The Tournament Trilogy

by B. B. Griffith

  “By the looks of it, he wants to be left alone,” said Greer.

  “We can’t do that,” said Tom. “He knows too much, and he’s telling people. If he catches the right ear... We have a hard enough time keeping this organization under wraps as it is.”

  The men were silent for a moment in which only the muted, white noise of the office computers could be heard.

  “Maybe we should go on the offensive,” Greer said.

  “Damage control?” asked Baron.

  “Are you talking about going public?” asked Tom, incredulous. “That’s ridiculous, Greer. This thing is illegal.”

  “Very illegal,” said Baron. “For one, it’s a massive off the books gambling operation, and that’s not even factoring in what these teams do. The public is not ready for this. Do you know who gambles on these teams?”

  “No,” Greer said, eyeing the dull glass eyes of the camera lenses above him.

  “Neither do I. Nobody does. But I can guess, and so can you. Your team is brokering a troop movement based on the outcome of what’s happening in Tokyo right now. The type of people who can do that have a lot of power and they like their privacy.”

  Greer said nothing. He rubbed his head.

  “Greer,” said Tom, warily. “Greer, I don’t like that look. That staring look you get. Promise me you’ll tell me if you’re thinking of doing something stupid like go public. Give me enough time to move my assets overseas. And my family.”

  “I think we’re losing control here,” admitted Greer. “We’ve never seen this level of violence, in all of our years here. We’re already sliding down the slope. If we sit around and wait for this story to break, we lose. If we react, maybe we can shape what the world will think of us.”

  Baron rubbed the bridge of his nose. Tom flipped his pad shut and stood up.

  “All right Greer, you’re clearly under a lot of stress. It’s been a bloody round, and as the chips fell you’re forced to moderate for the collective administrations. It’s a lot to ask. You’re not in your right mind, so I’m going to come back when you are.”

  “If you ask me, we were lucky to get what years of secrecy out of it we did,” said Greer. “And now we’re losing control. Time for a new approach.”

  “We’re not losing control! It’s just a particularly heavy round!” Baron stated, standing up.

  “I don’t think either of you really believe that. We aren’t even through round one and we’ve got one destroyed nightclub, a gunfight in the middle of Tokyo, and reports of some fresh hell on an airplane above the English Channel. You think we’re not losing control? Well here’s what I say. I say we never had it in the first place. Only now are we realizing what we’ve truly done out there, and it’s far too late for us to stop it. Either start packing or stand tall, but either way I think you boys need to get ready for a new dawn. Consider yourselves warned.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  THEY SHUT DOWN THE trains.

  Amidst the gunshots, someone pulled the full stop emergency alarm on the station platform and the outgoing and incoming trains went dead on their tracks. The people were another matter. Even as Northern and Max ran out of the platform to the streets, the panicked wave followed. People had heard by now of the shootings. Japan didn’t have many shootings. In fact, it hardly ever had shootings. And this one was big. Live news feeds reported that three foreigners were creating mayhem, and both men were easily spotted.

  And now Nikkie Hix was gone, and Northern was screaming into his cell phone as he tore around corners and across streets, getting briefed on the situation by his administration as he tried to shake the panic that was tailing him. He pocketed his phone and looked about, blue eyes wild.

  “Where is her body?” asked Max, breathless.

  “Medical already picked her up,” said Northern. “This way, quickly.”

  All around them people were pointing and crying, or on their phones taking pictures. Pictures that would be everywhere in a matter of seconds.

  “She got Tenri Fuse though, right in the gut,” Northern said, ducking down the nearest and darkest alley, pulling Max along.

  “So he’s gone?”

  “Gone. It’s just Takuro Obata now.”

  “Well done, Nikkie, well done,” Max said, but his sidelong glance at Northern was grim, almost affronted. Even wounded, Hix was worth five of that sniveling Tenri Fuse. They shouldn’t have left her. He shouldn’t have left her.

