“A hundred and fifty? That will barely cover Hassan’s skin creams,” joked Jonah as he reached over to pinch Hassan’s cheek. The doctor swatted his hand away. “Just look at this lustrous olive tone. Ten thousand a head, minimum.”
“Done,” interjected the boss’s translator, leaving Hassan to wonder if Jonah should have asked for more—but he knew they needed the money. It’d be enough to refuel and re-provision the Scorpion from her long trip across the ocean. If a few runs went well, there might even be enough money left over to start a new life on a distant, non-extradition island nation.
“Great!” said Jonah, rubbing his palms together. “Let’s see the cash.”
Pushing Marissa aside, the boss’s translator laughed as he stepped up to Jonah and shook his head.
“Yeah, so here’s the thing …” began Marissa. “They appreciate my referral, but say you have zero reputation in Japan. They want to pay you upon receipt.”
It was Jonah’s turn to laugh. “Not happening,” he said. “We don’t work on spec.”
“We insist,” said the translator, hissing through clenched teeth. “A show of good faith.”
“Half up front,” interjected Dalmar, resting a hand on the butt of his pistol. “Or no deal.”
In a flash, the glasses-wearing translator whipped around and grabbed Hassan from behind, throwing him into a vicious reverse chokehold, a small, razor-sharp silver knife pressed deep against his carotid artery. The doctor barely had time to yelp as Marissa scurried away behind the Cadillac, her bulky radiation suit relegating her swift escape to an awkward waddle. With a sudden clattering of metal, every yakuza gangster had produced an armory of previously unseen weapons, a dozen pistols held at eye level with total commitment. Hassan had no doubt they would not hesitate to pull triggers, though the knife at his throat remained his more immediate concern. The only unarmed man was the boss himself, who stared steely death at Jonah, Hassan, and the pirate, Dalmar Abdi.
“Remove your hands from your firearms,” ordered the Japanese translator, twisting the knife against Hassan’s neck. “We learned you have sold tattoos cut from the bodies of dead yakuza. Many wanted to skin you on sight . . . or if a deal could not be reached. Do not test our patience.”
“Jonah!” exclaimed Marissa as she peeked from behind the parked car. “Stop fucking around; make the deal already!”
“I think we can live with those terms,” said Jonah with an apologetic grin, letting his hand slip from the handle of his nickel-plated Colt 1911. “Let’s not complicate this further.”
The boss nodded and cocked his head towards the back seats of the nearest car.
“Good,” said the young translator, releasing Hassan. “We will pay half of your fee up front as your pirate requested. But you had better deliver. The world is too small to steal from yakuza.”
The doctor gulped and rubbed the corner of his neck where the knife had left a bright red divot. The mob boss reached through his open window and removed a black duffel bag, opened the zipper, and threw it at Jonah’s feet. It was loosely loaded with bricks of American cash, several blocks of which spilled out before him. Jonah reached down, packed the money away, and slung the duffel over his shoulder.
Everyone turned as flashing red and yellow lights shone from the approaching highway, the police approaching from the distance. Marissa gingerly emerged from behind the trunk and spoke in low, rapid tones with the yakuza boss and his translator, ending the exchange with a hurried handshake.
“Sirens are generally our cue to leave,” said Jonah, already starting to back away into the darkness of the night, Dalmar and Hassan at this side. “Anything else we should discuss?”
“Yeah,” said Marissa, walking a few steps across the small courtyard to join him as they turned to walk back towards the docks. “My cabin accommodations—because I’m coming with you. Our friends can talk their way past the police so long as they don’t have to explain an American woman. Besides, I have to make sure you don’t fuck up my twenty-five percent any further.”
Jonah scowled. “Fifteen,” he said. “And that’s dependent on you staying out of the way of my crew.”
“Deal. Don’t worry. This’ll be a milk run.”
