The Courier

by Gordon J Campbell

  Gregg anticipated a sucker punch and twisted to face the intruder while throwing up his healthy left arm in a rising block much like an extended football player’s arm shiver. A punch wasn’t part of the plan, but the turn and block prevented a thin rope from encircling his neck and cutting into his throat. The weapon was designed for strangulation and ripped into the back of his neck and the front of his wrist. Gregg screamed in pain and rage and was pulled forward by the young hitman’s weapon. He moved with the forward motion to relieve himself from the rope’s sharp edge and used the momentum to drive the top of his head into the thug’s face. It crushed the punk’s nose and forced him to drop the rope. Gregg grabbed the attacker to maintain his own balance and twisted while placing his hip against the gangster as he spun to the ground.

  The dynamics of the move threw the much lighter opponent two meters before taking out his partner’s legs, effectively stopping the second assassin’s advancement. A knife cluttered to the ground, and Gregg jumped to his feet and kicked it under a toilet stall. He followed by kneeing the second attacker in the head and inflicted combinations of multiple kicks to the stomach and rib cage before leaving the younger man curled in a fetal position. The first attacker tried to rise, and Gregg kicked him in the ribs and followed with repeated elbow blows to the head and kidneys. He ceased only after the punk screamed, groaned, and went limp.

  The gravity of the actions of the last few minutes weighed on Gregg after he kicked the second punk in the back of the head, leaving him unconscious or dead. The police box standing less than twenty yards from his location began to feel threatening. He’d been blinded by rage and now saw the room clear and in real color. The floor was streaked with blood and his two attackers were stretched unnaturally on the ground. He couldn’t tell if they were breathing but knew he needed to get away from the scene.

  Gregg found his baseball cap under the toilet stall near the would-be assassin’s knife and tucked it over his face. He walked to his car with his head facing down and his chin pulled against his chest. He got into the rental car and paused to consider the insanity of the last fifteen minutes and his violent experiences in Bangkok. Who wanted to kill him? He froze for a second at the wheel, considering the worst possible alternative. Jeff Ward, do you want me dead? Did they order an American intelligence burn notice after his first assignment? What a nightmare, he thought. Gregg started the car with shaking hands but then didn’t put it in gear.

  He fumbled in his pouch for the communication device given to him by Ward and initiated a call.

  “Welcome back. Are you on the way to the base?” asked Ward.

  “Did you send a couple of losers to welcome me back?” replied Gregg.

  “What do you mean? Give me an update,” ordered Ward.

  “I don’t really know. Maybe you can tell me why two little shits tried to remove my head in a public washroom just off the highway here near Narita. One had a knife and the other tried to strangle me,” said Gregg.

  “Can you drive?” asked Ward.

  “Yes,” said Gregg.

  “Drive the speed limit and get away from the parking lot. Ditch the rental car at a train station and take a train or subway toward the base. We’ll keep track of you and work to have you exfiltrated along the way,” said Ward.

  “I’m leaving the parking lot now,” said Gregg. The amateur spy threw his communication device out the window and it smashed into hundreds of pieces on the asphalt.

  ***

  Yokota Air Base, Building 316

  “Contact our POC at the Narita Police Department and get a clean-up team to the public washroom at the Furugome rest area near Narita Airport. We need to know everything about the injured men found in the toilet area. I’ve already forwarded the coordinates from Gregg’s last location. This is priority one,” ordered Ward.

  The intelligence agent hung up and dialed a second number. “Log into Gregg Westwood’s rental car’s navigation system and track him. I think he’s destroyed his communication device, and we need updates on his location,” ordered Ward. He hung up and considered his next move.

  ***

  Chiba Station

  Gregg pulled his rental car into a parking lot located two blocks away from Chiba Station. He backed the car over the steel parking security system painted yellow and into a spot numbered 17. He waited in the car and worked to observe cars and pedestrians in search of a potential threat. The whir of a motor forcing a heavy metal flap to rise and lock under the car reminded Gregg of the parking lot’s payment system. He couldn’t move his vehicle without feeding the controller machine in the corner of the lot and triggering the flap to lower and flatten against the ground to allow a safe exit.

