by Mike Maden
“He believed that the spirit always returns to the ocean from which it came.”
“There’s something eternal about it, isn’t there?” She watched Pearce’s weary eyes scanning the far horizon.
He nodded. Held out his hand. She took it. His small, still smile in the dimming light surprised her. “Let me show you something.”
Pearce lead her out of the water onto the fine white sand, leading her carefully off the beach onto a trail cutting up the mountain. The sand beneath her bare feet soon fell away to grass and soft roots as the air thickened with the sweet fragrance of the flowering plants and trees that enclosed the trail. The climb was steep and the light all but gone, but Pearce clearly knew his way and took his time. She was neither tired nor afraid but her heart was racing. She felt like a little girl again, heading out for a grand adventure, hunting for secrets and ghosts in a mysterious garden on the far side of a forbidden wall.
They finally passed out of the canopy of trees back into the open air. They stood in a small clearing on a cliff overlooking the bay, surrounded by a wall of jasmine and gardenia plants, the world and its worries a distant memory. The sky was a deepening purple and the first bright stars shone above. The gently surging ocean murmured far below. The sights and sounds and aromas swept through her like a cleansing breeze. She felt like they were the only two people in the whole wide universe.
“Look,” Pearce said, pointing at the water.
Myers saw the flickering lantern down below. The light seemed so fragile and small against the vast expanse of darkening ocean beyond and the endless starry sky above.
They stood in silence watching Kenji’s lantern. Pearce’s strong, rough hand still held hers. Their arms touched. She felt the heat of his body, the rise and fall of his breathing. She glanced up at the sky. The moon was a great round shadow, new and unlit. She could stand here forever.
She looked back down at the lantern bobbing in the gentle waves. It flickered again, then disappeared. Pearce’s grip tightened. Kenji’s light was gone.
“I’m sorry,” Myers said.
“For what?”
“The candle went out.”
“Maybe he’s already home.”
In the dark, she felt his towering frame turn toward her.
“He’s lucky, then,” she said.
Pearce’s other hand brushed gently against her cheek. “He always was lucky.”
The back of her neck tingled. Her mind clouded. “Really?”
Pearce’s mouth edged close to hers. “Really.”
His mouth was softer than she’d imagined, his body harder than she thought possible. The heat in his kiss rose, a devouring hunger that swallowed her up. He swept her up in his arms and gently laid her down in a bed of flowers, bathing her in kisses until she was ready to take all of him into her heart.
His power was like a storm breaking inside of her—thrilling and frightening in its strength. She felt the tears on his face mingle with hers as he thrust deeper and harder, igniting a fire that consumed her until they both shuddered with explosive release.
She held him close as he finally relaxed into her, burying his face in her neck. She stared at the canopy of lights shimmering over his broad shoulder, feeling him breathe against her chest, a falling star a silent witness to her boundless joy.
SEVENTY-FOUR
TIP-TOP GOLF WORLD
TOKYO, JAPAN
23 MAY 2017
The Japanese solution to Tokyo’s high land prices, crowded streets, and insatiable demand for golf were multistoried driving ranges like Tip-Top Golf World, one of more than eighty such facilities across the city, several of which were owned by yakuza bosses like Oshiro. Like his fellow countrymen, the sumo-size gang boss was a golf nut and shut the place down after ten p.m. every night so that he and his crew could practice their swings in private. It was not uncommon for his boys to celebrate birthdays, weddings, and even new criminal enterprises at the three-story range. Oshiro had even settled a few gangland truces at the Tip-Top after hours where invitees could hit an endless bucket of balls into the lush natural turf ringed on three sides by steel netting.
Tonight Oshiro was celebrating his win of the Golden Sword tournament on Kobayashi-san’s fighting freighter. He cleared more than a half million dollars in betting that night, but the golden sword was worth many times that in honor alone.
Not bad for a fat Okinawan boy, he thought.
The top deck was everybody’s favorite because the balls flew farther. It was also satisfying to watch the white spheres sail high into the air and drop majestically onto the closely manicured greens or explode like grenades in the fine-grained sand traps scattered across the three-hundred-yard range. Even poorly hit balls skittering off the deck appeared more formidable when they began their journeys thirty feet in the air.
Oshiro smacked away with his titanium driver, dressed in his uniform of black silk overshirt and baggy silk pants, worn to hide his girth. His brand-new pair of custom-fitted black-and-white alligator golf shoes creaked beneath his weight with each powerful swing.
Three of his newest men, all fresh off the boat from Okinawa, swung frantically with their oversize drivers at the balls perched on the rubber tees, trying to impress their oyabun with their still imperfect strokes. Oshiro’s older kobun laughed hilariously at them, shouting instructions, encouragement, or insults, cigarettes clenched in their crooked teeth. The seasoned killers were swinging their drivers as hard and as fast as they could, too. The fat Okinawan crime boss promised a hundred thousand yen for the farthest drive in the next ten minutes. So far, that honor belonged to Oshiro-san.
