by Wesley Chu
“Doesn’t this make infiltrating the docks much easier?” asked Makita.
“Once we finally locate it, maybe,” answered Nabin. “The hard part is wading through the mountain of crap. Took us almost a year to find this particular shipping node.”
Makita looked over at the Nepalese and decided to give his pitch another go. This time with numbers to back him up. “Listen, I appreciate your loyalty to Ella. I know you care about her, and you think you’re respecting her wishes, but her life is in danger. The Genjix are after her in a big way. They want her badly enough to put a very large location contract on her head.”
“How big?”
“Three million US.”
Nabin whistled. “Wow! At that price, she might just turn herself in.”
“The Genjix are expending a tremendous amount of resources attacking the Prophus network and searching for her whereabouts. We need to get to her before they do.”
“Damn it, we have a problem,” said Nabin. He checked the time. “Someone is in the port master’s office. We’re going to lose the window.”
“Can we wait him out?”
“The Genjix are careful with their paper. The encryption rolls in thirty minutes.”
“Then take out whoever is in the office.”
Nabin shook his head. “Can’t. This is a white-glove operation. The moment the Genjix discover any foul play, they wipe everything and start over. We’ll lose months of intel and probably the shipping node as well.”
“What if we lure him out? Create a distraction.”
Nabin frowned. “Throwing a rock at a window only works in video games.”
Makita pointed at his own bulbous head. “I’m a little bigger than a rock.”
“If they catch you, they’ll hand you straight over to the Genjix. That is a poor trade, sir.”
“Not if they just think I’m some drunk who wandered onto the docks.”
“Through a barbed-wire fence, a guard house, and dozens of surveillance cameras?”
“I’ll make it convincing.” Makita grinned and fished out the flask. He unscrewed the top and took a long swig, feeling its raw goodness burn as it washed down his throat. Then, sacrilegiously, he doused himself with the peat-smoked drink.
Nabin just stared. “Wait… I was saving that. That’s a twenty-four year Ardbeg!”
“Sorry.” Makita actually did feel bad, albeit for a different reason entirely. By the time the flask was empty, he smelled like a boozy campfire. He ruffled what little hair he had left on his head for effect, and then pulled out a knife and cut a few slits into his shirt. Once he was done, Makita held his arms out. “What do you think? Do I look like I sleep on the streets and just finished a bender?”
“I don’t know about this.” Nabin furrowed his brow. “This is a terrible idea. If you get captured by the Genjix, the Keeper will kill me and court-martial my corpse.”
“Don’t worry, son, I have this handled. If I get captured, you can tell Command it was my idea and that you tried to stop me. They’ll understand.” Makita grabbed the nearest drainpipe, and began to shimmy down. He had made it halfway to street level when the world began to sway. His sensitive bowels were letting him know how unhappy they were. It had been so long since he last had alcohol, he was practically nine years old trying it for the first time again. Well, it made the act more convincing at least.
He crept to the gate and waited for an opportunity. There was only a lone guard managing the entrance as he watched television inside a small booth with windows on only two sides. Curved spikes were laid out in a row across the road, and the top of the fence was lined with barbed wire.
It took only a few minutes for a truck to pull up. Makita barely had to slouch as he strolled along the opposite side of the vehicle and then slipped in from the side. Whoever had designed the security for the front gate needed a new line of work. Within moments, he was lurking in the shadows of the large warehouses and making his way to the port master’s office.
Makita found the perfect location for his distraction just outside the second-floor window. He bided his time inside a backhoe’s loader bucket until he saw Nabin’s silhouette creep up to the base of the exterior metal stairs leading up to the port master’s office. Makita patted the ground and rubbed some dirt on his face, and then staggered out directly under one of the bright floodlights. He began singing too. Unfortunately, the only songs in Japanese he knew were theme songs to old anime.
It wasn’t long before he got into character. Makita weaved left and right, bumping and bouncing off cargo containers, slapping the sides of machinery and humming loudly off-key. An old friend of his would have accused him of overacting – which was likely true – but that didn’t make a lick of difference when you’re trying to act drunk. He pretended to finish chugging the flask, and then he baseball-threw it as hard as he could at one of the containers, making it ring like a giant gong. Then he remembered that Nabin probably wanted to keep the flask, so he went to retrieve it.
He picked up a handful of rocks and began to pelt a dump truck as big as a house. Most of his throws sailed wide, bouncing off the sides of containers and warehouses, which was just as good.
Within seconds, he had caught the attention of two dockworkers. Within minutes, a small crowd had gathered. The silhouettes in the office hadn’t budged. Makita turned up the decibels and began to yell, half in Japanese and broken English, and the other half in badly slurred made-up phrases.
Finally, after he had run out of things to say, two men exited the port master’s office to investigate the commotion and the growing crowd surrounding him. One looked white-collar and the other looked military. Hopefully, those two were it and Nabin was clear to do whatever he needed. Makita kept his cool as the group closed in on him.
“What is going on here?” the man with the tie demanded.