  He checked out the parking lot’s pricing as he walked out toward the station. At ten dollars an hour, the bill could amount to a tidy sum quickly, he thought and shrugged his shoulders.

  After a slow walk to the station made while throwing paranoid glances in every direction, he arrived at the north exit of Chiba Station where hundreds of taxis waited. The line was long but within ten minutes he stepped into the back of a taxi. “What will it cost to travel to Meguro?” Gregg asked the taxi driver.

  “Meguro, are you kidding? About forty thousand yen,” replied the taxi driver.

  About four hundred dollars, Gregg thought. He shrugged his shoulders once more. “Do you take credit cards?” Gregg asked.

  The taxi driver answered in the affirmative. “Thank you, Uncle Sam. Please take me to Meguro Station,” replied Gregg.

  Chapter 28

  Meguro, Tokyo, The Black Lion Pub

  A song by Nickelback was playing loud enough to be heard over the considerable alcohol-fueled crowd at the Black Lion Pub when Gregg entered through the front doors. A group of women stood at the bar, and a few alerted by the escaping air conditioner’s draft looked his way. Gregg nodded at the women and waved at the bartender with his casted right hand.

  Gregg took a second look at the eight ladies at the bar and recognized a Japanese woman dressed in jeans and a retro Grateful Dead T-shirt. She held a cigarette in her left hand and a highball in the other. “What brings you to the old Black Lion tonight, slumming it?” she asked.

  “How’s the trading business at Goldman Sachs?” countered Gregg.

  “Same old, same old, blame it on Greece. What happened to your arm?” she asked.

  “A car accident. Is David here tonight?” asked Gregg.

  “Yes, he’s in the back room by himself, sulking in the corner. He’s probably on his sixth Guinness by now. I tried to cheer him up, but he blew me off. The guy’s in a foul mood,” she said and took a drag on her cigarette. She turned her head away from Gregg to blow a massive plume of smoke.

  “Thank you,” said Gregg and walked to the bar’s back room. It was small and curved around the far corner of the room with enough space for two dart boards. David held down the chair farthest from the door. His bulk encroached on the shot line drawn on the floor, seven feet, nine and one-quarter inches from the dart board.

  “There won’t be any darts tonight. No one had the balls to ask your nasty friend to move,” said the female trader who’d followed Gregg to the backbar area.

  Gregg looked at David and nodded in agreement. David Stuart stood north of six feet, six inches and accentuated his Nordic warrior look with a red beard and long hair. He was built with solid muscle, bringing him near NFL lineman weight. His massive friend’s body language and sullen expression were intimidating. “Please excuse us. We need to take care of some business,” said Gregg. The female trader crossed her eyes, frowned, and walked back to the front of the bar.

  “How’s Steven Seagal?” Gregg asked and pulled up a chair next to his sullen friend.

  “You think you’re funny? Aikido is a way of life and a chosen path to spiritual harmony. For some less educated individuals, it’s subject matter for second-rate, direct-to-video movies,” replied David. He took a breath and carried on. “We train for physical, me
ntal, and spiritual awareness. It’s not a game,” said David and picked up his full pint of Guinness. He drank half of it with one turn of his wrist.

  “I’m in trouble,” said Gregg.

  David turned and looked at Gregg with an expression serious enough to override the beer foam clinging to his red beard. Gregg watched his friend’s green eyes look over his injured arm and scan the bruises on his face. “You get drunk and fall down some stairs, or what?” asked David.

  “It’s a long story,” said Gregg and noticed his friend wasn’t fairing much better. “What the hell have you got inside your hoodie?” asked Gregg.

  “It’s ice. I took one right in the chest at the dojo today. It might be a couple of broken ribs, but don’t ask me to go to the hospital. It’ll happen if something sticks out through my skin or I cough up blood,” said David.

