“Cops are coming from all over the place. They’ve blocked both ends of the street with armored vehicles and are pouring over the entire industrial complex like ants. We’re screwed,” said the voice.
The dark-haired man closed his eyes and clenched his teeth while holding his phone tight enough to crush it but soon gained his composure. “You positioned two snipers as I ordered?” he asked.
“One’s on top of the print shop next door to your warehouse, and the other is on the roof of the cold storage building at the end of the block,” replied the voice.
“Order them to open up with the heaviest shit they’ve got. We’re going to make a run for it,” said the dark-haired man.
“Got it,” said the voice, and the dark-haired man disconnected.
“Israel, Blood, Jon, and Desmond, get up to the second floor. Smash the windows and fire on anything you see,” ordered the dark-haired man. The four men ran to the ladder and started scrambling up to the second-floor walkway.
Chapter 44
Hakone Hot Springs Resort
Suga looked through the large window at the scenery and admired the raw beauty of the gorgeous geopark. The mountain streams were rushing off cliffs and spilling down the rocks and forming small waterfalls to sparkle in the late-morning sun. He smiled and the rare demonstration of contentment caught Sato’s attention.
Suga was in Hakone after seemingly enjoying the trip on the bullet train most people referred to as the romance car. He’d stepped away from the luncheon table and his Japanese lunch box full of his favorite foods, served with extra-cold Sapporo beer, to gaze out the lodge’s window.
“What are you thinking about, my old friend?” asked Minoru Sato, interrupting Suga’s meditative state.
Suga responded without turning away from the view. “The 1968 Ekiden. I was a freshman and didn’t expect to run, but one of my senpai twisted an ankle on New Year’s Day. They gave me his place on the team the day before the race,” he said, catching the attention of the four men sitting at the table.
“How did you do?” asked Shigeyuki Suzuki, the Inuzawa-kai’s senior advisor.
Suga turned away from the window to face his colleagues. “We finished in the top twenty. Nihon University was a strong team with gifted athletes, and they beat everyone handily and were champions.”
“Don’t be modest. What stage did you run, and what were the results?” asked Sato.
“I ran the last section on the first day,” replied Suga, and his eyes were held closed seemingly to recall details.
“You ran the most difficult section with some uphill climbs of eight hundred meters. Your team threw you into the fire,” said the youngest man in the room. His comments drew some laughter.
“They did,” Suga agreed, and the emotion in his voice silenced the room. “We dropped far behind the favorites and were in thirtieth place when they handed me the sash and my sempai told me to run for my family and the team. My mother had died of cancer only weeks before, and the message hit home. I ran far better than expected, and it turned out to be the race of my life.”
“Did you gain ground on the competition?” asked Suzuki.
“I finished in one hour twenty-five minutes, and it was the third-best time of the race’s section five. We started in fifteenth place the next day,” said Suga, and the men at the table clapped in appreciation.
“Did they wrap you in blankets and carry you off at the finish?” asked Sato.
Suga san nodded. “I passed out one meter after crossing the line and was taken to the hospital in an ambulance. They needed to treat me for dehydration, hyperthermia, and exhaustion. The only thing I clearly remembered after the race was my mother joining me in the ambulance. It gave me hope,” he said.
The group remained silent until the quiet became uncomfortable. “Sit down and enjoy the sake,” said Sato.
He sat with the four men seated around a custom-built wooden table at an onsen resort tucked away in the mountains of Hakone. Suga san’s admiration for the scenery was understandable. Mount Fuji was clear and visible from the large window. The spectacular views were weather dependent and it was a beautiful morning. The group had enjoyed a bath and followed it with a sumptuous lunch of sashimi, local vegetables, tempura, and a rare vintage of sake brought specially from Niigata.
The table was cleared, and the men continued to enjoy the sake. They sat cross-legged on the tatami mat floor and rested against zabuton cushions. The premium rice wine was served cold, the men sipping it, appreciating its delicate flavor. Suzuki turned to Suga. “Would you mind spending a few minutes checking on our security? I’d like to have some time alone to pass on important messages to your boss,” he said.
