The canal opened up, allowing the submarine to slide out of the walled river and into an open, shallow harbor. The concrete-ringed waterway was within an inner-city industrial district, not much more than a dirty portage of five docks surrounded by rusting warehouses and dozens of empty fishing vessels, a few of which had been hoisted from the waters and wheeled into run-down shipyards. All of the boats rocked and jostled against the outflowing storm surge from the rain-soaked city around them.
Vitaly re-set the submarine’s trim, slowly lowering the open deck beneath the surface until just the last eight feet of conning tower rose above the waters, gently splitting the waves as they crept forward towards a crumbling seawall.
“You know where we are?” asked Alexis, glancing around at the inlet.
“Yeah,” said Jonah. He swiveled Vitaly’s laptop towards himself, tilting the screen at Alexis so she could see. “We came in through this unpronounceable canal.” He traced his finger along the screen. “Now we’re in this unpronounceable portage. I just hope Marissa gave us the right coordinates.”
Another long, low rumble shuddered from underneath the submarine, louder than any previous.
“Now that was definitely a car,” said Alexis. “You better not screw up my prop shaft with debris.”
“It was maybe small car.” Vitaly smacked the side of his laptop, irritated that the depth sounder hadn’t warned him of the obstruction. “Only hatchback or coupe. No problem, da? We hit bus or big truck, then maybe you complain to Vitaly.”
A sound of shuffling plastic drifted up from the open hatch at Jonah’s feet as Marissa emerged onto the rain-drenched conning tower platform, her hair wrapped in a grocery bag secured by several fraying rubber bands. She reached back into the hatch and pulled up a bulky black duffel bag after her, throwing the strap around her shoulder.
“You look like old babushka,” observed Vitaly. “Why you have bag head?”
Marissa adjusted the strap. “Do you have any idea what this humidity is doing to my hair?” she demanded, pointing to her improvised plastic hat.
“Do you know where we’re going or not?” asked Jonah.
“That’s where the yakuza want to meet,” said Marissa, pointing to a slumping warehouse on the other end of the inlet. “I’ve been there a half dozen times on past deals.”
“Good place for trap, da?” noted Vitaly.
“No argument there,” said Jonah. “Do you think you can moor her against the closest pier?”
“Is no problem. Vitaly put Scorpion through eye of needle if captain says.”
The submarine was near the warehouse now, close enough to make out details in the rusting corrugated tin roof and the decaying concrete of the seawalls. Errant waves splashed over the bulwarks, but the flood tide itself remained at bay. Vitaly adjusted their speed and headed for the final approach, saddling the bulky submarine against the long, sagging pier. The bow vibrated slightly as the Scorpion came to a rest. One of the creaking dock posts shifted abruptly against the sudden weight, snapping without warning. A ten-foot section of the dock abruptly collapsed, one post snapping after another like slow-motion falling dominos until a full forty feet of dock had disappeared into the waters. Everyone on the conning tower winced as Jonah silently willed the destruction to stop. It felt like an eternity before the last section of weakened pier withstood total collapse. Less than a third of the original length was still intact.
“Goddamn it, Vitaly!” whispered Jonah, as though yelling would somehow trigger the remaining pier. “I said to moor us, not knock down the entire fucking dock!”
“It very weak!” shouted Vitaly, waving his arms in anger. “If Russian pier, no problem! Russian pier very strong! How Vitaly know Japanese pier are shit?”
“Your piers have to be strong,” snarled Jonah. “Because every single one of your pilots is a goddamn drunk. When will you figure out that we are not in Russia?”
Marissa rubbed her temples with the palms of both hands, teeth clenched in frustration. “Both of you. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.”
The entrance to the sagging warehouse began to open, effectively ending the argument. Two well-dressed men struggled against the sliding doors, forcing tracked wheels over decades of accumulated corrosion. A half dozen low-slung American sedans were inside, forming a semicircle of illuminated headlights. Several cigarette cherries hovered within, appearing and disappearing into the darkness with each drag.
“Should I do my princess wave?” Alexis asked. Nobody laughed.