The constant ping of metal drivers was a barrage of noise, almost like gunfire. When Troy Pearce emerged from the third-story stairwell, no one noticed him or the suppressed .40 caliber pistol in his hand. They certainly hadn’t heard him dispatch the two guards on the first deck. Finally, one of the yakuza saw him and shouted, pointing a finger. Oshiro’s number-two man dropped his driver and reached for a pistol tucked in the small of his back, but his forehead caved in with a bullet strike before his hand touched the grip.
Pearce marched forward, gun raised. The other yakuza pulled their weapons, some expertly, some clumsily. All died before they got a shot off. Seven corpses lay on the Astroturf range mats, bleeding out into the plastic grass.
Oshiro’s titanium driver clattered on the cement as it fell from his thick gloved hand. Pearce pressed the barrel of the pistol’s suppressor against the Okinawan’s broad forehead. Oshiro raised his hands. The silken shirtsleeves fell back. A colorful carp slithered up one beefy forearm, a raging tiger on the other.
“Who sent you?” Oshiro’s thickly accented English was calm, collected. He was genuinely curious.
“You did. Karma’s a bitch.”
Not the answer the yakuza boss was expecting. “Dude, you know I have powerful friends.”
“You mean Kobayashi? He’s the asshole who gave me your address.”
The Okinawan swore bitterly.
“Don’t take it personally. He was in a lot of pain at the time.”
Oshiro’s eyes narrowed, calculating. “So why am I still alive?”
“You give me what I want, I give you a break.”
“What do you want?”
“Did Tanaka put you up to killing the American, Kenji Yamada?”
“Who?”
“Wrong answer.” Pearce slipped his index finger from the trigger guard to the trigger. Oshiro’s eyes followed it.
“You mean on the boat?”
“Yes.”
“Tanaka ordered the hit.”
“Why?”
“He didn’t say. Paid well. Said to keep one alive for a witness. Wanted everyone to think the Chinese had done it.” His fat lips curled into a grin. “Start a war between you and China.”
“Will you swe
ar to that in open court?”
The smile disappeared. The Okinawan shook his massive head. “I can’t, man.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged, almost apologetic. “Honor. Bushido.”
“I respect that.” Pearce lowered his weapon.
Oshiro’s broad shoulders slumped with relief. He lowered his arms. “What else do you want to know?”
“The men on your ship who killed the American.”
Oshiro motioned to the corpses scattered on the deck.
“That’s all of them?”
He nodded grimly. “My best men.”
“That’s not saying much.”
Oshiro stood there, breathing heavily, stung by Pearce’s insult. Sweat beaded up on his face. “What else do you need to know?”
“Nothing.”
Oshiro blinked, confused. “So, I can go now?”
Pearce nodded.
The big man wiped the sweat out of his eyes with one of his massive paws. Started to walk past Pearce.
Pearce stabbed the pistol against his chest. “Wrong way.”
The Okinawan frowned. He didn’t understand.
Pearce threw a thumb toward the driving range. “That way.”
“What?”
“I promised you I’d give you a break if you told me what I needed to know.”
“And I did.”
“And I appreciate that.” Pearce jerked his head toward the floodlit grass three stories down. “So there’s your break.”
The fat man glanced over the side. A long way down. His cheeks wobbled as he shook his head.
“I’ll die.”
“Maybe not. That’s grass down there. I’ve seen guys survive worse falls.”
“Hell no, man. I’m not doing it.”
“Have it your way.” Pearce raised the pistol to Oshiro’s face.
The yakuza saw the cold hatred in Pearce’s eyes. “Okay. Okay!”
The cleats in the Okinawan’s golf shoes scratched on the cement as he stepped gingerly toward the edge. He gulped.
“Dude, I can pay you, big-time.”
“Last chance, fat man. So help me God, I’ll put a bullet in your throat and watch you drown in your own blood.”
The Okinawan whispered a prayer to an ancestor. His face darkened with resolve. He opened his eyes, glaring at Pearce.
“Fuck you, gaijin!”
Oshiro turned and leaped over the side, shouting a war cry.
Pearce leaned over the side to watch.
The corpulent body thudded into the turf. Even this high up, Pearce heard bones cracking in the soft grass. Oshiro screamed in agony. A three-hundred-pound worm in bloody black silk.
“There’s your break,” Pearce said, watching the fat man writhing in the grass.
Pearce knew that Kenji wouldn’t have approved. But at least he would’ve understood.
Pearce lifted his pistol, put three rounds into Oshiro’s head. The screaming stopped, a mercy.
Better than he deserved.
SEVENTY-FIVE
TANAKA’S PRIVATE RESIDENCE
TOKYO, JAPAN
25 MAY 2017
Tanaka knelt on the polished hardwood floor, his keikogi pulled down around his waist, exposing his muscular torso. The family’s Shinto shrine loomed in front of him, its unvarnished shelves laden with offerings of rice wine, fish, and fruit. Candles and incense burned near the amulets representing the Tanaka household gods. A simple plaited rope hung slack above it all.
Tanaka whispered a prayer to his ancestors, fearsome samurai who loyally served the shogunate for centuries. Satisfied, he reached for the most cherished family heirloom, a short-bladed tanto belonging to his most ancient ancestor. He unsheathed it and set the scabbard down with ceremonial precision, placing the tip of the razor-sharp sword against his stomach, preparing for seppuku, the ritual self-disembowelment of a samurai who failed his mission.
