Japantown

by Barry Lancet

  Ogi frowned. “I’ll contact him over the wire.”

  The messenger shook his head. “Naito-sensei insists his communiqué cannot go out over the public line.”

  “All right. Get Casey and Dermott back here. They are to guard Brodie but leave him for me.”

  Turning his back on us, the messenger relayed the orders softly, cupping his hand around a microphone in his ear to hear the response. “They’re on their way.”

  “My friends are here,” I said.

  “We prepared for that possibility. But I am curious. How many are there?”

  I held my tongue.

  Irritated, Ogi cast me a sharp look. “No matter. They will not stop us. If they get too close they will die. This is what Soga does. What our ancestors have done for three centuries. We never lose.”

  “You lost in the village.”

  “Those were first-year trainees. Infants by our standards. I offered you up as a live exercise. Your art dealer background fooled me, but I won’t make that mistake again. Tonight, you will die. If our Long Island base has been compromised beyond repair, so be it. It’s inconvenient but easily rectified with relocation. It wouldn’t be the first time. Already, Gilbert Tweed has been purged. Our men are gone, their files shredded.”

  Raising a hand to his earpiece, the young messenger stirred restlessly. “Naito-sensei is waiting. What shall I tell him?”

  Ogi cast a look my way. “You’re not going anywhere and Casey will be back momentarily.” To the messenger he said, “Take me to him.”

  The Soga leader showed me his back, and once more I heard the sound of metal rubbing cloth and the wire snaked up his sleeve.

  As soon as I was alone, I sliced through the remaining fibers of my bindings. With one shake of my hands the rope fell away. My heart thumped wildly. This was my one chance. I needed to be gone. If they caught up with me, I’d be executed in an instant.

  As I dashed for the door, I caught the sound of footsteps approaching fast. Too fast. I changed course, flung open the window, then dove into the chair well under Ogi’s desk.

  From the hall, Dermott said, “Okay, Brodie, it’s payback time.”

  “The old man wants him,” Casey said.

  “Doesn’t mean I can’t . . . he’s not here.”

  Casey drew up short. “How did he . . . ? Doesn’t matter. He’s only postponed his death.”

  “Now he’s mine,” Dermott said.

  “Only if you find him first. Escape triggers a priority clear. He’ll be shot on sight.”

  “I’ll do more than that when I catch the bastard,” Dermott said, slipping out the window as I heard Casey broadcast my getaway over their wireless system.

  CHAPTER 68

  ONCE alone, I leapt from my hiding place and searched Ogi’s desk in haste, Casey’s words echoing in my ears: He’s only postponed his death.

  With the issuance of a priority clear, at least a dozen armed Soga agents on the grounds had standing orders to shoot me on sight.

  I fumbled for the drawer handles, my breathing heavy and erratic. In the bottom pullout, I found a baby Glock and a .22-caliber Beretta with a spare clip and silencer. Neither weapon betrayed the telltale coating of poison that had nearly finished me in Soga.

  I slipped the Beretta into my waistband and pocketed the silencer and extra clip. The Glock stayed. Firing an unsilenced piece would draw return fire from any Soga personnel in the vicinity and get me killed. Only a silent retreat gave me a chance at survival. A slight one. I had no delusions about how lucky we’d been to escape the village.

  However, abandoning a working weapon bordered on suicidal, so I wedged the pointed end of a brass letter opener into the workings of the Glock, snapped off the firing pin, then etched a faint line along either side of the barrel with the severed pin to mark the defanged gun. An old South Central trick. Disable when you’re able.

  Freshly armed, I exited the back of the manor, heading out the opposite way Ogi and troops had gone. With Soga in fighting mode, the estate lights had been extinguished. After I’d put a good fifty yards between the house and myself, I dodged behind a large pine tree and examined the Beretta. I released the clip. Eight rounds. Eight more in the spare. The chamber was empty. Sixteen shots. I replaced the clip, attached the silencer, jacked a round into the barrel, and stuck the gun back in my waistband.

