The Courier

by Gordon J Campbell

  Ward continued spraying the ice-cold shower water at Ezura’s face, and the yakuza defended against it with both hands. “Fuck you,” he repeated.

  “You’re being redundant and are missing an important history lesson. The Tokugawa government were creative and were known for hanging their crosses upside down.” Levy studied Ezura while his subject held his hands in front of his face to shield against the cold spray. “We’re not going to use the Japanese technique,” he said. Levy glanced at Ward. “Go ahead and translate.”

  After listening to the two-word Japanese translation, Levy looked at Ward in disbelief. “We are going to hurt you? You’re not much fun to bring to a party,” he said.

  Ezura pushed with his legs, crab walking backward to force himself into a sitting position with his back against the wall. He supported his left hand, as the amputated finger was stinging like hell. “I understand your fucking English, and you don’t scare me,” he yelled.

  Ward dropped the hose to the floor and turned the tap off while Levy moved within inches of Ezura to look his captive in the eye. “You kidnapped a little girl named Kou. Where is she?” he asked.

  Ezura replied by spitting, but the gob of green mucus was blocked and stuck to Levi’s suit sleeve. “You keep making this job easy for us,” he said. The third suit kicked Ezura in the stomach, and the two men lifted him from the floor, pulling him up against the wall and yanking his arms above his head. Ezura’s attempts at resistance were pathetic and his will to struggle seemed to evaporate.

  “The male human anatomy has twenty six items extending from the body if we count fingers, toes, nipples, ears, the penis, and your nose. You’ve given us a head start by coming to this party missing one finger,” said Levy. He squeezed the recently amputated finger and Ezura screamed. “You already have a good idea about the pain involved with the removal of body parts with a sharp instrument,” said Levy.

  Levy nodded and the third man removed some razor-sharp gardening shears from his suit pocket and placed Ezura’s baby toe between the blades. Ezura struggled but Ward secured his leg by kneeling on it.

  “You feel the cold sharp steel embracing your toe. Do you want us to start this progressive process and leave your body parts all over the room? Tell me where you’re keeping the girl,” asked Levy.

  “I don’t know any kid named Kou. Just fuck off,” said Ezura.

  “This is going to be a rough one,” said Levy and gave the thumbs-up. The sound of Ezura’s screams and the metal blades crunching through bone were horrible.

  ***

  Yokohama, Hakushika Estate

  Minoru Sato sat behind his German oakwood desk and stared past Nori Nakada who stood in front of the large window with a view of the estate grounds and the Yokohama skyline.

  “Gregg Westwood’s wife is in the hospital, and he’s in the wind. The pathetic bitch contacted the police and they won’t help her. Put the word out on the streets and find Westwood. This started as a favor to an important supplier, but now it’s personal. I want the bastard dead,” said Sato.

  “Yes,” said Nakada while shifting weight off his injured leg and placing most of his weight on the unbraced knee.

  “You are a sick little man and we have an opportunity to take advantage of your distasteful inclinations,” said Sato. He watched the effect of his comments and understood Nakada was being charged by the imagined possibilities offered. “It’s time you went and used your perverted talent to make a video with the little half bitch you’ve got in Miura. The results will be the bait for the trap. Make no mistakes, as we want Gregg Westwood to come running.”

  Nakada rattled his head up and down several times and his posture improved to one of military correctness. “We’ll prepare images that will give them nightmares. Thank the American’s for Twitter and all their social media because we’re going to make a splash,” said Nakada.

  “I’d expect no less,” said Sato and launched a call on his cell phone. He looked up and motioned for Nakada to get going.

  “Shimano,” answered the art dealer, and his voice was rough from decades of smoking cigars.

  “It’s Sato. We are visiting your office to have an important conversation.”

  “What is this about?” asked the art dealer.

  Sato stood up and looked out his office window. “I take it you haven’t been brought up to date with the processes of our important project. We’ll have to review details when we meet in person,” he said.