CHAPTER 4
South China Sea
8 Miles North-Northwest Naha City,
Okinawa Prefecture, Japan
The Augusta-Westland AW139 soared over the South China Sea, bleeding velocity as it slowed from a 191-knot cruising speed in preparation for landing. Losing altitude, the helicopter tilted, panoramic passenger windows dropping to show the moonlit coastline of Okinawa to starboard. The lights of subtropical Naha City and the sprawling American airbase twinkled below as they began the final turn towards to the harbor and the faint silhouette of a waiting superyacht.
Freya Weyland unzipped her orange neoprene survival suit, securing the loose arms in a knot around her waist. Near as they were to their destination, she had not finished her nightly pushup regimen—the exercise driven more by boredom and compulsion than necessity. At five feet ten inches, and with a MMA fighter’s build, Freya’s muscles were impossible to hide, even under the bulky neoprene. She grimaced as she flexed, one arm straining against gravity, white knuckles grinding into the soft carpet of the helicopter’s deck. The other hand was held behind her back, the toes of both feet digging into the seat of her plush leather chair.
Although the luxurious helicopter was designed for a dozen passengers, it held only two, with access to the cockpit blocked by a thick bulkhead covered with elegant brass and burlwood inlays. Her mute minder sat across from her, nearly immobile as he watched one repetition after another, barely blinking as she switched arms and started the count again.
The minder amused her, as did the confluence of cultures surrounding her. He was a slight Japanese man in an expensive Italian suit watching an American woman from his seat on a British-designed, Russian-manufactured, French-appointed helicopter. The sumptuous interior couldn’t help but confirm her belief that luxury and technology had become tediously generic and indistinct. The economic flattening of the earth turned the rich into an army of clones—driving the same cars, carrying the same handbags, vacationing at the same ritzy hotspots, wearing the same designer clothes—and destroying the same planet.
Her minder wasn’t much for conversation. She’d tried English, Dutch, even German, all to no effect. Freya sighed, drawing herself up from the exhausting one-armed pushups and slumping into the soft seat, not bothering to secure the belt as she rolled and stretched her powerful shoulders.
The helicopter couldn’t land soon enough—comfortable as it was, she was ready to get out and walk, hell, she would have swum if the pilots had let her. She’d spent twenty hours onboard, the flight beginning as she was plucked from a patch of open ocean south of the Solomon Islands—where exactly, she didn’t know. And then it was on to Papua New Guinea, across the equator to the Philippines, and finally towards the southernmost island of Japan. The stops along the way were a quick affair, the engines barely slowing to accommodate a well-coordinated refueling by waiting teams at each remote airstrip.
Her Japanese minder was brave—she’d give him that, at least. Most men were intimidated by her physicality, to say nothing of her commanding height, gauged earlobes, tribal tattooing, and long, platinum-blonde dreadlocks. She was used to the stares, the whispered, “Hey, bro check that out.” Her mere presence somehow posed a threat to masculinity everywhere. Surprisingly, the minder had only averted his eyes when she’d changed out of her oily, salt-encrusted sports bra and into a clean white t-shirt, his eyes meeting hers again the moment she was once again dressed.
But brave or not, she could still easily break him in half if she wanted.
The helicopter slowed to a shuddering crawl as it hovered over the bow of a superyacht, wheels emerging from the undercarriage as they prepared to land on the well-lit pad. Little more than an angular shape on the green moonlit waters, the metallic-grey ship was longe
r than a football field, constructed of seamless aluminum and hardened steel, interrupted only by black privacy glass. But unlike any other ship she’d ever seen, the entire aft third of the yacht was encased in clear glass, the greenhouse within an immaculately terraced artificial landscape of thick vines, flowering plants, and tropical canopy.
The engine and blades barely changed their pitch as the helicopter touched down on the gently rocking pad. Her minder moved, perhaps for the first time since dangling an articulated winch and high-tensile synthetic rope out of the craft as he plucked her, shipwrecked, from the waters off eastern Australia. A hidden motor whirred, opening the sliding door—the minder, with a single outstretched finger, pointed for her to get out.
Thankful to be moving again, Freya stepped down from the helicopter, the bulky orange survival suit still bunched around her waist. Hidden lights flickered to life beneath her feet, guiding her along the length of the bow and towards an open exterior door. She turned to look back at the aircraft, but the engine had already begun to increase in pitch as it rose once more into the dark winter air.