  Then I paused to listen. I heard nothing. No footsteps shuffling through the undergrowth. No one brushing aside branches and shrubbery. No shouts from the house at my escape. But then again, this was Soga. It wouldn’t be that easy. A lucky break had given me another chance, and I wouldn’t waste it. Caution was key.

  My friends are here, I’d said.

  We prepared for that possibility.

  In the far distance, near the gate, I heard gunshots. Then screams. Then nothing.

  Damn. The screams confirmed Ogi’s boast. He was prepared. This might be Long Island but the setup was pure Soga: isolated location, good cover, hard to penetrate. The home advantage was overwhelming.

  The screams announced that the first preliminary push by McCann and company had been repelled and there were casualties on our side.

  Soga wouldn’t scream.

  I could only hope McCann and Renna had brought enough manpower. But in the haste with which they must have been forced to assemble tonight’s team after I’d gone missing, I thought it unlikely. McCann would have only been able to cobble together a handful of city cops and Long Island deputies. I didn’t see or hear anything suggesting a retreat on Soga’s part, which only confirmed that McCann’s team was probably bantamweight and Soga had made a sizable dent in it. Once our side took casualties, we would retreat and call for serious backup. But that would take time. Time I couldn’t spare. Not if I wanted to see Jenny again.

  Any way I looked at it, I was on my own. I was half a mile from the outer perimeter, separated by a forest infested with Soga’s troops. But that was only the beginning of my worries. Jenny was now expendable. With the police at the gate, she went from leverage to liability. From hostage to potential witness. When Soga retreated, they wouldn’t take her along. They would kill her.

  I had to hurry.

  I headed deeper into the woods. The minty scent of pine filled my lungs. Silver shafts of moonlight filtered through the canopy. If I were Soga, I’d guard the front gate long enough to allow Ogi and other senior officers to retreat and put a lot of distance between themselves and the compound. I’d strike, fade back into the foliage, and wait. Guerilla tactics. With the boats demolished, a pullback became more complex. I’d have the gate detail linger longer to hold off the next push, discouraging a quick advance. Maybe fire warning shots and wound a few cops to temper eagerness. But as soon as the main contingent was safely away, I’d want the guards to vanish as well.

  I was the only one behind the lines. My presence in Soga territory left me with a clear mandate: I had to cut the odds—and find Jenny. Otherwise Soga would fill the night with their victims’ screams.

  But time was short. I needed information fast. Which meant a live body.

  Cloaked by darkness, I roamed the brush, getting a sense of the property I traversed. Ferns and light brush and deadfall composed the forest floor, but with the air laden with moisture, none crackled underfoot. Paths, mostly animal but sometimes human, wound their way through the trees.

  You have to break your normal patterns . . .

  Once I found a well-traveled footpath, I looked skyward. For a two-year stretch in my more reckless teen years, we took down street dealers for the wads of cash they always carried. It had been a risky enterprise, and looking back, bordered on insane. But it had worked beautifully. We’d map out a dealer’s nightly routine, then search for a perch, a position high enough to put us above the normal sweep of pedestrian vision.

  I found a suitable tree, scaled it, and made myself comfortable on a massive limb, leaning back against the trunk to wait. I was about sixteen feet above ground. For a six-foot target,
that gave me ten feet of loft.

  I shifted the Beretta to the small of my back.

  Before long I had a chance to play jungle monkey again. Thirteen years had slipped away since my last attempt, but in my veins the itch for action pulsed.

  The trick was to position yourself between fifteen and eighteen feet above ground. You came at them from behind, using their body to cushion your landing and the force of the impact to stun them. The height spread supplied momentum and was crucial. Too high and the timing became difficult; too low and the impact would not disable your target.

  A male figure about my height came up the path. Perfect.

  I scuttled farther out on the limb and squatted on my haunches.

  He passed underneath.

  I jumped.

  CHAPTER 69

  I HIT him perfectly.