“Certainly.” Suga stood up, straightened his yukata, and tightened his obi belt while a guard slid the shoji door open. He turned and bowed to the four men for an extraordinary length of time. He stepped out, the door sliding closed behind him.
The senior advisor shifted on his knees to face Sato; the two young men at the table sat taller. “You’ve become somewhat of a media star,” said Suzuki.
“‘May you live in interesting times,’ is a well-quoted curse. We’ve survived a most interesting experience and will come up from the ashes once again,” said Sato.
“With all due respect, Sato san, have you lost your mind?” asked the youngest man.
Sato stood up. “You arrogant little entitled shithead. When did you earn the right to address me?” he asked.
The young yakuza stood up and stepped forward to face Sato. “Our offices are now under surveillance by the National Police Agency. When the Keisatsu-cho isn’t bugging our phones, the CIA takes over the job. You brought the damn Americans to the party, and do you think the family will ever be able to do business with the Italians again? You polluted the entire pool with your shit,” he said.
“Please sit down, and both of you take your seats,” ordered Suzuki. Once they were seated, he gestured at the two young men. “These brothers bear the name Inuzawa and will one day lead our organization’s activities. Their concerns for secrecy, or at the least our privacy, are legitimate,” he said.
Sato’s face turned crimson, and he banged the table with an open hand. “I’ve earned the family more money and respect than any one man in the history of the organization. The Inuzawa-kai would be nothing without my contributions,” he said, letting his voice escalate to a scream as he spoke.
“Keep your voice down, and it’s time for you to listen,” said Suzuki, nodding to the oldest grandson, who bowed, excusing himself to leave the room. “Your recent activities shamed us and placed the Inuzawa clan under extreme scrutiny. There are reporters camped outside the oyabun’s home, and police follow our soldiers everywhere. Your actions forfeited all your credibility as a leader, and your time has come to an end.”
The oldest grandson returned to the room with an object clothed in a black silk furoshiki. He placed it in the center of the table and returned to his place at the corner of the table. Suzuki gestured to the package. “This tanto short sword dates back to the times of Oda Nobunaga and is said to have once been owned by the great swordsman Miyamoto Musashi. It’s speculation, but we paid dearly to own and keep it as an Inuzawa-kai treasure. We are assuming you know how to make good use of it and leave the blade as a parting gift.”
Sato lost his cool and his body trembled as he forced himself to stand up. “Suga, Suga, get back here,” he screamed and rushed to the throw the doors open, only to find four large bodyguards dressed in dark suits and ties blocking his exit. He turned back to the three men in the room displaying a face white with fear.
“We knew Suga san would never betray you, as he was a good man. Unfortunately, he suffered the misfortune of a commitment to poor leadership. He departed from this world without pain and rests in a quiet garden near a small creek near this resort. It was selected as the final resting place for the two of you,” said Suzuki.
Sato screamed and lashed out by flipping over the
table. It caught Suzuki by surprise and knocked him off his feet. The younger men were agile and stepped away from the table as the porcelain sake bottles and cups tumbled, crashing on the tatami mats. They helped Suzuki to his feet and picked his glasses up from the floor. Suzuki knelt and picked up the ancient short sword wrapped in the broad silk cloth and handed it to the youngest grandson. Then he carefully wiped the sake from his yukata with his hand and straightened himself up.
“We’ll have to be less subtle,” said Suzuki. He motioned to the large, well-dressed guards who demonstrated their skills by containing Sato without wasted movement or excessive force. They fixed Sato’s limbs with zip ties and duct-taped his mouth closed. Suzuki squinted while inspecting the gag and the restraints securing Sato’s arms and ankles.
“This is a shame, ending our relationship in such an unsophisticated fashion. You won’t escape your bonds or ever speak again, but I’ve instructed the men to treat you with respect. The oyabun appreciates your years of service and offers thanks for your many contributions to the family business. Maybe this isn’t good-bye, as we’ll probably see you in hell,” said Suzuki. He seemed to reconsider his statement. “Then again, maybe not. Let’s just say sayonara.”