Two of the yakuza gangsters emerged from the warehouse with a warped wooden gangplank slung between them. They dragged it partway up the aging pier, careful to stay well clear of the collapsed section. Jonah watched as they approached, their expensive suits soaked through to the skin, tattoos slick with rain. The men propped one end of the gangplank up against the pier, letting the other end fall and slap against the deck of the Scorpion. Then they turned and shuffled back to the warehouse without so much as a glance in Jonah’s direction.
“You think they’re pissed?” asked Alexis. “About the refugees and everything? I’d be pissed if I were them.”
“No,” whispered Jonah. “I doubt they’ll show it, but I’d guess they’re just as scared as us. There are big things happening, and even criminals care about the future of their country. Marissa—are you certain we can’t bring Dalmar? I wouldn’t mind a little backup in there.”
“They specifically told me not to bring the ‘big black one with all the guns.’ His etiquette was . . . well, let’s just say he doesn’t have any as far as they’re concerned.”
“How about Hassan? They seemed to get along with him well enough last time.”
She shook her head. “Just you and me. It’s their call. I can’t have you break terms before we even start talking— you have no idea what I had to promise to even get us this meeting.”
Jonah swung a leg over the side of the conning tower, his foot finding the top rung of the exterior ladder. He began to slowly descend, Marissa following from above. “You never told me how you originally hooked up with these guys.”
“You sure you still want to know?”
“Call me curious.”
“Well, the short version is that Dad’s ships sometimes mobilized for deep-sea operations out of Japanese ports. I made sure they arrived with a few extra crates of Sudafed, Vicks inhalers, Maxiflu, Dayquil, stuff like that. I had some friends who were always after over-the-counter cold and flu meds to re-sell on the black market.”
“Illegal? Or just tax evasion?”
“Illegal. Their government banned codeine and pseudoephedrine decades ago. But everybody still gets colds in Japan and they like the good stuff. I had more volume than my friends could handle, so they passed me up the chain to some gangland players. It was mutually beneficial arrangement for a while, and I even managed to bank some trust, most of which you’ve flushed away at this point. So thanks for that.”
Jonah paused at the foot of the gangplank before crossing to the pier, brow furrowed. He turned back to Marissa. “That doesn’t track. You went straight from smurfing contraband flu medicine—basically the jaywalking of drug dealing—to human trafficking? I think the short version of your story glosses over a step or two.”
Marissa defensively crossed her arms and cleared her throat. “There may have been a couple of . . . interim arrangements.”
Jonah couldn’t help but chuckle as he stepped onto the pier. “I won’t ask for details; I just have one last question. Does your bean-counter fiancé know he’s marrying Lady Scarface?”
“He’s not a—forget it,” Marissa huffed and ignored him for the rest of the short walk to the warehouse. Steeling himself, Jonah stepped into the darkness, his eyes meeting the short, bulky form of the yakuza boss standing silhouetted in the headlights before them. The boss stared unflinchingly towards Jonah and Marissa as they approached. The heavily tattooed gangsters on either side stood at the ready, the pistols in their tailored suits bulgi
ng and obvious. Jonah shook the rain off his collar as Marissa slipped the plastic bag from her head and stuffed it in a pocket, freeing her frizzy hair.
“Should I bow again?” asked Jonah.
“We’re a little past bowing at this point,” whispered Marissa. “But I hope you’re ready to kiss some serious ass.”
The boss spread his arms as he watched Jonah adjust his coat once more. “American fuckup Jonah Blackwell,” he said in broken English, barking the words through bared teeth. The details of his face revealed themselves once more, his deep, sunken eyes, his twin scars. Jonah glanced down, catching a glimpse of the now-familiar, nicotine-stained fingertips and missing pinky finger.
Not waiting for a response, the boss leaned over and spoke to his young translator, a man Jonah recognized from the Fukushima city park. The translator nodded and spoke. “He says we should have gone with our initial plan to skin you.”
“Probably would have saved us both some serious headache,” said Jonah. He helped lift the black duffel bag off Marissa’s shoulder, opened the flap, and slid it across the concrete towards the yakuza.