  My torso slammed into the back of his head, smashing him face-first into the ground. Stunned, he lay still, his eyes open but glazed. After casting a quick look up and down the path, I flipped my catch onto his back, grabbed his heels, and dragged him deep into the woods, where I straddled his chest.

  He wore the same form-fitting black suit and state-of-the-art equipment belt I’d encountered in Soga. Needing him vulnerable and exposed, I ripped off his night-vision gear, then the hood. Underneath, I found his earpiece. I plucked the device from its nook and pocketed it along with the transmitter pinned to his chest.

  Moaning, my captive trained unfocused eyes on my face. Before he could regain his bearings, I rammed the Beretta down his throat. “Stay very quiet,” I whispered in his ear. “No noise, no talking. Unless I tell you.”

  His eyes widened, then his training kicked in and disorientation gave way to the same inbred cockiness Casey and Dermott had exhibited. I’d have to break that if I was going to get what I needed.

  My captive was old enough to be a full-fledged Soga fighter with notches on his belt. He was forged from rough country stock, more worker bee than upper management material. If he hadn’t stepped aboard the Soga express, he’d be wading through a muddy rice paddy or manning a local road crew.

  I jammed the muzzle in farther. On the edge of my vision, I saw his fingers crawl toward the equipment belt. “If your hand moves another inch, I’ll put a bullet through the back of your skull. Blink once if you understand.”

  Blink.

  “You also understand that I can pull the trigger faster than you can attack—no matter what your training or any brainwashing may have taught you?”

  Blink. Yes.

  “Good. Now I want you to tell me how many men are on the grounds tonight. Can you do that?”

  One blink.

  “Okay, well?”

  He blinked ten times, paused, and then nine more.

  “Nineteen. Does that include women?”

  Blink.

  “How many?”

  Three blinks.

  “Are there trainees on the grounds?”

  Blink. Yes.

  “How many?”

  Blink, blink. Two.

  “Does that include you?”

  Blink, blink. No.

  “Which makes you smart enough to know I will kill you, right?”

  Yes.

  “Good. Don’t forget it. Do you know where the girl is?”

  Two blinks.

  “You’re lying.”

  Two blinks. No.

  “You are. There’s only the main house and the outbuildings. Each building has a function. Guesthouses, dorm, garage. Like that,” I said, filling in the holes with guesswork about what an American Soga compound would require. “So the possibilities are limited. If you know how many people are here, you know where the girl is.”

  No.

  “Then I have no more use for you. Say good-bye.”

  I shoved the barrel in farther until he started to choke. He began to blink rapidly.

  “Would you like to reconsider?”

  One blink. Yes.

  “So your memory’s improved?”

  Blink.

  “Are you sure? One more lie and I’ll kill you and go find myself a trainee.”

  Blink.

  “Very good. Now, I’m going to retract the gun enough for you to speak but not shout. Wrap your lips around the barrel. Any foolishness and I pull the trigger. Speak softly, tell me the truth, and you’ll live through this. You cross me and your brains will be fertilizing ferns. We clear?”

  Blink.

  “Good. After you answer, I’m going to tie you up with your own rope and gag you. No one will be able to find you and you won’t be able to escape. If my daughter is not where you say she is, I’ll return and put a bullet between your eyes. So consider your answer carefully.”

  I retracted the gun barrel a fraction of an inch.

  “Hanashite kudasai,” he wheezed. “Onegaishimasu.” Release me, I’m begging you.

  “If my daughter is where you say, you’ll go free.”

  “Just let me go. I got younger brothers and sisters.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Nineteen and a half.”

  And a half. Not only was my estimate off but my captive was still of an age where six months mattered. Shame colored my cheeks.

  I pushed the barrel back down, suppressing his tongue. “So you lied to me. You’re a trainee.”

  He hesitated, then blinked once.

  “I understand why you lied about your skill level, but the next lie sees you dead. Got it?”

  Blink.

  “Where’s the girl?”

  CHAPTER 70

  I ADVANCED through the green landscape of the night-vision goggles swiftly and without incident and approached the guest cottage from the rear.