Tanaka’s powerful hands grasped the hilt and the blade as he prepared to open up his stomach and remove his own intestines, but a heavy thump outside his door broke his concentration. He opened his eyes but didn’t move. Heard the shoji door behind him slide open.
“Pearce,” he said, without looking back.
“Afraid I was going to be late.” Pearce stepped over a body in the hallway into the room, sliding the door behind him shut. He gripped a familiar pistol shape in one hand.
Tanaka twisted around, still clutching the tanto. “You’re just in time to watch how an honorable man behaves.”
“How is suicide honorable?”
“I failed my mission. I must show the way.”
“To whom?”
“My people.”
“By killing yourself?”
“Life is not so important as integrity.”
“I’ve read the Hagakure, too.”
Tanaka nodded. “Yes, it makes sense that you would have. But to have read it and to have lived it all of one’s life are two different things.”
“Funny, I don’t remember you putting on a uniform.”
“Sadly, asthma prevented me from entering military service. And even if I had, what would I have done but take orders from you gaijin taskmasters? The gods smiled on me when they took my breath away. In my weakness, they showed me a better path to strength. But I failed in that mission.”
“So now you seek a heroic death, an inspiration to your followers.”
Tanaka smiled. “So you do understand. My death will be my greatest victory.”
“You tried to drag my country into a war with China.”
“To save my country, yes. I’m a patriot, the same as you.”
“You’re neither a hero nor a patriot. You’re a murderous bastard.”
“Japan can never prosper so long as your two countries keep feeding on her flesh.”
“You had my friend Kenji Yamada killed. He was trying to save your country, too.”
“Save us? How? By robbing us of our only source of energy? By keeping us slaves to American oil companies?”
“He was a good man. Better than you. You deserve to die.”
“So let me die.” Tanaka turned back around and faced his family altar. Tightened his grip on the sword—
Pearce raised his pistol. “That’s the general idea.”
Fired.
Two needle-shaped probes embedded in Tanaka’s back. Pearce pulled the trigger and sent five thousand volts of electricity coursing into Tanaka’s body, disrupting the neural signals between his brain and muscles. The blade dropped from his hand as his entire body contorted in a violent spasm, writhing on the polished wooden floor in searing pain. Tanaka hissed at Pearce through gritted teeth, eyes raging.
Pearce knelt down next to him, close to his contorted face. “No worries, Tanaka. Your gods will be smiling again, very soon.”
Pearce’s cell phone vibrated. A text message from Ian. His face blanched.
He texted Myers, now back in Denver. Told her where to meet him.
He glanced back down at Tanaka, passed out from the pain. “Enjoy it while it lasts, asshole,” Pearce grunted.
His plans for Kenji’s killer would have to wait a few days.
SEVENTY-SIX
PALLIATIVE CARE/HOSPICE UNIT
SAINT FRANCIS MEMORIAL HOSPITAL
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA
26 MAY 2017
The self-possessed young woman behind the desk wore a nurse’s white coat over a black shirt, and a simple black nun’s veil draped behind her back. A gold-winged caduceus was pinned to one lapel; a humble silver crucifix was pinned to the other. “Only family. He left strict orders. I’m sorry.”
“He doesn’t have any family.” Pearce towered over the diminutive nun.
“He knows that and so do I. Since you do a
s well, then you must know that he’s a very private man and doesn’t want any visitors.” She was stopping Pearce cold with a disarming smile.
“We go a long way back. We used to work together.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“We used to work for the same . . . company.”
“You mean the CIA?” Another smile. A smirk, really. “Then you understand his need for security as well.”
Pearce chuckled. “I’m surprised he told you.”
“Confession is good for the soul.”
Pearce took a deep breath. Never realized that stubbornness was a religious virtue. “I’ve brought him something.”
She held out a delicate hand. “I’m happy to take it to him for you.”
“It would be better if I delivered it in person.”
“It would be better for me to give it to him than his not getting it at all, wouldn’t you agree?”
Pearce glanced around. No security. Hardly surprising. Who’d want to break into a hospice? She was all of a hundred pounds soaking wet. He could just walk past her. Decided against it. Played his trump card. Pointed a thumb at the woman standing next to him.
“Do you know who this is?”
The nun shook her head. “Should I?”
“She’s the godda—”
Myers quieted Pearce with a hand on his arm. “We’re friends, and we’ve come a very long way. Perhaps you can tell Will that Troy Pearce needs to see him? There can’t be any harm in that.” She flashed her own charming smile, but the commanding tone in her voice struck home.
“Perhaps not. Please wait here a moment.” She stepped away from the desk.
“Thank you, Sister.” After the nun disappeared around the corner, Myers shot Pearce a withering look. “Seriously? You were going to cuss out a nun?”
—
The nun led them down the quiet hallway past a number of patients’ doors, some of them open. The suites were furnished like living rooms rather than hospital rooms. Most of the patients they saw were alone or with medical staff. A priest was praying last rites over one.