.
Lightholler’s eyes flicked from Hardas to Morgan before finally settling on Kennedy. His shirt was unbuttoned, damp with sweat and stained with wide splashes of dark brown. He held his jacket crumpled and wound around one arm like a bandage or a falconer’s glove. His face was concrete-grey except for the harsh red-etched lines of his mouth. He swayed slightly where he stood.
“You fucking bastard.” His voice was low, his eyes centred on Kennedy.
Kennedy stared at his shirt. “You’ve been shot.”
“As it turns out,” Lightholler snarled, “I’m the only one who wasn’t.”
“What the hell happened?”
“I’ve lost my career, my ship, and I’ve been abducted.” His face flushed scarlet with anger. “I’ve just come from a fucking firefight. What the fuck have you gotten me into?”
Kennedy glanced at Friedman, who responded with a nod before heading to the front of the café. He’d noted the unhealthy attention of some of the café’s occupants. A few men near the bar were already staring with something like anticipation, perhaps in the hope of a brawl to break the monotony of their afternoon.
“Please, Captain, sit down.” Kennedy hadn’t counted on this godsend. Somehow, Lightholler was back in the picture.
Lightholler appeared to appreciate the fact that they’d gained an audience. Kennedy watched the emotions play across his face: a struggle taking place between a desire to satisfy the forming crowd and some decidedly English form of discretion. Hardas caught Kennedy’s eye, waiting for a signal. Kennedy didn’t respond. There was no need for a show of strength. Better to allow him the illusion of alternatives.
“If I don’t like what I hear, I’m leaving.” Lightholler lowered himself slowly into a chair. “Marked man or not, I’m going to the nearest police station. I’m going to the embassy. If I really don’t like what I hear, I’m going straight to the fucking Shogun. Is that clear?”
<
br /> “Are you hurt?”
“It’s not my blood.”
“Who took you?”
“They said they were CBI. They said that you’d sent them.”
“I sent two men for you. Agents Shaw and Collins.”
“That’s them. They had a driver.” Lightholler’s anger gave way to a calmness that was all the more disturbing.
“A driver?”
Morgan said something under his breath. Hardas chewed at his lower lip in silence.
“Where are they now?” Kennedy asked.
“They’re dead,” Lightholler replied. “Why don’t you know that?”
The alternatives raced through Kennedy’s mind. Lightholler’s bloodstained shirt. Webster’s words. The CBI assassins that Shine had removed. Wetworks were in town and someone had put another three men in the ground.
Why don’t you know that?
“Who killed my men?” Kennedy’s question was a whisper.
“They weren’t your men.” There was a note of satisfaction in Lightholler’s tone.
“Explain yourself.”
“Shaw said you were a sell-out, he had no idea where you...” Lightholler’s satisfaction faded into horror. “They’re coming here.”
“Who’s coming? You said they were dead.”
“Someone called Cooper. His team, whatever that means.”
“Christ,” Hardas said. “We’re screwed.”
“He won’t try anything here,” Kennedy said.
“It’s Cooper, damn it,” Hardas replied. “There’s going to be a fucking bloodbath.”
“Call Shine. Have him set up a corridor to the other place. Tell Friedman what’s going on.”
Hardas left the table to make the call.
“Major?” Morgan’s voice was barely a croak. “I can’t do this.”
Kennedy turned on him. “You got back late last night. You dealt us this hand. Not another word from you. Understand?”
The Company of the Dead Page 12