“You remind me of a story I’ve heard.”
She clutched his shoulders and squeezed, kneading them hard. “And what story is that?”
“There are supposedly a group of beautiful assassins throughout all of Asia. They are said to have hair like yours…”
Violet’s eyes opened wide, but, luckily, Tattoo couldn’t see her reaction. Instead of responding violently, she just leaned in. “I have a confession to make.”
“And what’s that?” he asked, groaning.
“I’ve heard of them too. It’s where I got the idea. I thought it would add to the experience.”
“Oh, it does.” He moaned a few more times. “It does…”
Now, I’ve got you.
She continued to massage his shoulders, occasionally sliding her hands down his chest and back. After a few minutes, Violet calmly wrapped her arms around his neck and nibbled on his ear.
That’s when she made her move, seductively whispering into her mark’s ear while secretly signaling the others to do the same. “Let’s do it.”
2
He hated to wait—hated it! It was the one thing in his line of work that drove him crazy. Well, the one thing he could think of at the moment. He wasn’t a patient person by nature. He picked up a porcelain cup and sighed. Sake bars were a norm for him while stationed in Japan. It was completely different than the drinks he consumed back home in the States.
Beer, beer, and more beer.
Roman Shepard was ordered by those at a higher paid grade to be on the lookout for a potential threat across the street from where he currently sat. One of the more volatile gangs was in town and having themselves a party upstairs. They had ties to some of the nastiest people back in the U.S., hence his involvement now.
Dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, Roman played the part of a transplanted businessman from South Carolina perfectly. It was mostly because he actually was a transplanted businessman from South Carolina. Well, sort of. His employers, the Central Intelligence Agency, sent him to Tokyo full-time a couple of years back because of his fluency in the language and because of his deep connections with some of the underworld’s finest. None of those “finest” knew he worked for “Uncle Sam” back in the U. S. of A., of course.
His permanent move overseas may or may not have also been because he told one of his superiors to suck his dick at their last Langley soiree. Something about Roman’s ex now being one of the queen bees within the “Company” set him off and he nearly slugged the same asshole that dared to bring her up. Thankfully, Roman, a lethally-trained operative, didn’t land the punch. If he had, he would’ve lost more than his gig for sure.
He would’ve have lost his freedom.
“Prick,” he mumbled, finishing off the rest of the hot drink. Roman didn’t know what kind of sake it was, only that he liked it and that Bishamon, the bar’s owner, knew what he wanted when he came in. “Bish” was one of his first contacts in the area, regularly serving him on quiet, rainy nights—much like tonight.
Sitting at the high-top table in the front window, Roman could case the building across the street without having to get up. Knocking back a couple of small cups—chokos—in the process was just a bonus. Sometimes he would have an even slower night and drink an entire ceramic flask of the stuff, a tokkuri.
Roman saved Bish’s wife from an armed carjacking one day, and the guy repaid him by promising him free sake for life. It wasn’t even a work-related altercation either. One day, Roman was walking down the street, minding his own business, when it happened. He casually stepped in and broke the punk’s arm in the process.
As soon as he sat down tonight, Roman saw three of the gang members walk in. The whore house only took up the third floor of the building, not the entire place. Those who knew of its existence called it the Third Floor. With no elevator, the people running the joint could easily keep out those they didn’t want inside. A money-needy informant within the five-story building said that they stationed an armed guard at every level within the stairwell from the third floor down. If Roman did have to make his presence known, he was confident in his abilities to do so without getting himself killed.
He was also confident in the gunmen’s lack of those same abilities. The pecking order within groups like the Gilded Blade was evident. If you were a newbie or just flat-out out of favor with the bosses, you were on guard duty. The real threat was the guys taking part in the action. But, they would literally be caught with their pants down and be easy pickings.
What an embarrassing way to die.
“Mr. Roman, sir?”
Glancing at the reflection in the window, he saw Bish standing behind him in his customary way. Hands clutched behind his back and a straight posture, the older man unconsciously displayed his past without realizing it.
Bishamon Ming was in the Japanese Army a lifetime ago, retiring to open his own business. He was a gentle soul and respected what Roman did for a living. He didn’t know that Roman was an agent with the CIA per se, but he was smart enough to know that he was a spy, nonetheless.