“Old drunk ghost here,” laughed one of the workers. “Moi and I have a bet to see if he pisses himself or passes out.”
“What if he does both?” laughed another.
Out of the corner of his eye, Makita noticed a shadow move up the stairs to the second floor office. He began to drift in the opposite direction, pulling the dockworkers’ attention with him. It didn’t occur to him until he had a good look at the growing mob that he may have been too effective in attracting their attention. A dozen burly men now surrounded him. Escaping his little ruse may be a problem.
He had no choice; he was pot committed, as they say. Makita continued to stumble away, yelling incoherently and throwing clumsy swings at anyone who came too close. One dockworker managed to grab his arm. Makita moved with the fluid motion from thousands of hours of practice. He felt for the gap in between the thumb and the rest of the fingers and gave a hard yank, freeing himself. Then he stepped in and shouldered the man, sending him tumbling off his feet.
The rowdy group howled and whooped as their friend fell on his ass into a puddle of mud. The young man jumped to his feet and charged again. Makita remembered to act unsteady as the man tried to shove him. He shifted just slightly, causing the dockworker to push air. A little nudge to his back sent the man diving face first into the ground. Now he was caked with mud on both sides, much to the enjoyment of the audience. The young man growled as he picked himself up a third time and charged, his fists swinging. One almost connected, but Makita shifted his weight just in time, tripping the man back once more.
By now, the laughter had run dry and was replaced by suspicious stares and mutters. Once or twice may have been luck. Three was a pattern. Things were about to turn ugly. To make matters worse, the one in the military uniform just happened to be a Genjix stateless official.
Makita swayed and spun in a circle, hoping to catch a glimpse of Nabin. Failing that, he backed up until he bumped up against the hard ridged metal wall of a shipping container. He turned quickly to the side and banged his head into another shipping container. He had somehow effectively cornered himself.
Makita considered his dwindling options. Each was worse than the previous. When he was younger, he maybe could have fought his way out. There was no chance now. The Genjix official pushed his way to the front of the crowd and looked as if he were going to order his arrest.
He closed his eyes. There was only one thing he could do that could remotely get him out of this situation. He turned to the young man that had picked himself up for the fourth time and threw a wide, lazy, looping swing.
Makita was ready for a punch in the gut. Ready for a follow-up to the jaw. It didn’t hurt too badly. The secret of taking a punch was knowing it was coming and having your body prepared to receive the pain. It also helped tremendously that the guy whaling away at him couldn’t throw a proper punch to save his life. Unfortunately, what the young man lacked in technique he more than made up for in enthusiasm. That, and a couple of his buddies joined in on the fun.
The beating was mercifully brief. It probably wasn’t that enjoyable beating up a geriatric, and Makita did an excellent job of selling it, although it didn’t require that much acting. By the time they were finished he was black and purple all over, and bleeding from half a dozen minor cuts. His plan worked. The dockworkers got bored quickly; some even took pity on him. Most importantly, the Genjix lost interest and wandered away.
The dockworkers tossed Makita into an ankle-deep pond just outside the front gates. It was actually more of a sewage ditch filled with refuse. The freezing water bit into his skin. It smelled worse than the Chicago River on a hot summer day, but Makita opted to lie in the pool for a little longer. It was less painful than moving.
A while later, Nabin’s head appeared. “Holy hell, are you all right, sir?” The robust agent scrambled down the ditch and picked him up. “I knew I should have recorded you saying this was your idea. You better not be dead, you stupid old bastard.”
“I’m alive,” he coughed, his chest clenching as he breathed.
“Thank goodness, sir. I was very concerned for your wellbeing.”
“You sounded like it.”
Nabin sat him down in the alley across the street and looked him over. “Nothing appears broken. Your cuts are superficial.”
Makita waved Nabin off. “I’ll survive the night. Did you get what you were looking for?”
The agent nodded. “We got all the intel we needed. Thank you. I couldn’t have done it without your assistance.”
“See, I told you I had this handled.” Makita grunted as Nabin pulled him to his feet and helped him walk. They retreated to cover.
“I was thinking about what you said,” said Nabin, leading him down the alley away from the street. “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll tell you where Ella is under one condition.”
“Which is?”
“I come with you. I should be the one who makes contact with her. The team can survive without me for a few days.”
“Sounds fine by me,” shrugged Makita. “How do you know where she is?”
“Cameron and I set up a backdoor to keep tabs on her.” He paused. “And she, um, also sent me a birthday card.”
Makita looked around the dead end. “What are we doing here? Call a cab or something to take us to the safe house. I need a hot bath then I’m going to bed.”
Nabin pointed up at the fire escape that zig-zagged up the side of the warehouse wall. “Actually, sir, we have to go back the way we came. The checkpoints, remember?”
Makita hung his head. Every ache was reminding him of its existence, as were the new aches he knew he was about to get. He let loose a long sigh. “Of course it’s always the hard way.”