***
West Seattle
The SWAT commander sat in the mobile action center facing Beau Veazey while listening to situation reports coming through the armored motorhome’s speaker system. Maps of the Port of Seattle and the twenty square blocks around their current position were displayed on full-color monitors, as was a drone video feed of the targeted warehouse and the buildings around it. The control center was sealed from outside noise and light, but the buzz and kinetic activity outside the vehicle was captured by multiple cameras and selectively streamed to monitors for observation.
“Run the communication through your headsets. I need some quiet to confer with Special Agent Veazey,” ordered the commander. He returned his attention to Beau. “We’ve got twenty of our thirty SWAT team members geared up for this mission and over one hundred armed Seattle Police Department officers backing us up. We are ready to move. Listen, Captain Earnshaw will patch you into the general communication channel. You’ve got two minutes to deliver your message. When you get off the air, this operation becomes 100 percent mine, and you move to the back of the show,” said the Seattle SWAT commander.
“Roger that,” replied Beau Veazey.
The commander took the microphone from Captain Earnshaw with a nod of thanks. “Team, I’m handing the communication system over to Special Agent Beau Veazey of the DEA. As you know from this morning’s brief, Veazey’s tracked the perpetrators from Tokyo, and he wants to offer a few words of advice before we initiate operation hammer. Give him your attention,” ordered the commander.
The commander passed the microphone to Beau, and he stood up and leaned against the radio operator’s workstation. Beau hesitated an instant with his eyes closed before pushing the on switch of the microphone.
“Hello, we took a calculated risk when we allowed the container carrying an estimated five hundred kilograms of fentanyl to leave the Port of Seattle. I sincerely believe the risks entailed in this mission are negated by the skills and experience of the men gathered here today. We have to prevent every gram of the shipment from leaving the targeted warehouse and must arrest every single one of the perpetrators involved.
You are well aware of the dangers, but please let me caution you once more. The fentanyl shipment is worth multiple millions on the streets, and the animals in the warehouse are well armed. Some are likely to have military training courtesy of our US government, and their equipment will match or better your firepower. I’m proud to be associated with you fine men. Good luck, and stay safe.”
Beau passed the microphone back to the SWAT commander, who took it with his left hand and gripped the special agent’s shoulder with his right. “Break a leg,” said Veazey.
The commander turned his back on Veazey, who left the Mobile Control Center. “MRAP 10, what’s your status?” asked the commander.
The team leader on the Mine-Resistant Ambush Protected heavy-duty truck handed down from the US Army took four seconds to respond. “Commander, this is Captain Kreller, and we’re positioned at the east end of Commercial Street. I’ve got six men traveling on this machine’s outside rails and half a dozen inside ready for deployment.”
“Copy. MRAP 1, what’s your status?” asked the commander.
“We’re positioned on Cannery Street about two hundred yards north of Commercial Street and are waiting for the signal,” replied the MRAP 1 team leader.
“Wait for my signal. We’re going after some of the biggest and meanest animals alive, and your men have my permission to do whatever is necessary,” ordered the commander.
“Roger that,” said the MRAP 1 team leader.
“Hooah,” said Captain Kreller.
“Captain Earnshaw, give the signal to initiate Operation Hammer,” ordered the commander.
“ALCON, listen up, all concerned must engage. Get after it now. I repeat, ALCON engage,” ordered the captain.
“Bring them in, boys,” said Captain Kreller. The captain yelled to be heard over the rumble of the machine’s massive engine. Each SWAT team member inside the armored vehicle placed a fist into the center of the hold. “Concentrate, focus, and take care of each other,” said the captain.
Captain Kreller’s armored truck rolled west on Commercial Street toward the warehouse. Its back door was locked open to allow for rapid deployment of the men inside and guarded by a team member armed with a 9 mm HK MP5 submachine gun. The MRAP 10 rolled toward the warehouse, and their fellow SWAT team members in the MRAP 1 turned onto Commercial Street from Cannery Street equally prepared. The two MRAP closed off vehicle access to the warehouse while helmeted Seattle Police Department officers wearing heavy body armor streamed around adjacent buildings encircling the parameters of the warehouse and surrounding the building in minutes. Some carried shotguns and other various models of Glock pistols.