  Sato hung up and shifted his attention to the beautiful front yard of the Hakushika. He spotted Nakada almost running to his car in spite of his braced leg. The man seemed overeager to begin his one-hour drive south to Miura. “It’s nice to see a man enjoying his work. Fight well, you sick little pedophile, and make the low-life foreigners pay.”

  Chapter 36

  Yokosuka

  The Skipper finished his shift as an electronics contractor at Yokosuka Naval Base and was walking home while the August sun warmed his tanned brown skin. His cell phone hummed and he pulled it from his jacket pocket with the three fingers remaining on his right hand. “Skipper speaking,” he answered with the relaxed Louisiana accent common to his native Shreveport.

  “We need your help, Skipper,” said Ward.

  “Is this going to interfere with my evening? I’ve had a tough time getting dates since setting up shop here in Kanagawa and would hate to blow off a hot little bank teller who thinks I’m the shit,” said the Skipper.

  “We’ve got a hostage rescue situation requiring your value-added assistance at the supply point,” said Ward.

  The Skipper whistled and said, “I thought you’d ask me to pick up some steaks at the commissary. Let’s assume you are not in a position to obtain supplies from the usual sources and the Japanese authorities are not joining this conference call. You are welcome to peruse my humble stock of munitions and commo tech, but first define value-added assistance.”

  “You’re going to arm an amateur with deadly force and coach him through steps necessary to a successful hostage rescue,” answered Ward. No comment came from the Skipper for several seconds and Ward added, “There’s no punch line. The yakuza dealt the play, and this is the response we can offer. It’s the best of a shitload of rotten options, and I’m hoping you’ll assist.”

  “How much time do I have to coach this fellow through the game plan?” asked the Skipper.

  “I don’t think we can spare more than one hour,” replied Ward.

  “Radio check? I thought you said one hour,” said the Skipper.

  “Roger that, one hour to cram for the college final, and you’re the designated tutor,” replied Ward.

  “How old’s the hostage?” asked the Skipper.

  Ward spoke rapidly but articulated every word. “She’s almost fifteen. We’ve confirmed she’s being held at the Midori building in Miura. It’s a known yakuza-connected business and is located 260 meters south from Miurakaigan Station. We’ll post encrypted data as it comes available and send our guy to meet you as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll send the coordinates of my new laboratory and storage center for you to share with the rookie. What’s his code name?” asked Skipper.

  Ward thought about his response for a moment and said, “Call him the Courier.”

  ***

  Machida Vet Clinic

  Gregg’s cell phone vibrated on the counter, and Dr. Junko stopped working on Gregg long enough for him to answer. “Yes,” said Gregg.

  “Your daughter’s been kidnapped and we’ve got intelligence data pointing to her whereabouts. She’s being held at a soapland in Miura,” said Ward.

  “My God,” said Gregg.

  “It gets worse. The place is a functioning studio for the production of pornographic videos. We’re putting together intel reports and have lined up an equipment manager for you to meet along the way. You’ve got to do this one on your own, but we’re preparing supplies necessary to the mission. You’ll be equipped with first-rate fire power
and communication equipment. There will be a voice in your ear, but our participation remains arm length and anonymous. Please understand that if you get captured, our organization will deny ever knowing you.”

  “I’ll rent a car and start heading toward Miura,” said Gregg.

  “We found the one you left in Chiba, and it is parked in the vet clinic’s lot,” said Ward.

  Gregg hesitated and flushed with embarrassment. “Thank you,” he said.

  “I’m sending you the coordinates to a location where you’ll meet a guy called Skipper. He’ll get you fully equipped and brief you on the operation before taking you on a motorcycle trip. Are you with me so far?”

  “Roger, so far,” said Gregg

  “You don’t want to be connected with a rental car. Leave it at the rendezvous point, and we’ll provide transportation from the time you meet the Skipper,” said Ward.