Bish was one of the few people in Japan that Roman could talk to about his personal life without having to lie about it entirely. The elder barkeep didn’t want to know the finer details anyway. The less he knew, the better off he’d be. He mentioned that he’d dealt with secretive people while in the army.
“Expecting trouble?” Bish asked, his eyes stone.
Roman smiled. “You know me too well, old friend.”
“Should I worry?”
Roman looked over his shoulder and smiled. “Not yet.”
Bish’s already wrinkled, squinted eyes closed further as he repaid Roman’s smile with his own. He bowed slightly. “You’re right. I do know you too well.”
Returning to his other customers, Bish made his rounds. Bishamon’s was a favorite of the locals. People from all walks of life visited the elder statesman’s place. His kindness was infectious, and so was his sake. Over the years, Roman had witnessed countless deals go down within the small business. Most were legal. Some not. Roman kept track of the latter, just in case they needed his intervention.
It’s where his tip for tonight’s case came originated.
One of the lower-level guards from across the street had a big mouth and let slip that some of the Gilded Blade’s boss types were visiting the Third Floor. Roman notified his superiors back home, and another of his contacts later verified the claim.
Whenever the group mobilized like this, people inevitably got hurt. Drugs were something the gang was heavily involved in, besides women, of course. They used everything from experimental metabolic steroids and methamphetamines to the classics like cocaine and heroin. Roman had never seen so many wigged out, five-foot-four guys in his life.
“Friggin muscle hamsters…”
Mid-sip, Roman saw something he didn’t like. Three blacked out SUVs pulled up and emptied a total of eleven men in front of the building. He had never seen so many of the Gilded Blade hooligans in one spot at one time. Something bad was about to happen. He needed to move before the girls upstairs got involved in an unwarranted skirmish. If it were his call, he would’ve already cleared the place out. But unfortunately for him, and the girls, the local police were mostly paid off to look the other way, or scared to do anything at all. It’s how places like this kept popping up.
Who the hell is in there now that could cause such a ruckus?
It was the last thought he had before he stood and rushed out of the back door of Bishamon’s. The one good thing about his exiling to Japan was that he was wholly in charge of his unit’s movement. To a degree. The only people that could negate his orders were in the U.S., and he wasn’t about to call them now, that was for damn sure. His team was always standing by, ready for anything.
Touching his throat, he whispered, “Rooster Six, prepare to move out.” The simple command instantly mobilized his men. “Rooster Six” referred to the strike team he led. The name paid homage to the mascot of the
University of South Carolina, the “Gamecock.” He graduated from the college fifteen years prior and wore the number six while playing football for them. An Achilles injury ruined his sophomore season and ultimately his career as a standout wide receiver. He turned to law enforcement almost immediately after it happened, focusing on the various agencies.
Like most of them, the CIA spy gear was off-the-charts awesome, complete with tactical throat mics. Like the one he just used. The Company had a plethora of over-the-top weapons as well. The microphone itself was hidden in plain view as a sticker on his neck. Perfectly matching his skin tone, the miniaturized device could pick up on his voice at any level—even the slightest of whispers. Sub-vocalization was essential when you needed to relay intel but couldn’t speak loud enough to convey the message accurately.
For added secrecy, Roman and the others applied a thin layer of concealer over top of it. To the naked eye, he had perfect skin on his chin. To those close enough to see it, they’d know he was trying to hide something. And normally, if someone was that close, they were close to dying.
Or we’d be in the dark and in the sack.
“On my signal, move in,” he ordered, climbing the building’s rear ladder. There, it led straight to the roof. It gave those using it access to the various air handlers and whatnot. But it also gave Roman and his team—a team that was already waiting for him—a view of the action below. Bishamon’s sat on the first floor of an eight-story building.
Making it to the roof in record time, Roman accepted the offered zip line handle, AKA, a trolley. Using a more traditional harness wasn’t an option when having to move as fast as they were about to. The time it took to clip, ride the line, and then unclip, could be all the time the enemy needed to put your head in their gunsights.
Roman also accepted a sound suppressed Heckler & Koch MP5SD submachine gun. The integrated silencer was nonremovable and a new addition to Rooster Six.
He slung it across his back as he made his way forward, watching as one of his men pulled the trigger of a thick-barreled shoulder-mounted weapon. Instead of it firing a Rocket Propelled Grenade, an RPG, it launched a two-foot-long barb towing a cable into the adjacent building’s front façade, just below the roofline.