  “Nice, your approach to injury is mature and sensible. A treatment comprised of Guinness and ice must come right out of the Sports Medicine Field Manual,” said Gregg, realizing his words were lost on David. He took a sip from his glass of water. “How did it happen?” he asked.

  “You remember Aria? The Iranian pretty boy caught me with one hell of a front kick during randori,” said David.

  “How to make friends and influence people. I think you two will come to serious blows one day. It’s a good thing Aria doesn’t visit this pub. This is the equivalent of a train wreck for you, isn’t it?” asked Gregg.

  “You remember me telling you about my first visit to the Sawaguchi Aikido Dojo and my early impressions of the martial art. I watched the kyu-grade members wearing white cotton aikido gis and white belts and the dan-grade practitioners wearing black belts and wide pleated indigo colored trousers called hakama. They were impressive and I wanted to be part of the culture.”

  “It’s no longer an exotic concept, and you’re not the only foreigner working out at the dojo,” said Gregg.

  “We use Japanese at the dojo even though Master Sawaguchi speaks English well. A ninety-minute workout encompasses stretching, fitness exercises, basic throw practice, and prearranged fighting movements called kata. The workout ramps up to the final fifteen minutes of randori, a freestyle practice deploying multiple attackers, and today it was my turn to come under attack.”

  “I take it your lecture on the history of aikido is complete and you’re going to tell me what happened?” asked Gregg.

  “Watch how I ignore you and take deep breaths to calm myself as taught in the dojo,” replied David.

  Gregg motioned with his hands to get on with the story.

  “The dojo master selected four of the most experienced club members, and they circled me and began attacking one at a time. The first attacker was a middle-aged Japanese black belt half my size, and he threw a left-handed feint to my face. I countered by bringing my right arm up to block the diagonal knife hand,” said David. He demonstrated the technique and continued the story. “The veteran anticipated the block and grabbed my wrist with his left hand, initiating the basic wrist joint lock technique,” said David.

  “Don’t touch my arms,” said Gregg, and David looked at him with curiosity.

  “Shall I continue?” asked David.

  “Sure,” replied Gregg.

  “The old boy expected the move to force me to the ground, where he’d follow with a painful arm pin. I moved with the rotational wrist lock, freeing myself to duck my shoulders and somersault forward. Unfortunately, I caught the old boy’s head with a knee at the top of my rotation and concussed him.”

  “Knocking out a veteran club member probably didn’t go over well,” said Gregg.

  “It gets worse,” said David.

  “You’ve got my attention,” replied Gregg.

  “Next up was the Iranian pretty boy, and he kicked my chest with everything he had,” said David. He lightly touched the top of his chest and looked down as if gathering his thoughts. “The pretty boy lost his balance and I applied a push-pull technique on his shoulders. I secured his right arm by the wrist and elbow, forced him to his knees, and pulled his arm back using leverage,” said David.

  “Did he tap out?” asked Gregg.

  “Unfortunately not. My foot caught a seam in the mat, and I delayed the arm lock’s release. His arm snapped,” replied David.

  “Shit,” said Gregg.

  “You can say that again. The third attack came before I could show any remorse. The dojo master’s daughter tried to choke me out from behind,” said David.

  “Is she built like a bull moose?” asked Gregg.

  “She has great technique but weighs only ninety-nine pounds soaking wet and failed to lock off my carotid artery,” said David.

  “You took out a ninety-nine-pound woman in front of her father who happens to be the dojo master?” asked Gregg.

  “I’m not proud of it. I was attacked from behind and without thinking dropped to my knees and brought all momentum forward. She slammed onto her back but bounced up and moved to the side of the mat to recover,” said David.

  “Did the fourth guy get you?” asked Gregg.

  “One of the assistant instructors came at me with a wooden practice sword. He was trying to take my head off with a swing from the shoulder to maximize leverage. I stepped sideways and dropped down to the mat to avoid the strike. The swing took the instructor’s entire weight forward and I spun on my knees and drove my shoulder into his hamstrings like a rugby tackle.”

