by Jordan Dane
Ichiro Tanaka squinted into the blinding light of the corridor outside his cell. It took time for his watery eyes to focus. Two men dressed in black military gear hauled him from his cell. He fought them until the agony in his ribcage forced him to stop his resistance. The pain made it impossible to breathe and when he saw stars, he nearly collapsed. Ichiro struggled to stay on his feet, but kept his eyes alert, committing everything he saw to memory.
The men were armed with weapons secured in thigh holsters. The long corridor of tile and stone held a chill and humidity in the stale air, as if it were a cave situated deep in the earth. He counted eight cell doors. The light he’d seen under his door came from artificial overhead lighting.
One door with a security lock loomed ahead.
“What did you do with Gabriela?” He panted and winced as the uniformed men pulled at his arms. “Where are you taking me?”
The men didn’t answer him. As they neared the secured door, one of them grabbed the ID card clipped to his pocket and swiped the card through a digital reader. When the lock clicked open, a deep dread clenched Ichiro’s belly.
“Why are you doing this?”
The men ignored his question and yanked him through the door. Ichiro cried out in pain and grimaced through the soul crushing agony of being powerless. On the other side of the secured doorway, more men in uniform shoved him down a hall and into a large tiled room.
“No! What are you doing? No!”
No one answered.
Hands grappled his body and tore off his clothes until he stood naked and shaking. Before he had time to look around, an intense blast of ice cold water hit his face and pummeled him. He choked and held up both hands to fend off the sheer volume of water that sluiced down his body and into a large industrial drain that he had to straddle with his bare feet.
After the water assault, hands with brushes scrubbed him raw using a smelly medicinal soap.
“Don’t touch me. Stop it!”
Men in black turned into a blur of shadows after soap stung his eyes and he couldn’t see. They thrust him onto a contraption of cold plastic and metal—a gurney—and strapped down his arms, legs, and chest. He pleaded for them to stop until his throat hurt. If Gabriela had gone through the same torture, Ichiro couldn’t imagine her shame and her abject fear of what would come next.
His abductors wheeled him into a room of stark white. Men and women were dressed in white surgical garments and wore masks and latex gloves. No one looked him in the eye. They treated him like meat.
“My name is Ichiro Tanaka. I am a citizen of the United States. I have rights.”
No one listened.
A nurse rolled a small table near his gurney with empty vials to be filled. It took two of them to hold down his arm for her to steal his blood. Another nurse grabbed his penis as if she had every right. When he thrashed against his restraints to stop her, she explained she would insert a catheter with his cooperation or without it. The heat of blood rushed to his cheeks. After he stopped his struggle, Ichiro stared into the bright lights in the ceiling and let them do what they would do.
“I do not consent. This is—” He couldn’t finish.
Ichiro shut his eyes tight and felt a tear drain down his cheek as the nurse held his penis, applied a lubricant, and inserted the catheter to drain his bladder—his shame complete.
Other hands groped his naked body as if they were preparing him for a surgical procedure. After they took his fluid samples and mortified him with every unwanted touch, they shoved his gurney into another room and pulled a curtain around him—forcing him to wait for his next nightmare.
Goosebumps covered his skin. His captors didn’t have the decency to cover him with a sheet. Only a thin curtain hung around his gurney, leaving gaps in his privacy and blocked his view of what happened in the room. Ichiro heard soft footsteps and low voices beyond the drapes and strained to hear what they said.
“How much time will we have?”
He turned his head toward the sound of whispered urgency.
“142 needs a blood type.” A man’s voice. “Prep 103 next.”
Prep? For what? Panic clutched at his belly. He felt nauseous. This can’t be happening!
A nurse yanked back the curtain and grabbed a clipboard attached to the foot of his gurney.
“What’s happening?” he asked. When the woman didn’t respond and kept writing, he raised his voice. “You can’t do this. I haven’t consented to anything.” His voice splintered.
The woman stopped writing. When she stepped closer, he saw something in her eyes that scared him.