  “The Tournament can only confuse the police for so long,” Northern said, oblivious. “If we go back into the center of the ward we’re going to get shot by the cops. Greer said they’re swarming Akihabara station, right alongside our cleanup crews.”

  “Where is Obata?” asked Max, lips barely moving

  Northern glanced around him. Everywhere people stared and pointed. When his gaze fell upon them they scattered, but only enough to lose his attention. People peered out of windows and from around buildings.

  “He’s going to find us before we find him, if we stay outside like this.”

  “The police,” Max said, dazed. He was pointing back the way they’d come, where two starch-hatted Japanese men in pristine blue suits with white gloves had just pushed their way out of a door. An elastic loop ran like a wallet chain from the butts of their guns to the hips of their belts. Their guns were in their hands.

  The Americans ran, turning corners wildly, bowling over the old and young to escape the pervasive eyes, but with every step they made themselves more conspicuous. Stares stuck to them like gossamer webs. Whenever they stopped to breathe, someone pointed. There was no escaping Japan. It was everywhere.

  Northern slammed open the sliding wooden door of a small noodle shop close to hand and threw Max and himself inside. He closed the door and rested his head against the wood for a moment. Then he turned around. A small, elderly Japanese woman studied him from behind a smoke yellowed countertop. No other people were inside. Her face was lined and compressed like a cabbage. It was impossible to read her impression of them, each with a hand under their jacket.

  “This place is as good as any,” Northern said.

  Max watched the woman and nodded slowly. She said something unintelligible in scratchy, toothless Japanese and hobbled through a sooty curtain into the back of the shop. Max walked over to the curtain and pulled it aside.

  “She’s going outside. She’s leaving.”

  “Fine. Let her go.”

  Both men heard the faint thumping of distant helicopter blades.

  “Jesus,” whispered Max. “What the hell is going on out there?”

  “They’re probably telling people to get off the streets. Maybe it’s a Tournament chopper. Waiting to see how things turn out. Waiting to clean up.”

  The late afternoon sun was throwing long shadows across the muddled glass paneling of the door, creating illusions.

  “There are people out there,” Max said, pulling his gun out from his jacket, “They’re pointing at the building.”

  “What the hell is wrong with these people? Do they want to get shot?”

  “Well if they don’t already know who are, they’re about to,” Northern said.

  “What?”

  “The Tournament. This is going to be a hard one to cover up.”

  “John, if we get out of this one alive—”

  But Max never got the chance to finish. The glass door Northern was leaning upon exploded.

  ————

  It hadn’t been hard for Takuro Obata to find the small ramen shop where the Americans were hiding.

  After he shot Nikkie Hix in the head he caught a cab to Kanda station, one up the line, where Max and Northern had shot his striker. When he got out of the cab in the neighborhood district, people were pointing and calling on their phones and floating about in contagious excitement.

  “What happened here?” he asked the nearest group.

  “Two foreigners were shooting. They ran that way.”

  All Obata had to do w
as follow.

  The path to the shop was erratic, the two men had panicked, but their trail was as clear as day. Obata simply followed the twittering of the people like a bloodhound on a scent. Whenever he didn’t know which way to turn, inevitably someone would be standing on a corner, talking in hushed tones and eyeing in a certain direction. His countrymen were helping him without knowing so. It was an odd sensation. He’d always assumed he would fight on their behalf, but he had never imagined that they might work for him.

  An eclectic crowd had already gathered outside of the shop; schoolchildren in uniform mixed with elderly neighbors and passing businessmen who had stopped to see what the fuss was about. Very small children ran about his legs giggling. The atmosphere reminded him of the neighborhood festivals of his youth, but all the more alluring for the sense of danger in the air. These people knew that there was some sort of monster holed up inside the shop. Something legendary and mythic that they could tell their children about.

  Then he noticed that many of the people were watching him.