  “Got it,” replied Gregg.

  “When you get to the rendezvous point, you’ll need to identify yourself as the Courier. You’ll be relying on your cell phone navigational software to make the meeting,” said Ward.

  “It’s fully charged,” replied Gregg.

  “We’ll text you the rendezvous coordinates. Leave immediately, and we will further brief you while en route,” said Ward.

  Gregg heard the line go dead and said, “Over and out.” He thought about the conversation for a few seconds and pounded his left hand on the counter. The knife wound stung, but he didn’t grimace or make a sound.

  Chapter 37

  TOKYO, AOMI CONTAINER TERMINAL

  Steve Brown lay prone with his head up and elbows propped holding and gazing through powerful binoculars as he scanned the mile-long quay of the Aomi Container Terminal. He focused on the area north of Berth Number 2, where hundreds of shipping containers remained stacked and ready for transfer. His view from seven stories up on the top of the transfer crane was clear until light wafts of smog passed by and periodically masked his line of sight. “Where are the workers?” asked Brown.

  “Good question. The Tokyo Harbor employs thirty thousand people, and you’d think a few of them would be working the day shift at the sorting center,” said the chief of the Special Assault Team assigned by Japan’s National Police Agency. He lay next to a sniper, and all three men were dressed in black body armor. The chief and his sniper wore helmets with transparent but bulletproof face shields. They were lifted up to allow better vision through scopes and binoculars. Brown had passed on the headgear in favor of a well-worn black baseball cap he considered lucky.

  “Let’s hope you’re confident of your sources. My local team understands Berth 2 handles hazardous items, and my question is, why would anyone risk the intense scrutiny necessary to clear this specific custom’s hurdle?” asked Brown.

  The sniper remained in position gazing through his rifle’s scope, but the chief turned his head to address Brown. “It’s actually a clever strategy. Berth number 2 rarely gets visits from anyone unqualified to work with hazmats, and the longshoreman, crane operators, security, and government officials all require special certification to step into the vicinity and work around Berth 2. The staff is limited, and unwanted eyes are a rarity at this location.”

  “I get the picture. Fewer people to bribe and some savvy risk management. We’re dealing with organized criminals,” said Brown.

  “At the very least, let’s initiate the police interpreter’s feed and be careful of what you discuss going forward,” replied the chief.

  “Roger that,” said Brown.

  ***

  They’d waited ninety minutes when the chief shifted his weight and adjusted his binoculars. He started speaking in Japanese, and the interpretation in English came through Brown’s earpiece simultaneously. “Three trucks pulling forty-foot containers just entered the quay’s main road and are heading south through the international distribution center toward Berth Number 2,” said the chief.

  “The SWAT teams are in position and await your orders,” said the SWAT commander.

  “The three trucks pulled in front of Distribution Office 2 and have stopped. Start moving now,” ordered the chief.

  Brown observed three groups of at least a dozen men dressed in black body armor and carrying what he thought were Heckler & Koch MP5K submachine guns. They moved silently like ghosts dressed in black, and each movement the specialists made was smooth and deliberate. In less than five minutes, the three squads surrounded the three trucks but remained hidden while maintaining radio silence. Brown could feel the tension mounting, and every hair on his body stood erect while sweat poured down his back.

  The truck doors opened and two men stepped out of each vehicle. Brown noted one broad-shouldered and dark-haired Caucasian among the six. The truck drivers and passengers were greeted outside the front door of the small office shack by a man dressed in gray coveralls and a Japanese workman’s hat.

  He held a clipboard and bowed to the men who followed him when he slid past them and walked to a large wooden box held slightly above the ground by a forklift. The clipboard-holding longshoreman gestured at the box and bowed once more before returning to the small office. The three men on the top of the transfer crane watched in silence as two of the men used crowbars obviously left for them to leverage open the top of the box.

  “Hold,” ordered the chief.