The gangster boss scowled, aiming one brief, disgusted glance at the bag’s contents before snapping a response in Japanese. “Why have you brought this?” asked the translator.
“Well,” began Jonah with a drawl. “A wise, merciful, forgiving, and all around tremendous guy—one of my favorite people in the world, really—”
“You’re rambling,” whispered Marissa, shooting him her get-on-with-it-already look.
“As I was saying,” continued Jonah. “This all-around fabulous person once told me that the world is too small to steal from the yakuza. As you can see, we came back sans cargo, due to a confluence of tragic and unforeseeable events outside our control. However, we did bring back your money. It’s all there, down to the last dime. So, I’d just like to take a moment and respectfully emphasize the fact that we are not stealing anything from you.”
The translator eyeballed his boss for a moment before stepping forward and responding unprompted. “We had a source aboard our navy’s missing helicopter carrier,” said the young man. “She reported you made an impressive attempt to slip away before—” There was an almost imperceptible pause in his speech. “Your guile was noteworthy. It may even have been convincing had they not previously established the identity of your submarine via satellite. We . . . regret . . . that we didn’t learn of our navy’s intentions in the area in time to call off your operation.”
A twinge of shared sadness flashed across Jonah’s face. “Did your friend make it?”
The translator lowered his head—Jonah could tell he didn’t know. The boss folded his arms without speaking.
“Perhaps yours is a strange question,” said the translator. “Given that you and your crew are believed responsible for the destruction of her ship.”
“If there was anything we could have done differently—” began Marissa. The yakuza boss lifted a single hand, cutting her off before she could utter another word. Jonah saw something in the man beneath the scars, beneath the tattoos—grief. The boss leaned over to the translator once more, giving the younger man a long, detailed message to relay.
“We find it unlikely that you are responsible for any attack against Japanese forces, or the loss of the men, women, and children under your purview. It appears you were caught up in events larger than yourself.”
“Totally,” said Jonah with a sigh of premature relief. He turned to Marissa. “Wasn’t I just saying that to you earlier today? Events larger than ourselves. Completely out of our hands.”
“Events much larger, yes,” continued the translator, “because he says you, Jonah Blackwell, are so small and insignificant. And puny.”
“And super annoying, too,” added Marissa. Jonah shot her a wounded look.
“Your lack of culpability aside, we have not yet reached a decision on what to do with you,” said the translator. “After all, our government would be highly appreciative if we turned you over to their custody.”
Jonah adopted his best intense stare, knowing full well that this would be the one and only chance he’d get to make his case. “But you’re not going to do that. You’re going to let us go.”
“Are we?”
“You are. And here’s why—because my crew found evidence that may well lead us to the men responsible for the vicious, unprovoked attacks against your country. I don’t know what this shadow organization has planned next, but my guess is it can’t be good for any of us. Know this—I fully intend to find these men, stop them, and, you know, bring them to justice or whatever.”
“And he sticks the landing,” whispered Marissa, rolling her eyes.
“Give us a chance to find out what happened,” pressed Jonah. “That’s all I’m asking for. And maybe a car. A fast one. I’ll bring it back in a couple hours. I totally promise.”
The translator cocked his head, skeptical.
Jonah stepped forward, arms open. The gangsters shifted uncomfortably, eyeing him with open mistrust. “Look—if we wanted to make a run for it, we’d be halfway around the world with your cash in tow,” said Jonah. “I wouldn’t be standing here asking to borrow a fucking Buick if it wasn’t important. Give me a chance to do what I do best—track down some assholes, wreck their shit, and fuck their day up.”
“So tell me, what will you do?” asked the translator.
“I’m going to kidnap a Fortune 500 CEO and beat some goddamn answers out of him. And then I’m going to leverage him as a hostage.”
Baffled, the translator relayed the message. A murmur went around the dozen collected gangsters, slowly metastasizing into stifled chuckles, and finally, genuine laughter.
“I think I’m losing the audience,” whispered Jonah.