“We don’t need your consent.” The nurse glared at him from behind her mask. “Why can’t you be quiet like the others?”
He stared at her, struck dumb by her callous rudeness, but something broke inside Ichiro. Anger rose hot from his belly, a virulent fever. He refused to accept his fate like a quiet lamb in line for the slaughter.
“My name is Ichiro Tanaka.” With tears in his eyes, he yelled at the top of his lungs. “I am a citizen of the United States of America. I do not consent to this.”
More doctors and nurses rushed in, yelling at him to stop, but he refused. He repeated his mantra, even as a man filled a syringe and inserted it into the IV in his arm.
One by one, the legion of white uniforms left him alone as he drifted into shadows. Before he lost consciousness, one voice kept him from giving in to the drug’s mindless euphoria.
“Ichiro. It’s me, Gabriela. I’m here. I can see you.”
He turned his head and peered through a gap in the curtain to see the blurred face of a beautiful girl. He strained to clear his eyesight, blinking and shaking his head, but nothing worked. When he opened his mouth to speak to her, no sound came.
He took his only memory of Gabriela with him as he sank into the darkness.
***
Chaps Beer Parlor
Evening
Keiko Kayakova’s partner, Stetson Debenham, had insisted they return to the land of neon lights, peanut shells on the floor, and the tang of beer in the air, to grab a bite to eat at Chaps. He fit in with the crowd, wearing his Wranglers, cowboy boots, and a maroon Texas Aggie cap covering his wavy, dark hair.
Keiko wore black, hoping to meld into the nothingness of shadows. She hadn’t put up a fuss on his restaurant choice, considering Ichiro Tanaka had spent his last night of freedom in the same bar before angry men ganged up on him.
She had ordered off the menu and sweet talked the chef into grilling her seasonal vegetables, rather than deep frying everything—a concession of the highest order. After they had finished dinner, Stetson paid the bill at the cash register and returned to leave a tip.
“You ready to go?” he asked as he dropped bills on the table.
When she didn’t answer right away, Stetson sat down next to her and asked, “Are you okay?”
Keiko couldn’t get the recorded images of Ichiro Tanaka out of her mind. It brought back too many bad memories.
They would soon leave Helena again, under a night sky, to search for the black F150 they’d seen in the uploaded video on the hate crime chat room. Ichiro Tanaka had been unceremoniously shoved into the vehicle after being severely beaten.
Tanaka could be dead by now, but Keiko refused to give up on a young Japanese man she felt a kindred connection. She’d known prejudice in her lifetime. Once people saw the color of her blue eyes, it seemed to be the trigger. She had a feeling Ichiro would understand.
“I’m fine.” She patted his arm and stood with him to leave until movement across the room caught her eye.
Keiko stopped and watched a group of men before she realized that one of them grabbed her attention because she’d seen him before.
“I recognize a face,” Keiko said to Stetson, keeping her voice low. “Sneak out the back way and look for our black F150 with the Confederate flag on the bumper. I have a hunch it’ll be in the parking lot. If it is, we’ve saved ourselves a surveillance trip.”
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Stetson narrowed his eyes at her and said, “Do me a favor while I’m gone.”
“What?”
“Don’t pick a fight without me.”
She kept her eyes on the crowd by the pool tables and shrugged, her only answer. Stetson knew her too well. After her partner slipped away and she knew he wouldn’t interfere, Keiko eased through the bar crowd and kept to the murky darkness.
She had her eyes on one man.
Keiko recognized the face of the mayor’s son, Scott Welch, from the background check Nilah had sent the team—except that his DMV photo had failed to capture his deeply rooted arrogance. Most women might be charmed by his outward appearance—muscled trim body, tattoos on his arms, and ‘bad boy’ scruff on his chin—but Keiko knew the type. A shiny tempting apple on the outside but infested with worms throughout.
When Welch spotted her, a wicked smile spread across his face and he headed toward her. Whatever came next, Keiko would not be bored.