  And then he realized that he was holding his gun, but the people weren’t afraid. They nodded at him and gave small whispers of encouragement.

  “Good luck, sir,” they said, using the most honorific Japanese.

  “Keep struggling,” they whispered.

  They parted for him. He saw a glass paneled door, its panes muddled and impossible to see through clearly. But he saw a shape. Someone inside was leaning on it.

  A very old woman with a pinched face pushed through to him and patted him gingerly on his hip. She whispered something he couldn’t understand and pointed at the door.

  Obata knew that this was two on one. If he started a shooting match he would get killed right in the midst of this crowd, but if he turned away he would dishonor himself in front of his people. The thought made him sick. No. He would have to fly like the wind. One shot to take out the glass panel; his body would follow his diode and he would throw himself forward upon them, meet his fate head on. That was his only chance. It was a fitting attack.

  He took a breath and squared himself into a shooting stance. The people quieted.

  He fired once and then dashed.

  Obata buried his face inside his coat as he ran. As the diode hit the glass it exploded out towards him in a shower of dime sized fragments, like a hose set on wide spray, and he tore through them like they were water. He dropped his shoulder and blew through the wooden frame.

  Northern was blindsided. He became a ragdoll folded over Obata’s shoulder as Obata drove him into the overhang of the countertop. Northern’s gun popped out of his grasp as if spring loaded. The vertebrate of his spine popped like the knuckles of a fist, and air exploded out of his lungs with such force that he felt as flat as paper. He tried to breathe and sucked only the hollow of his empty chest. Struggling for air, he focused only on keeping Obata’s gun away from his body. He tore at it like an animal and caught the Japanese captain unawares, Obata’s gun skittered out of his hand and puffed through the back curtain of the shop, missing Max by inches.

  Max turned to fire but had no target, only a twisting, flailing mass of humanity. There was no clear distinction between where Northern stopped and Obata began. They flipped around each other like spinning tops, but Obata was clearly in his element. He deliberately positioned Northern between Max and himself. He knew exactly where Max was, and knew what would happen if he exposed his back to the striker.

  Obata fought with trained efficiency, staying low, grappling Northern about the knees and keeping a wide stance. Northern was still sucking wind and trying his best to defend himself. Obata caught him in the temple with the point of his elbow and Northern’s vision blurred. He dipped slightly, stunned, and Obata took advantage. Grabbing Northern by the lapels of his jacket, Obata pulled him back and around the bar and threw him into Max. Northern’s head popped back into Max’s already bruised nose, squelching a teaspoon’s worth of thick blood from both nostrils. Max choked out a sloppy groan and staggered back.

  Obata stepped forward and repositioned himself, then slashed out with an axe kick that struck Max’s gun hand. It drove his gun straight into the floor where it bounced nearly to Obata’s waist. Obata tried to grab it, but his hand snatched only air. It landed on the grimy linoleum floor, partially propped up against the wall fifteen feet away. He turned to chase it but Northern grabbed him and spun him right back around and into his fist.

  Obata managed to tense his neck muscles and bob his head in time to deflect much of the punch down his jaw. With both hands, he shoved Northern back into Max again, turned, and dashed for Max’s gun. Northern pushed off of Max and dove after him, slamming Obata forward into the wall above the gun as he made a grab for it himself. Obata wrenched around and slammed the heel of his palm into Northern’s mouth. His skin split on Northern’s wolfish I-teeth and Northern choked and sputtered before he could bite down. Obata grunted and reached down for the gun. Northern kneed him in the balls. Both men collapsed. Northern spat blood.

  “Max! Get my gun! Behind the count—”

  Obata chopped Northern’s windpipe and again grabbed for Max’s gun. Gurgling out a cry, Northern reached for it as well. Obata clasped it first, but Northern gripped over Obata’s hand and immediately yanked down on his trigger finger. The men fought for control of the gun as it fired in every direction. Max dove for the floor.

  “Max!” Northern pleaded, coughing hoarsely. “Max! Please!”