“It’s party time,” said the Latino sniper positioned on the roof of the cold storage building. Like his partner lying prone on the print shop’s roof, he was undetectable to the human eye. Both snipers wore ghille suits and were covered in netting designed to blend in with the colors of the roof and resist heat sensor detection. They were armed with Milkor Multiple Grenade Launchers, and the MGL were loaded with six rounds of 40 mm grenades.
“I got the one traveling east, amigo. It’s like back in Kabul with Special Operations. Remember to activate your cylinder, adjust the weapon’s stock, determine your range, and sight onto the target. We leave after emptying our load as planned. I’ll meet you in Vancouver next week,” said the sniper on the print shop’s roof.
“Roger that,” replied the second sniper.
“On my count. Uno, dos, tres,” said the sniper on the print shop’s roof. They launched all six of their grenades in less than ten seconds. Each shell landed less than ten meters from the armored vehicles and blasted apart the street. Asphalt and stone were tossed in all directions, and black smoke from the explosives and dust blanketed the area.
Men riding on the outside rails of the armored vehicles were thrown onto the road or dove and rolled away from the machine as the blasts rocked the streets. The drivers cranked the heavy vehicles away from each explosion and fought to keep the armored vehicle from rolling while accelerating away. When the assault ended, and the world seemed to be shocked to stillness, the men inside the armored vehicles disembarked and spread out to find cover around the streets. The few seconds of silence ended when windows smashed on the second floor of the warehouse, and the distinctive sounds of AK-47 machine guns rang around the streets and were complemented with blasts from shotguns.
“My Lord,” said the captain. “Is this Seattle or Fallujah?” he asked. “Get the heat on the second floor of the warehouse before they pick off all of our men,” ordered the commander.
Police snipers who�
��d now made their way to the top of several buildings with a line of sight to the warehouse took aim at the second-floor windows. The first shot took out a gunman firing an AK-47 while standing without cover in the center of a second-floor window. A second shot blew the jaw off a thug while he pumped rounds into his shotgun, and the execution of the cartel member seemed to initiate a storm of gunfire concentrating on the second floor. It lasted for several minutes with thousands of rounds pockmarking the walls and pinging around the exposed portions of the building’s interior.
“Hold your fire,” ordered the commander from the Mobile Control Center. A few shots rang out after the command, but soon the streets became quiet. “Patch me into the MRAP 10’s loudspeaker,” ordered the commander.
“You’ll be live in three seconds,” replied the captain.
“This is the commander of the Seattle Special Weapons and Tactics team. We have a warrant to search your warehouse and have surrounded the area. You can’t escape, and we advise you to put down your weapons and come out of the building with your hands above your head.” The commander’s voice reverberated and echoed up and down the street.
As if in answer to the commander, a flying object dropped from the sky almost to ground level and wobbled toward the MRAP 1. “Check out screen two,” yelled a lieutenant sitting in the Mobile Command Center.
“Is that one of our drones?” asked the commander.
The Titan Drone rose above the MRAP 1 and dropped its fifty-pound load of explosives and reversed course to the open sky. The package containing military-grade C-4 bounced on the roof of the mine-resistant armored vehicle and rolled to the edge of its hood where the demolition charge assembly came to a rest. “Get the hell out of MRAP 1. Evacuate now,” screamed Captain Earnshaw.
Kreller and the vehicle driver sprinted out of the machine’s back door and had run sixty yards when the explosives detonated, turning the SWAT armored vehicle into a mountain of flame. The street shook as shock and heat waves spread for several blocks while the police crawled for shelter and covered their heads. Several screens inside the command center failed as drone pilots fought to recover their unmanned aerial vehicles. Several policemen rushed to the aid of Kreller and the driver as both remained motionless on the pavement.
The Courier Page 21