“You’re one of those outsiders looking to stir up trouble. I heard about you.” After he inched closer, he laughed and said to his entourage of three other men, “This chink has blue eyes. How the hell did that happen, sweetheart?”
Hate radiated off his skin like a vile stench. Keiko had seen many men like him before.
“Are you asking about genetics, or are you unfamiliar with sex between a man and a woman?”
People in nearby tables stood and moved away while two of Welch’s men blurted out a laugh. Welch glared at them before he turned his attention on her again.
“I’m not here to start a fight.” He raised his voice and both his hands to garner an audience. With a dazzling grin of perfect white teeth, he glanced at his men as if he’d told them an inside joke.
“Why?” Keiko crossed her arms. “Too many witnesses?”
When his smile faded, his left eye flinched.
“If you’re a mind reader, what am I thinking?” he lowered his voice, implying a threat. Bullies like Welch weren’t fond of confrontation, especially from a woman.
“Too easy. Little men like you fantasize that you’re every woman’s dream lover, but I would bet money that a bull in a rodeo gets a longer ride.”
Not even his own men could contain their amusement, but as he leaned closer and pointed a finger in her face, she smelled the toxic odor of beer and something foul.
“The next time I see you, there’ll be no witnesses. Your ass will be mine.”
“Another fantasy.”
Keiko slipped her hand into her jacket pocket and grasped the curved bladed knife she kept hidden. An assassin’s weapon. Her Russian father had taught her how to slice the brachial arteries in a shoulder. No arterial spray. Welch would be dead before he hit the ground.
If Welch started a fight, with her clearly outnumbered, she would know how to end it with deadly precision and stealth. She slowed her breathing and widened her stance, prepared for anything until she heard a familiar deep voice.
“I told you not to start anything without me. I hate missing the fun.”
She heard Stetson come from behind to join her. With adrenaline running through her body like an orgasm, she eased off the throttle of her aggression to see what Welch would do. Being an outsider, she would be at a distinct disadvantage in the eyes of the law if she disemboweled one of the locals.
“We didn’t mean any harm, big guy.” After Welch got an eyeful of Stetson, a six-foot five-inch wall of muscle, he backed off. “Your woman has a smart mouth, is all.”
Stetson shook his head and gave an ‘aw shucks’ grin.
“First off, she’s not anyone’s woman, except her own,” her partner said. “Second, I stepped in for your sake. For guys like you, who don’t respect the stronger of our species, you won’t want to be schooled in public. Trust me.”
Welch glared at Stetson and said, “Are you threatening me?”
Her partner laughed.
“I’m only here to make things even. If you want a piece of her and think you can handle it, by all means, go for it, amigo. I won’t stand in your way.”
After Stetson backed off, Welch shifted his gaze to Keiko and looked into her eyes and down her body. His attention shifted to the hand she’d slipped into her pocket and he grimaced.
“Like I said, I’m not here to cause trouble, but I have my eyes on you. Both of you.” He winked at Keiko. “We’ll see each other again. Count on it.”
She returned his wink.
“We’ll do lunch.”
Keiko sensed the crowd breathed a sigh of relief as Scott Welch backed out of the bar with his no neck meat posse. From the other eyes in the cramped corner, she recognized their intimidation. No doubt the mayor’s son commanded their fear more than their respect.
Had Chief Myerson’s traffic stop been part of an attempt at coercion? Did the mayor know about his son’s involvement and condone it? Had Tanaka been a hate crime or something much more? She stared at Welch, without blinking, until her eyes burned, and allowed the tension to leave her body.
She could’ve used the exercise of a good fight.
“You were right about that truck.” Stetson muttered to her under his breath as he stood next to her and watched the mayor’s son leave with his men. “No need for guessing. The mayor’s boy looks to be neck deep in Tanaka’s disappearance. I’d say he’s earned our full attention.”
She drew in a deep breath and let it out.
“I appreciate your help, but I didn’t need it.”