  The box was opened, and one man pulled a large package wrapped in dark plastic from the container. He handed it to the taller Caucasian wearing a suit who examined it and returned it before removing a small bottle from his jacket pocket. He opened it and gave it to one of the other men in the group. He pulled out a switchblade knife and motioned to the man holding the package and the two worked together to cut open the plastic-wrapped bundle.

  “No one move while he’s testing the product,” ordered the chief.

  The Caucasian pulled a second item out of his pocket. Brown recognized this common type of mobile drug-testing equipment. It was a simple tube with a stick used to identify the purity of a drug by color change. The solution from the first bottle was mixed with the powder from the package, and the stick was dipped into the solution. After two minutes, the Caucasian removed the rod from the solution and held it up for the five observers to step forward and inspect the results. Brown watched some of the men laugh, caught heads nodding, and witnessed the exchange of energetic handshakes.

  “Ready, sniper,” said the chief. “Go, all move now,” he screamed.

  Within seconds, tires on each of the trucks were blown by subsonic rounds causing varied reactions from the men under surveillance. Two of the trucking crew hit the ground, three began to run, and the Caucasian pulled out a handgun. Brown counted silently back from ten as the Caucasian went down in a barrage of automatic weapon fire and rolled several times before finishing with his face to the sky. The three runners had their legs shot out and danced almost comically before sprawling on the sorting facility’s tarmac. All the living perpetrators were surrounded and handcuffed. They were left lying forcibly immobilized while guarded by several SWAT team members.

  “All secure,” said the SWAT team leader.

  “Arrest everyone in the Distribution Office,” ordered the chief. His order was followed by the explosive crash of the office’s door being bashed in by the three tonnes of impact force unloaded with the SWAT team’s Enforcer Battering Ram. The chief pushed himself up and bounced to his feet like a much younger man.

  “Shall we take the elevator down?” asked Brown, who’d stood up slowly with careful attention to his middle-aged knees.

  The chief replied by stepping to the exit door and heading down the stairs on foot. The sniper followed his chief.

  “Shit,” said Brown and started down the stairs after the two Japanese special agents.

  ***

  Beau Veazey looked down at the dead Mafioso. “It’s Nic Fabbro,” said Brown.

  “They brought in talent from New York. This one is getting interesting,” replied Beau.
>
  Brown nodded in agreement.

  “Our Japanese colleague has located a container within one hundred meters of where we stand with a five-hundred-kilogram payload of fentanyl,” said Beau, and Brown whistled in response.

  Beau took off his outer tactical vest and dropped it onto the concrete. “I won’t miss these when I retire,” he said.

  The interpreter had ceased translating communication, but both men heard animated Japanese voices through their headsets. They looked around and spotted the chief running over to a man strapped into a stretcher and being readied for an ambulance. They walked over to the scene and observed the conversation until it ended and the suspect, with blood oozing through his bandaged legs, was loaded into an ambulance. The chief turned to the two Americans.

  “The yakuza bastard says half the shipment has already departed on a container ship, and he asked me to tell you both to go to hell,” said the chief.

  “Thank you for your kind cooperation,” said Beau.

  The two men walked several yards away from the chief. “This was not a great day for either of our countries,” said Beau.

  “No shit. The value of five hundred kilograms of fentanyl when it hits the streets back home must be in the multiple millions,” said Brown.

  “Try about half a billion American dollars,” replied Beau.

  “We better find it,” said Brown.

  “Amen,” said Beau.

  Chapter 38

  Tokyo

  Anxiety and exhaustion were taking their toll on Miki, and the medication necessary to allow her to sleep made it difficult to awake her to answer Gregg’s phone call. After several minutes of conversation, a drink of iced coffee, and a wipe down with a cold cloth, the nurses allowed Miki to pick up her cell.

  “Gregg?” she asked.

  “Yes, sweetie. How are you?” he asked in reply.

  “Have you found Kou?” she asked.