Seeing the others racing ahead, Akimoto finally managed to steel himself and followed them, pistol raised ahead of him ready to shoot the runaways or the dogs.
The sound of the kennels was horrendous, crazed barking from the Tosas, the Shiba Inus, the pit bulls, the Alsatians, all barking wildly for blood.
He heard his friends shouting – There they are! At the other side! Get them! – and then gunshots rang out, both from his allies and the man at the other end, who he could just about see now through the confusion.
But where was the man aiming?
He didn’t seem to be firing at them, but at . . .
No! It can’t be!
But Akimoto knew what was happening, the American firing at the locks of the kennel doors, blasting them away, the cage doors opening, dogs surging out, crazed and blood-hungry, and Akimoto’s worst nightmares came to life right in front of him, his screams heard even above the dogs.
Cole raced through into the yard, glad he didn’t have to watch the spectacle behind him; hearing it was bad enough, the shouts, the screams, the sound of bones cracking and shots being fired, dogs yelping when hit and snarling when on the attack. They were the sounds of savage, beastly deaths on both sides, and Cole was pleased to get the steel door shut on the carnage.
The exercise yard was small – obviously the dogs got most of their workouts done in the arena – and it occupied a sunken courtyard, dark and ominous brickwork rising on all sides around them.
‘There!’ Michiko said, pointing toward a gap in the wall, a narrow staircase hidden in shadow.
Cole moved toward it, instantly noted the high steel gate topped with barbed wire. But he never stopped, just kicked off the wall at the side and pulled himself up on the bars, pocketing his gun and pushing down with one hand onto the barbed wire, the ‘V’ of his thumb and forefinger slipping in between the barbs. He swung his legs over easily and reached down for Michiko, pulling her up and over with him. The barbs started to cut into his stomach as he lay atop the gate, but he ignored the pain as he helped Michiko over and down to the other side, landing lightly on his feet next to her moments later.
Together, they raced up the narrow staircase, confronted by another gate at the top; but Cole followed the same routine, and they were soon over that one too, landing quietly in a dark alleyway at the rear of the club.
‘Which way?’ asked Cole, looking up and down the alley.
Michiko pointed left. ‘That way goes to the front door,’ she said.
‘And the other?’
‘I don’t know, I’ve never been there.’
Cole stood there, checked the remaining ammunition in his pistol as he thought. Would Mitsuya’s limo still be outside the front? Or would he have already taken it and hightailed it out of there? The possibility of an armed reception committee by the front entrance was also one he couldn’t ignore.
But the other way? There could be anything, good or bad.
But, Cole figured, life wasn’t worth living if you didn’t take a chance once in a while. And so he took his daughter’s hand and pulled her right, down the alley and toward the unknown.
4
Mitsuya paced around the security office, incensed beyond measure. The window of the door was broken from where he’d smashed through it with a telephone handset, the desk was overturned along with its expensive computer system, and he’d pumped six rounds from his pistol into the upholstered leather sofa that sat in the corner, smoke still seeping out from the holes.
Asada and the club manager looked on in silent fear, having no idea what Mitsuya was liable to break next, hoping it wouldn’t be them.
Mitsuya simply couldn’t believe what had happened. What the hell was going on?
He had been manhandled by that damned American, had a gun pointed at him, had been taken hostage against his will, been forced to escape, to run away in front of his men. The shame was intolerable.
He was ashamed of his own cowardice; he knew that after falling into the swimming pool he should have stayed and fought, used the element of surprise to kill the American. But instead he had turned and fled, terrified for his own life.
The thought of his actions made him sick, and even more furious with the American for putting him in such a position. And just who the hell was he anyway? Was he the lawyer he claimed to be, or the reporter Mitsuya’s informer had described? Or was he something else entirely? He could fight like ten men, and from the garbled radio traffic that Mitsuya had been listening to – in addition to the CCTV footage from around the club – it seemed like he had single-handedly destroyed the club’s entire guard force, or near enough at least; there were barely half a dozen men left, out now combing the streets around San’ya. The man had escaped through the dog pound, along with Michiko.
Michiko. Damn.
Mitsuya reached for the bottle of vodka which he’d been drinking from since getting to the safety of the office and put it back to his lips, gulping it down.
How was he going to explain to Chomo about Michiko? The girl was the key to the Omoto-gumi’s financial success, the lynch-pin behind the family’s bid for the Yamaguchi leadership; without her, the support of the other families and sub-groups would no longer be able to be relied upon.
He had to get her back, and that was all; there was no other option, no other way. He would put out the word to every gangster in Tokyo, every gangster in Japan if he needed to. He would call upon his business contacts, his police contacts, his political contacts; anybody and everybody, until she was found and returned to him.
The American too, whoever he was; the man would be brought to him and Mitsuya would make him pay for the effrontery, the damage to Mitsuya’s reputation and his own feeling of self-worth. Mitsuya had never been forced to look hard at himself before, had never had reason to doubt his ability or his nerves. But now he had felt what it was like to be afraid like normal men, and despised the fact; despised the American more for forcing those feelings onto him.