  “Did you cripple the instructor too?” asked Gregg.

  “No, but it was the end of randori and maybe my time as a member of the dojo. The sensei admonished me and asked me to excuse myself. I bowed out and rode my bike here before the ambulance arrived to take the pretty boy away. I’m not bragging. I just reacted as we’re trained to do in the dojo. Everything I touched seemed to break into pieces, you know what I mean?” asked David.

  “I do. Sometimes God has a strange sense of humor,” replied Gregg, and the concept silenced both men until the barmaid returned.

  “Something to drink?” she asked.

  “A shot of Jameson Irish Whiskey,” ordered Gregg.

  “Geez Louise, that’s a first. What’s gotten into you?” asked David.

  “Somebody wants me dead, and I think it’s the American government,” answered Gregg.

  David put down his glass and turned to face Gregg. “Are you fucking with me, or did you have a recent head injury?” he asked.

  “I can’t give you details, but I recently took a job with the US government. Two guys attacked me at a highway rest stop near the airport with every intent to kill me. Look at the back of my hand. It’s a fucking rope burn. The prick tried to strangle me,” said Gregg.

  “Please tell me the punch line soon, Gregg. You’re scaring me,” said David.

  “Fuck it. I’m getting out of here,” replied Gregg.

  David caught the eye of the bartender. “Can I have the bill?” he asked.

  The short and rotund publican waved him off. “I’d pay to get you out of here. Shitheads like you are bad for business,” he said.

  Both men immediately realized the weather had turned bad upon opening the pub’s front door. The pouring rain necessitated immediate use of an umbrella, but it couldn’t prevent the heavy summer rain from bouncing off the ground, and their legs got soaked as they walked up the hill. “I didn’t expect this weather,” said David.

  “Then why did you bring the umbrella?” asked Gregg.

  “It’s the bartender’s loaner, and don’t give me a look. You know I’ll return it,” replied David.

  Gregg shrugged his shoulders in reply.

  “Whatever, I tell you I’m a thief, and you accuse me of being a liar. I’m walking in crappy weather with Mr. Nice Guy,” complained David.

  They turned away from the station to extend their walk. The two men reached the Meguro River and turned right to follow it south. The rain wasn’t letting up and the river flow was increasing to a rapid torrent. “This isn’t picturesque. We can
’t fairly compare this runoff to a walk by the River Seine,” said Gregg.

  “You didn’t pull me out of the bar to talk about the scenery. Something’s not right. Are you having troubles with Miki?” asked David.

  “No. I told you, somebody wants me dead, and I don’t know what to do,” said Gregg.

  David looked at Gregg and both men turned their attention to the river where the water level seemed to increase before their eyes. It was changing from a fast-moving stream to a river with rapids. The two men leaned against the low steel safety fence lining the bank and stared into the foamy torrent. The rain and the fast-flowing stream distracted from the concrete and garbage. It acted as a natural tranquilizer, offering an almost hypnotic attraction. “Let’s grab a coffee and dry off,” suggested David.

  A screaming engine disrupted their conversation and they turned to find a black sedan barreling toward them. It screeched to a halt and its tires slid on the wet pavement up and onto the sidewalk by the river. Both men dove out of its way, and David was able to scramble back onto his feet as the front passenger door opened and a man started to step out. “Fuck this,” yelled David, and he threw his bulk against the door, crushing the man’s legs. The passenger screamed and David released the pressure on the door when both of the car’s back doors popped open and two men jumped out. They wore baggy work pants and T-shirts common to scaffold laborers at Japanese construction sites.

  “I don’t think these guys are here to check out the cherry trees,” said David.

  Gregg scrutinized the two men and recognized them as low-level yakuza. The chimpira were dressed like construction workers and scowled in a similar manner. He’d seen the same facial expressions practiced on school grounds by bullies. David grabbed the closest goon and slammed his head into a steel pole on the river fence. The young mobster’s head split open and his face hit the concrete after David released him. Gregg heard the thug moan once before going limp and silent.