Chapter Eleven
The Hustle
In Ella Patel’s case, they took her protection a step further. Because of Tao’s suspicions and the events that had transpired in India, Ella was enrolled into the Host Protection Program. This program is usually reserved for royalty, celebrities, the wealthy and high-value Quasing. Ella was considered the latter due to possible Genjix interest in her. All information and images relating to her identity were scrubbed. Ella Patel was simply erased out of existence. From that moment on, she became Victoria Khan.
One of the first lessons drilled into students at the Prophus Academy was that mistakes happen. Everyone made them, and every agent had to learn how to deal with the consequences and fallout.
Could they correct the mistake?
Could they learn from it?
Lastly, could they quickly forget it?
That last bit was especially interesting and relevant for Ella. She hadn’t understood it at first, but Io explained that forgetting the mistake wasn’t so much forgetting that it happened, but not letting that mistake weigh too heavily on the agent moving forward. It was called “having a short memory,” said Io.
That was one lesson Ella took to heart. She was very good at having a short memory. Too good, in fact. She became so adept at forgetting her mistakes that she often outright forgot that the event ever happened, lesson and all be damned.
She managed to stay away from the World-Famous for two whole days, and then she completely forgot about the episode with the yakuza boy, and then it was business as usual. Ella was soon back to masquerading as a waitress and working hard with the Burglar Alarms to unload the rest of their loot. Asao had given her a stern talking to, threatening to kick the Burglar Alarms out of the World-Famous if another incident occurred. Ella didn’t take his bluff seriously and also promptly forgot his warning the moment the conversation ended. At the end of the day she wasn’t really there to wait tables anyway, and he was far too greedy to make good on his threats.
Kaoru was the one who had lined up a sale today. She was a first-year student at Keio University, the only Burglar in higher education. She ran with the crew to pay for tuition. Kaoru had been working as a hostess at a kyabakura when they met. The two had hit it off right away. Ella had noticed how sharp the girl was when it came to noticing details and remembering names, and how deft she was navigating an ocean of slimy men.
When one particular patron got a little too handsy with Kaoru, Ella had gotten handsy with her knives. The two had become friends ever since. Eventually, she recruited Kaoru to help her build a criminal empire.
I really wish you would stop saying that.
“What’s wrong with building a criminal empire?”
Because 1) criminals do not refer to themselves as criminals, and 2) you are not building a criminal empire. And while we are at it, I think it is very counterproductive to name your little group of thieves Burglars. It is honestly downright stupid.
“Burglar Alarms,” growled Ella stubbornly.
Yes, I know they are named after your dog, but it is a silly risk to take and hits way too close to home. It is akin to a group of hired assassins calling themselves the Murderers.
Kaoru had just finished leading a group of her classmates to inspect the goods, and was bringing them back to the front of the bar to begin negotiations. The engineering club, or whatever they were, thought it would be fun to take apart military-grade electronics. It sounded like an awful waste of good gear, but as long as their money was good, what did Ella care?
Ella, serving plate in hand, guided them to the booth where the Burglar Alarms usually conducted their business. She returned a moment later, distributing each of the clean-shaved boys a mug of cold Suntory malt. She could tell the four were nervous, probably not used to patronizing run-down establishments of ill-repute. Ella gave Kaoru a knowing look before busying herself nearby.
Asao was giving her the evil eye as Ella, whistling, pretended to wipe the counter. She returned the glare. “What, Asshole?”
He turned away and began stacking glasses. The pouty man was obviously very bad at having a short memory. He was still peeved at Ella for her stunt the other day, but obviously not enough to prevent her from conducting Burglar Alarms business. He liked his take of the sales too much.
; Asao is making way too much profit for simply offering us storage space. We need to set up our own shop soon.
Ella completely agreed.
Asao eyed Kaoru and the university students huddled in the corner, and his curiosity and greed finally got the best of him. He grunted at Ella. “What’s the deal today? How much are those geeks paying?”
She shrugged, picking nuts out of a bowl and tossing them into her mouth. About half of them made it in. “Not sure yet. Those geeks seem to want to take apart one of everything, so this might take all morning.”
Ella apparently was very bad at estimating the amount of time things took to happen. All morning became long into the afternoon. It appeared these university kids were tougher negotiators than gangsters, clawing for every yen on every item. Twice, Kaoru threw up her hands in frustration and left the booth.
She stomped over to the bar next to Ella, her face scrunched in a scowl. Ella popped two bottles of Ramune and offered one to her. “What’s the latest?”
Kaoru threw her drink back as if she were doing a shot. “I’m so angry. I can’t believe I dated that jerk.”
“Which one?”
“Ikko, on the right.”
Remember your lessons. Being tactful is a skill. This is one of those times.
Ella squinted. “He’s not that ugly.”
Ella.
“What did I say wrong?”
Kaoru finished her drink, walked over to the recycling receptacle, and gently placed the bottle inside. She returned to Ella. “They want a return policy.”
Ella spewed her Ramune all over the floor. “What? Are they nuts?”
“The engineering club wants a guarantee that everything works.”
She clenched her hands into fists. “I’ll show them guarantee…”