He could only hope that the remaining six men would pick the couple up soon, and bring them back here. He would beat the girl, yes; but the American would suffer so much more. Mitsuya would beat him to a bloody pulp, use blades on him, bamboo stakes, needles, everything he could think of to make the man’s pain as immense as possible. And then he would pass the broken American on to the sex trade, a pillow boy to be used by men over and over again until not just his body was broken, but his mind and spirit too.
Yes, Mitsuya thought, if only they could be brought to me and –
The door opened then, one of his remaining soldiers peeping timidly through into the office.
Mitsuya saw him instantly, head snapping round. ‘You’ve found them?’ he asked.
‘No sir,’ the man said quickly, fearfully. ‘I am sorry to report that we can’t see them anywhere. They have vanished.’
‘Vanished?’ Mitsuya said, blood pressure rising quickly, eyes widening, stepping closer to the man in the doorway. ‘Vanished?’ he asked again, unable to accept what he was hearing. If it was true, if Michiko and the American had indeed vanished, then it was the worst possible news; the stain on Mitsuya’s reputation, on his immortal soul, would be tarnished forever.
And this fucking guy was in here telling him this shit, instead of staying outside and carrying on the search? Was the kid trying to make Mitsuya look bad? Was he in league with the American? Did he want them to escape? Was he fucking Michiko? Is that what it was?
Mitsuya was next to the man before anyone realized what was happening, hands on his jacket, pulling him savagely into the room, tossing him onto the floor and lashing out with his feet.
His leather shoes hit hard, the toe caps digging into the man’s ribs, his arms, his legs, his groin, kicking and kicking until his toes hurt and he started to stamp down with his heel instead, hard, vicious stomping kicks all over the kid’s body and then – most satisfying of all, when the arms could no longer offer any protection – the kid’s head, blood erupting from h
is nose, his ears, his eyes; and then when his legs got tired, he started to lay into him with his fists, bent over the kid’s prone body until his hands hurt and he pulled out his pistol and continued to beat him with the cold steel until – finally – Mitsuya slumped exhausted next to the bloodied, battered body, head on his chest, breathing ragged.
The whimpering that had come from the kid was gone now, and there was only the sound of Mitsuya’s own rapid breaths, the body next to him completely silent.
Mitsuya looked around the office with bleary eyes, saw Asada and the club manager cowering in the corner, terrified and disgusted in equal measure.
Well, fuck them, Mitsuya thought. The kid brought me bad news at the wrong time. Fuck them, and fuck him too.
So Michiko and the American were gone. So what? They couldn’t stay hidden for long, not in this city. Tokyo was Omoto-gumi territory, and it would only be a matter of time before they were found.
And then the real fun would begin.
Cole and Michiko sat together on the train as it raced from Inaricho Station on the Ueno line to Asakusa, eyes forever scanning the passengers around them.
They had survived the worst of it, but both knew that relaxation at this stage could be fatal; yakuza hoods could have followed them on board the train, could even now be working their way towards them.
The only positive was that at this time, on one of the last trains of the night before the line closed down until morning, passengers were few and far between compared to the closely-packed human melée of rush hour. Cole therefore had time to see people coming, which would in turn give him time to act. In a packed subway carriage, he could get a knife in the ribs and not even know who’d done it.
There were disadvantages too, of course; if anyone following them was armed with a gun – and was prepared to use it on the subway – then they would have a much easier target available to them.
But for the time being, Cole couldn’t see anyone to worry about; there was the usual late-night mix of students and young party-goers alongside several weary-looking sarariman who’d gone for a few drinks after work which had turned into a few more, then a few more. But no yakuza, as far as Cole could tell.
He knew Michiko would have more of idea about who was who, and he knew she was switched on to such threats; but she too called the all-clear.
Cole knew that the yakuza was powerful, but doubted they had the influence of a police state; when they got to Asakusa, he hoped that there wouldn’t have been enough time to post lookouts at every station in the area, and they’d be free to leave at will.
His plan was to leave Asakusa, walk a few blocks and then pick up a taxi to one of the outlying districts and hire a hotel room for the night so they could plan their next options. He had found his daughter and – for now at least – she wasn’t trying to kill him, which meant that they might be able to communicate and work things out.
But Cole was also aware of his obligations to Nakamura; he had received the police inspector’s help, in exchange for the promise of information sharing. But then again, Cole reminded himself, Nakamura’s deal had been made with Richard Baxter, a freelance reporter interested in Michiko for a story; Mark Cole was interested in her as his daughter, and would put her safety first, no matter what.
Besides which, Cole was suddenly wary of the police inspector. How had Mitsuya suddenly known who he was? He had been called to the telephone, and whoever called had compromised Cole’s identity. Was it Nakamura? Kadena? But why would they set him up with an identity and then compromise it? So did that mean it was someone else, someone who’d overheard a conversation, or who’d been watching the two policemen, listening into their conversations?
Cole simply didn’t know, and until he could be assured of the TMPD’s honesty, he would stay clear of them for now.
‘Hotel?’ Michiko said to him, the first words she had spoken since they’d escaped; upon racing from the alleyway, they’d seen signs for Inaricho station and raced there at a sprint, both understanding that it was their best chance for a fast exit.