Pausing to take in the cool breeze, the last thing Freya saw before ducking into the well-lit interior were six American fighter jets on maneuvers over the harbor, the screams of their glowing engines splitting the sky.
Now inside, she could see that the heart of the megayacht was an immense, open chamber that ran nearly the entire length of the craft, with steep bulkheads that met at the ceiling to form a perfect triangular apex sixty feet above, their surface made of glinting, machined aluminum. And yet, it all felt so timeless, the space-age design a modern reinterpretation of ancient Japanese architecture. Freya could scarcely believe the scale of the windowless chamber. The length of it ran from the raked bow all the way to the distant stern, almost as if the entire vessel was a shell for this single room. The interior was like nothing she’d seen before, hundreds of glass-encased artifacts and museum pieces displayed under soft LED lighting.
A small part of her brain tickled as she remembered the two art history classes she’d taken in college before her expulsion, but she couldn’t identify any of them. She gazed intently at each in turn, passing Dutch-marked artillery, late nineteenth-century bayonet-affixed infantry rifles, ships’ bells, brass-encased marine telescopes, the uniforms of Japanese generals and sailors alike. The carefully curated collection surprised her as it eschewed any of the samurai martial instruments antiquarians had come to prize. Even so, there were no photographs or paintings of any variety. All of the artifacts were constructed of indelicate metals and woods, with a sort of blocky tactile sensibility that defied the typical holdings of a museum.
A soft, commanding voice echoed from the far end of the chamber, its speaker lost to the darkness.
“Remove your shoes, please.”
Freya stopped dead, weighing her options. The survival suit didn’t have leg cuffs; the neoprene was designed to wrap all the way around her boots to prevent the outflow of body heat. There was no easy way to remove them without removing the whole suit. But what option did she have? She nodded in reluctant agreement, peeling off the lower half of the neoprene to her ankles, then awkwardly pulling the thick rubber free of one foot, then the other, leaving her dressed in the clean T-shirt, she’d donned in the helicopter, and ratty, rolled-up khaki cargo shorts—all she owned in the world. She dumped her heavy black combat boots next, untying the fraying red laces and abandoning them to a salty puddle on the immaculate bamboo flooring. Barefoot, Freya rose to stand.
A young, robe-clad Japanese woman emerged from the darkness, bending down to feel for the survival suit and boots, fingers sweeping the floor until the edges brushed against the still-damp synthetic fabrics. The attendant stood up, her face briefly towards Freya as she retreated to the shadows once again. Freya tried to meet her gaze, but saw nothing in the young woman’s eyes but a white film— the attendant was blind.
“Please come closer,” said the voice, beckoning her to proceed.
The voice. Freya knew the voice now. How could she not? Although he’d refused to give her his name, she’d spoken to him for months, the soft, reassuring voice on the other end of her carefully-hidden satellite phone, gently pushing her forward at every moment of doubt. But she’d never before met her mysterious benefactor.
Recess lighting slowly glowed to life as she approached the end of the immense chamber, illuminating a single, sitting figure behind a mahogany art-nouveau writing desk. The man was wheelchair-bound and massively overweight, with long, dark hair dropping straight from a thinning part and cascading over his shoulders. His aging skin was puffy and pockmarked; his sickly aspect almost more a doughy mask than a natural face. And like his attendant, he was blind. Thick, pinched eyelids covered sunken, useless sockets.
Startled, Freya realized she recognized his face. The soft voice belonged to Yasua Himura, chemical engineering magnate turned electronics billionaire and infamous recluse. His wildly profitable corporations had long since dominated Japan’s military contracting system, and every drone, military avionic, and guided missile in the nation were stamped with his logo—SABC Electronics and Industry. Ten years ago—at the apex of his power, no less— he’d all but disappeared, withdrawing from friends, family, and business partners alike to live at sea aboard an expanding fleet of ever more-impressive oceangoing yachts.