“No, but he did. I know what you keep in your pockets, Miss Kayakova. If I hadn’t stepped in, he’d be missing his wee willy.”
Keiko tried keeping her face unreadable until she crooked her lips into a lazy smile and stared up at her tall companion.
“Let’s get going,” she said. “I don’t want to lose him.”
“No rush, darlin.’ I put a tracker on his wheels. He’s not going anywhere without us. We’ll be as snug as a blood sucking tick on a coonhound.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“Only if you’re the tick.” He waved his hand for her to pass. “After you.”
Chapter 8
Ichiro cracked his eyelids open and stared into a blur of white until the fog cleared. He didn’t move. He couldn’t.
Voices came and went until someone pulled back the privacy curtain and he heard a clank at the foot of his bed. Someone took the clipboard from his gurney and flipped through the pages of his medical chart. He didn’t have to turn his head to realize he wasn’t alone.
The presence weighed heavy and he felt as if he were prey. He didn’t budge and didn’t make a sound. Ichiro kept his breathing calm and even, so no one would suspect he’d awakened, but he didn’t know if he could pull it off for long. The drapes closed and he listened again, without opening his eyes or shifting his head. Anyone could be watching.
A measured beep sounded in the distance until he peeked through his eyelashes and realized he had a white plastic clip attached to his fingertip. The beep came from the steady pulse of his heartbeat on a monitor. His body could betray him if he became excited or more fully awake and his faster heartbeats might bring someone to his bedside. With every blip, he fought for the monitor to stay the same, knowing it would be a losing battle.
As his senses cleared, and the drugs faded from his system, his awareness grew. When he dared to look down at his naked body, he noticed a white bandage on his hip and he felt the throb of pain deep into his bones.
What did they do to me?
The cruel men and women who held him hostage had performed a medical procedure on him while he was unconscious. Frantic, he looked for any other bandages or wounds, but when he didn’t see anything else, that didn’t mean the merciless men and women would not be back to take more from him.
Gabriela. Had he dreamed that she’d spoken to him?
He glanced to the other bed next to him, but couldn’t see through the curtain. Morbid curiosity drew him to peer through the gaps in the d
rapes, to make sense of what he saw. Medical machinery hissed and bleeped with nurses and doctors roaming the corridor between the beds. Patients were strapped to their gurneys as if they were lab rats. Each naked hostage had bandages on different parts of their bodies. If these patients were like him, they hadn’t condoned any of this.
A cold realization hit him as he stared into the medical ward of captives held against their will. Like the others, he feared his body would be harvested for parts until he had nothing left to give. He would die in the care of people who didn’t value his life. They believed his only worth would come on an illegal black market where a human organ would go to the highest bidder.
As a sudden panic gripped him hard, a second wave of terror twisted his belly and wouldn’t let go.
What happened to Gabriela?
***
Interstate 90
Evening
On the way back from Bozeman, Mercer decided to indulge his curiosity to make a few side trips, with Ciara riding shotgun and Kujo in the backseat with his dog, Six.
“Do me a favor,” he said to his weapons expert. “Look through the data Nilah sent on the other abductions.”
“What are you looking for?” she asked.
“I noticed a few addresses we could hit on our way back to Helena, for the family and friends of the missing persons Nilah thought were similar to Tanaka’s case.”
Ciara scrolled through her smart phone and within minutes, she had the map where Nilah had pinpointed the incidents of last sightings for the missing.
“Yeah, there’s a couple we can see on our way back. I’ll plug the addresses into our GPS. Good idea.”
Attorney Rebecca Bradshaw struck Mercer as someone with something to hide. She’d been evasive and slick with carefully parsed answers to throw him off the scent of her deception. As a rule, he didn’t trust lawyers, but the woman’s cagey answers coupled with her inconsistent body language had triggered his misgivings.
“We can grab a bite in Butte, if it works out.” Ciara thumbed through her cell.
“I could eat.” Kujo chimed in. “I’m sure Six could use a good, eye watering piss.”