  According to my young captive, Jenny was being held in a second-floor bedroom of the third cottage down. Architecturally, the cottage echoed the manor. Redbrick walls, redbrick chimney, white shutters at the windows. I’d passed two more just like it and perceived the blocky shadow of a fourth in the near distance.

  The night-vision apparatus allowed me to catch movement at one of the second-story windows, which confirmed what I suspected: inside, they would be waiting for me. There, and along the road, and anywhere else they thought I might turn up.

  You have to break your normal patterns . . .

  The Soga uniform was a miracle of garment design. Aside from a two-inch shortfall, it fitted me to perfection. The fabric stretched to accommodate minor body variations but hugged every curve and muscle. It was as thin and light as fine silk, yet breathed and retained body heat. It was also nearly weightless. Under normal conditions, clothing adds three to seven pounds of pull. This suit’s drag could be measured in ounces. No wonder Ogi and Casey and Dermott oozed such confidence. Everything about Soga was supremely evolved.

  As I drew up in front of Jenny’s supposed holding area, every nerve in my body hummed with tension. They wouldn’t have assigned many to guard her. I figured two or three. One upstairs, one down. And maybe a roamer. Which made the coming confrontation dicey.

  The rear door was painted white to match the shutters and had a glass panel in its upper half, subdivided into six small panes. I unclipped a blackjack from my equipment belt and held it alongside my leg, then tapped on the glass with my free hand. Sweat collected in the small of my back where the Beretta pressed against the Soga black. A dark form emerged from the shadows of the cottage and yanked open the door.

  “Any news?” the cloaked figure asked in Japanese.

  “Just what they broadcast,” I answered in the same language. “Casualties on their side. We’ll be evacuating soon.”

  Nodding, the guard glanced about before signaling for me to enter and retreating to the interior. Easing the door shut behind me, I trailed after him, eyes darting into every corner for signs of another guard. We were in a small pantry. A well-equipped kitchen branched off the right side, running along the back of the lodge. No bodies there. A second doorway loomed up ahead, leading to the front of the house. No one
. When I clubbed him, the crunch of packed-grain on skull sent a jarring vibration down my arm. My black-suited envoy stumbled but didn’t fall, so I cuffed him again and he melted to the floor with a thud.

  “Damn,” I muttered in Japanese.

  “There a problem?” a soft voice said from the front room.

  “Stubbed my toe.”

  The next instant a silhouette appeared in the doorway directly ahead of me. I shot it twice in the chest with the silenced Beretta and the figure slumped against the wall and slipped sideways, sketching a dark arc of blood across the painted surface.

  I stepped up for a closer look. Dead. A woman.

  Teens and females. A sour taste crossed my lips. I’d shot a woman. Something deep inside me shriveled. In the village, I’d fought but killed no one. Tonight I’d become a killer, a badge of distinction I despised. I fell back against the nearest wall, slid to the ground, and let my head fall between my knees.

  Get a move on, Brodie.

  I felt tainted. Disgusted with myself.

  You have no time to waste. What if another one walks through the door?

  I jumped up, alarmed. While struggling through moral quicksand, I’d dropped my guard long enough to get myself killed. If I wanted to live through the night and save Jenny, I couldn’t fall apart now.

  Hurriedly, I pulled both bodies up against the innermost pantry wall, then stood alongside them, hidden from line of sight if another guard rushed in from the front or the kitchen. With Beretta drawn, I listened for sounds inside and out. Scents of oak and pine and cleaning solvents saturated the cottage. Outside, an owl hooted. A cricket chirped. Inside, I heard nothing. Neither downstairs nor overhead. No scuffling. No creaking floorboards. No hushed preparations to counter my double takedown. I let another minute pass. The owl hooted again. Long Island pastoral. What could be more disarming?

  No guards appeared, so I braced myself and stepped cautiously into the kitchen, weapon raised. Still empty. No one rushed to the attack. The kitchen fed into a small hall, which led to a bathroom and den. No new foot soldiers. Beyond the den I could make out the front door and a living room.