But rather than fading into lavish obscurity, Yasauo Himura began to write the largest checks of his life. Vast swaths of his impressive profits were diverted wholesale into bleeding-edge alternative energy research, investing heavily in algae fuels, biological hydrogen production, hydrokinetic energy, and fissionable thorium. Freya had once admired his commitment to the future, back when she went by the label activist —not terrorist.
“You admire my collection,” said Himura. It was a statement, not a question.
“I do,” said Freya. “You have so many beautiful pieces.”
“Do you understand their significance?”
“No,” said Freya, shaking her head even though she knew he couldn’t see it. “All I know is that they look old and really expensive.”
“They’re artifacts and weaponry from the Meiji Restoration,” said Himura. “It’s the most important period in Japan’s three-thousand year history. Within four short decades, we emerged from an isolationist kingdom to the most powerful imperial force in the Asian sphere, conquering Korea, and routing the Chinese and Russians alike. Most importantly, our ancestors accomplished this despite treachery from within the restive, backwards elements of our own ranks.”
“Cool,” said Freya. “I didn’t know that—I can’t say I know much about Japan’s history.”
“It was an awakening, unlike the world had ever seen before or since.” Grunting, Himura rolled his wheelchair back from the writing desk, pushing himself around it to approach her. She stood before him, uncomfortable, as though she were being stared down and evaluated—impossible, given his blindness.
“Tell me of your mission.”
“What do you want to know?” Freya shifted her weight from heel to heel in the too-long silence before answering his question. “Haven’t you spoken with your people? Didn’t they fill you in on how it went down?”
“I would much prefer to hear it from you.”
“No prob,” she said with a shrug, clasping her hands behind her back and leaning against the edge of the antique desk as her benefactor listened intently. “I did everything you asked. I caught up with the environmental activists when their ship docked in Brisbane. Half the crew was out with serious food poisoning—just like you said. The captain and first mate were so desperate they were signing up anybody with a pulse. Getting a job in the kitchen was easy. The resume your people gave me checked out, and the fake passport went through their online background check with no problems. I got a few questions, but nothing I couldn’t answer. We were back out to sea a couple of days later, catching up with the Japanese whaling fleet as it transited south through the Bismarck
Sea off the island of New Britain.”
Freya paused, collecting her thoughts, reflecting on how she’d ended up on this space-age yacht chatting with Yasua-fucking-Himura himself. After all, she knew she owed him a lot more than a fudged resume and a fake passport. And she knew she’d designed that fucking bomb perfectly, goddamn it. But that was the thing about bombs, they tended towards a mind of their own. The blast didn’t just take out the computer servers holding the design for a next-generation Arctic oil drilling platform, it also killed a night janitor and an overachieving intern who’d taken it upon herself to be the last drone out of the Seattle-based nautical architecture firm that night.
And then somebody in her cell talked. It wasn’t long before Seattle SWAT smashed in the front door of her Delridge Way commune, throwing flash-bang grenades and tear gas as they tore apart the flophouse room by room, arresting everyone inside.
Probably didn’t even matter that she and her friends had been manufacturing highly toxic semtex explosives within. As soon as the yellow police tape came down, some institutional investor would snap up the graffiti-ridden, slummy property and flip it into marble-countertop, aluminum-appliance yuppie bait for the tech set. Fuck ’em all—the whole city of Seattle could burn as far as she cared, her now-incarcerated friends included.
But Freya wasn’t inside when the raid went down. She’d watched from the comfortable rear seats of a black-on-black Chevy SUV parked across the street. The driver— another expressionless Japanese minder—then handed her a new passport issued under an unfamiliar name, a stack of walking-around money and plane tickets to Melbourne. She didn’t know how they knew about the imminent SWAT raid, but somehow they’d known, three burly men expertly snatching her from a bus stop no more than five minutes before the armored police vehicles came roaring up to the curb. She took her chances with the gifted plane tickets. Between SWAT, local SPD foot patrols, ATF, FBI, and the US Marshals, she wouldn’t have lasted a day on the street.
RED SUN ROGUE Page 5