Cole nodded his head. ‘Yeah, I think so. We need to regroup, sort things out.’
‘We should leave Tokyo while we still can,’ Michiko said.
‘I’m not sure that’s possible,’ Cole said. ‘The trains stop operating soon, and a lot of taxis are operated by the yakuza, or so I’ve been told. We might get away with a short trip, but if we’re in one for too long, it’s possible we’ll be exposed.’
‘We could steal a car,’ Michiko said. ‘Drive it out of the city, anywhere we want.’
She was right, Cole knew; they could easily steal a car and get out of the city. But where would they go? Cole didn’t know Japan, and wasn’t sure Michiko did either; at least in the city they were anonymous, and didn’t stand out. And stolen cars here weren’t exactly commonplace like they were in America; they would be noticed at some stage. Added to which, Cole still hadn’t made up his mind about Nakamura.
‘It’s something we can consider,’ Cole said. ‘But first things first, we need to talk, and we need to rest. We get to a hotel tonight and work out what’s going on, who I am, who you are, what you think I’ve done. We need to clear the air before anything else. Okay?’
Michiko looked at him for a long time, before finally nodding her head. ‘Okay,’ she said eventually. ‘You’re right. We need to talk.’
Cole saw the station coming up, and started to get up from his seat, Michiko following his lead.
So they were going to talk, and Cole had to admit that he was frightened about what he might finally find out.
5
Toshikatsu Endo still couldn’t sleep, his feverish body tossing and turning in his bed, entwined in his sweat-stained sheets.
His wife Aya was downstairs now, making him a cold drink; she would soon be back, to hold and care for him. She couldn’t be part of the plot against him; it was impossible. And yet who had left that note?
He cast the thought aside and tried to lie still, on his back, and he began to stare at the shadows dancing across the ceiling, the branches of the trees outside bending in the light summer wind, their shape emphasized by the security floodlights which filled the compound.
The national LDP rally was coming up soon, and he knew it would be his last chance to unite the party behind him – and the party’s last chance to regain the support of the Japanese people before Zen Ai Kaigi spirited it away forever.
Turnout had been low for the last few elections, barely reaching fifty percent; but despite Japan’s recent history, most experts believed that people were engaged now like never before. Was that true, or just a construct of the media’s collective imagination?
He knew that the LDP faithful were pulling out all the stops for the rally, calling on all their supporters to attend in a show of force designed to reassure everyone else that the LDP still had what it took to run the country.
The scene of the rally was to be Tokyo’s landmark Skytree, the tallest building in Japan and the second tallest structure in the entire world after the Burj Khalifa in Dubai. A huge commercial development funded by Tobu Railway and six television broadcast companies, the Skytree had been approved by the LDP and stood as tangible, visible proof of the party’s success over the preceding decades. It combined futuristic design with the traditional beauty of the nation, a catalyst for the revitalization of the city.
Toshikatsu would entertain the party faithful – as well as a host of business leaders and foreign dignitaries – at a private dinner within the tower’s Sky Restaurant 634, located three hundred and fifty meters above ground level, before returning below to give the keynote speech to the thousands of LDP supporters who would be gathered on top of the fourth floor rooftop square of the Sky Arena. The main part of the rally was scheduled to last two hours, at which stage there would be a party for the supporters, with late night drinks for special guests at the Sumida Aquarium.
It was well organized and extravagant; Toshikatsu knew that t
he country could ill afford such profligacy, but knew too that appearances mattered more than anything else. If the LDP was seen to be doing well, then half the battle was already won.
It was the security that really concerned Toshikatsu though; he had started to take the death threats seriously since his friend’s head had been thrown over the Kantei wall, and had a bad feeling about the rally – made worse by this evening’s intrusion into his own home.
The rally was the perfect time for an assassination attempt, both from a propaganda point of view and due to the vast amount of people who would be present. Toshikatsu would be in among them, and it would be impossible to watch them all, no matter how many security staff were present.
But Nomura Kazuo, the chairman of the National Public Safety Commission, had assured him time and again that security would be paramount, that there would be a security operation the likes of which had never been seen before. In addition to elite members of the Tokyo Met, there would also be military advisors and an extra two hundred staff brought in especially for the event, twice the number originally planned for. The extra money authorized at the last cabinet meeting would certainly help with that, Toshikatsu knew.
But it still didn’t put his mind at rest; he felt alone and unprotected. He avoided going near the windows in his own home, certain someone was watching him. The stories that had started to filter out of Kobe didn’t help matters either.
It couldn’t be verified – even the police were having a hard time investigating the murder at the Yamaguchi-gumi compound – but the rumor was that Yamamoto had been assassinated by a ninja. Even the word was enough to send a shiver down Toshikatsu’s spine. Thought long-gone from Japan, such men were regarded as having supernatural powers, like ghosts or spirits from Japan’s medieval forests, demons of the night, not human at all.
NEVER SAY DIE: Mark Cole Takes On the Yakuza in His Most Thrilling Adventure Yet! Page 20