“Don’t be so sure,” said Marissa, eyebrows raised. “A little bravado goes a long way in their circles.”
The short, muscled boss stepped forward and gregariously slapped Jonah on the shoulder before shouting one last order to his men.
“Are we good?” asked Jonah, turning to Marissa with concern in his eyes. “I kind of feel like I’m not being taken seriously. I told you we should have brought Dalmar.”
“He likes your plan,” said the translator. “He says it is the plan of a yakuza. He’ll have one of his men lend you a vehicle. He says to bring it back with a full tank of gasoline and no scratches. He’s joking—but I’d still do it if I were you.”
The yakuza boss pointed at one of his underlings, holding his finger outstretched until the subordinate gangster reluctantly threw Jonah the keys to his late-model American sedan. The assembled criminals began to retreat to the respective cars, starting them one by a one with a chorus of throaty eight-cylinder roars.
“Great!” Jonah said, turning to Marissa and rubbing his palms together. “Let’s go get the crew and hit the road. The sooner we reach SABC headquarters the better.” Marissa looked at him with far-away eyes. “You don’t understand—” she looked at the yakuza boss. Then she turned back, grasped Jonah’s hand, and kissed him on the cheek. “I’m not going back with you. They need collateral.”
“What the hell do you mean, collateral?”
“I’m going with them.” She pulled her hand away and started toward the line of cars. “So tell the crew goodbye for me.”
He grabbed her arm. “Goddamn it, Marissa, nobody asked you to promise this! You could have warned me. Don’t go with them.”
“You don’t have to worry about me. I’ve known these guys for a long time.” She pried his fingers from her arm. “Find the answers. I believe in you, Jonah. Go figure this thing out.”
CHAPTER 20
Freya floored the accelerator of the stolen hybrid, hurtling through the darkened intersections of glassy, rain-slicked central Tokyo. She gripped the wheel with both hands, pulse pounding in her ears, muscles twitching in primeval fight-or-flight overdrive as she easily overtook the few other cars on the road. Her wipers struggled against
the deluge, turning her windshield into a kaleidoscope of headlights, darkness, and strobe-like lightning. Her wet skin scratched uncomfortably against the bare fabric seats, the soaked fabric of her hospital gown plastered against her chest and legs.
The GPS screen on the windshield continued to chirp merrily, guiding her through the downtown maze of streets. Passing seemingly endless rows of towering skyscrapers, it finally instructed her to turn. Almost there. She wrenched the wheel a moment later, sending the hybrid into a long, tooth-rattling slide over glistening asphalt, computerized traction systems struggling to keep the vehicle under control. The SABC headquarters ahead took up an entire city block, neon logo shining brightly from a tall perch nearly thirty stories up, tiered glass-and-steel façade extended to the street level like a futuristic ziggurat.
The hybrid howled pitifully as she pressed her bare foot on the plastic accelerator, pushing a few last watts out of the underpowered engine as she bore down on the building. The few lingering pedestrians on the sidewalk scattered at the last possible moment, throwing themselves out of the way as her two front tires hit the curb square on. The car launched cockeyed into the air. The airbags went off simultaneously, a hot blast between her forearms ripping her white-knuckled fingers from the steering wheel a microsecond before burying her face into a suffocating pillow of white. The hybrid slammed into the ground a second later, its blown-out rims digging a deep gouge in the pavement as the car slid into the revolving-door entrance. The hood hit first, shattered architectural glass pouring through the ruined windshield as the twisted metal hulk shrieked to a halt halfway inside the building. Sparkling glass and bent brass fixtures lay scattered, the crash site surrounded by shocked umbrella-toting onlookers in dark business suits.
Freya tried the driver’s side door, but it was wedged high against a metal beam, the window blocked as well. She slid over the center console, bracing herself against the seat as she planted her powerful legs against the passenger door and pushed. It wrenched open with a long, sad creak, and she stepped out onto the pavement strewn with broken glass. The car was suspended on two shredded wheels; the mechanical clicking of the cooling gasoline engine barely audible over the patter of rain on concrete.
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