  Obata was slowly curling the gun inwards and down at Northern. It fired again and again, closer by the shot. Northern could feel the heat of the barrel on his face. He heard only explosions and ringing. Muzzle flash singed the fine blonde hairs on his forehead. Obata was turning the gun on him now point blank. He could see down the oily chamber. Obata pulled the trigger.

  The gun clicked.

  The gun clicked again.

  Obata hissed in anger and slammed his fist into Northern’s kidney. Northern lashed his legs out, sweeping Obata to the ground. He fell hard on his hip, hitched up, and tried to rise but fell again.

  “Max, for Christ’s sake! Get a fucking gun!” Northern croaked, struggling to sit up under the overhang of the counter. Obata pushed back to the wall and began to rise; his nostrils flared and his rounded brow creased as he looked about for a weapon. Both guns were somewhere behind the counter, with Max. Northern was still on the floor, clutching his side. Obata slowly stood. He pushed himself off of the wall just as Max appeared from behind the curtain, his nose crunched up to stem the blood flow.

  He leveled his gun at Obata as the captain charged forward with a bellow. Max fired three times in quick succession. All three shots jack hammered into Obata’s sternum and he was driven right back into the wall as if he had been tethered there. He sucked in one heavy breath, dropped to a sitting position, and closed his eyes. His head drooped to his shoulder. His breathing became very shallow and small, but consistent. He was out.

  “I can’t believe he just charged in here like that!” Max cried, shaking his head. Drops of blood spattered all over the counter.

  Northern grunted as he massaged his jawbone. He spat out the last of Obata’s blood and some of his own.

  “You all right, John?”

  “Help me up.”

  Max grabbed a bar towel and pressed it to his nose as he walked around the counter. He pulled Northern up. Once standing, Northern saw that his striker was nursing an already purpling right wrist.

  “It’s not a break. I’ve broken bones before. Just a sprain,” Max said, taking down the reddened towel.

  Max looked even worse for the wear than Northern did himself. His lower face was splotchy and streaked from the blood he’d wiped off using both sleeves. His teeth were a reddish brown. His nose looked squished, as if he was leaning face first on a pane of glass.

  “The nose I’m not so sure about.”

  “Jesus, Max.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  Approaching sirens now mixed in
with the methodical whumping of helicopters.

  “We’ve got to go,” Max drily observed.

  “So we live to fight another day,” said Northern, hobbling gingerly towards the window to peer outside. “Barely.”

  Max said nothing. He moved behind the counter and held the curtain aside for his limping captain.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  DRADEN TATE FOUND HER.

  She went straight to check on the whimpering family. Lilia Alvarez had somehow slithered her way in the back window, around him in the kitchen, and now leaned against a wall, casting furtive glances towards the living room and the couch where the Vega family sat in all their misery.

  Tate shook his head in disbelief. What did she think she was going to do? Even with Christina off after Felix Ortiz, was she really stupid enough to think she could single-handedly take down both Alex Auldborne and himself at once? It was suicide. Perhaps she thought she could just get a nice look at everyone and then sneak out of the window again unharmed. Draden almost laughed to himself. What a stupid little girl.

  Her back was facing him. She wore a dusty black tank top that exposed her dark brown shoulders, and her slender arms braced against the wall. She carried a gun, but she didn’t aim at anything. She just held it loosely in her hand. From time to time she glanced behind herself towards the kitchen, looking for him. She never saw him, of course. He was hidden himself, kitty corner to where she stood in the same room, between the wall and a freestanding cabinet full of dishes. He watched her reflection on the glass front of that cabinet and could see her every move clearly. Every time she looked behind her, her gaze swept the room briefly, and always missed him. She thought he was in front of her, not behind.

  He marveled at her confidence. She was like a rabbit, thinking that by flattening herself she would escape notice. She had the gall to throw herself into the lion’s den and now she believed she was going to escape again.