The steel barb stuck, and the cable was drawn tight when the rear end was attached to the ledge of Bish’s building. Roman was the first to attach his trolley, silently giving his team the signal they were waiting for. Leaping out over the street below, Rooster Six was officially in motion, riding the decline at whatever speed they could muster. A thirty-foot decline could pucker your butt pretty good. Five highly-trained operatives against what might be two-dozen twitchy, trigger-happy punks.
Let’s hope for no surprises.
The last thing they needed was a wildcard in play. Yao, his informant within the building, had assured him that the only dangerous people within the Third Floor were going to be the Gilded Blade assholes. And Yao knew what would happen if he lied to Roman. The scarred bastard’s past would get used against him, and he’d go away for a long, long time.
Or Roman would just shoot Yao himself. He had no qualms about killing someone of Yao’s ilk. To Roman, wicked men deserved to die.
“He better’ve kept his word,” Roman muttered as he landed and rolled to a stop, swinging his weapon up. When the last agent made their way across, Roman was already moving again, heading for the door to the stairs. On any other day, it wouldn’t have been open. He grabbed it and pulled.
But not tonight.
Happy to see that Yao held up the first part of their agreement, Roman waved his team forward. The Gilded Blade only had men on the first, second, and third floors based on his contact’s intel. They never needed anyone above those floors before. The front door should’ve been the only way in or out. They’d purposely torn down that outside ladder a couple of years back.
But, like the roof access door, tonight was a different story. Slowly, and methodically, the team continued past the fifth floor, never once checking the floor’s hallways for stragglers. Willy would provide them with ample support from behind and was Roman’s second-in-command. The two of them had been together the longest of any of the Roosters.
The fourth-floor landing was next, also empty. As he stepped onto it, Roman could just start to make out the constant booming of music as it reverberated around them. Every fourth beat it would hold out longer and deeper than the rest. Not having to voice his orders, Roman crept down the next flight of stairs.
He stopped when he heard a pair of voices, both talking in Japanese. Neither seemed to be all that into their jobs either, talking about the women they’d seen so far tonight.
“Sexy girls tonight,” one said.
“Especially the one with red pigtails,” the other added.
“I liked the one in purple…”
Bored lackeys for hire, Roman thought. This could be easier than I—
An explosion rocked the building, sending Dingus and Mingus into a frenzy. Both men burst through the third-floor door and were instantly met with a wave of heat and flames, screaming as they were engulfed and thrown back into, and down, the stairwell towards the second floor.
“The fuck?” Roman silently mouthed.
He rushed forward and was in shock at what he saw. The entire floor was alight. The long hall held doors on either side, all of which were likewise burning. No one could’ve survived what just happened.
A groan startled him, and he swung his gun down and to the right to find a half-naked, bleeding woman slumped against the wall. Her once shoulder-length hair was mostly cooked, smoldering like the rest of their surroundings. He knelt next to her and saw it had purple in it. Must be the girl the guards were talking about. But her broken and disheveled form wasn’t what held his attention the most. It’s what she clutched in her crimson hands.
In her right hand was a pistol, empty, its slide locked back. In her left was a dagger of some sort. It didn’t seem to be anything special…but it was slathered in blood, recently used from what he could tell.
“Who are you?” Roman asked more to himself.
With the speed and precision only a professional possessed, the attractive woman brought the blade up to his neck. Her eyes locked onto his before they faltered and rolled back in her head. The sudden movement and apparent concussion were both too much for her, and a second later she fell into his waiting arms. Roman had his team quickly search the immediate area for other survivors but found none. He growled in frustration when his people announced that they couldn’t get into the rooms because of the heat.
Dammit!
Carrying the unconscious woman to the roof, Roman called in the fire and waited for his team to fall back, occasionally shooting down the stairs at the Gilded Blade goons stationed there. Setting down the lone survivor, Roman knew something terrible had happened. But what? And who was this woman? The questions would need to wait, though. They needed to leave before the authorities showed up and squelched the opportunity at a proper interrogation.
We’ll find out who you are.
The Japanese nationality and purple hair reminded him of a story Bish had once told him, but from what Roman knew, it was just local folklore. Bishamon heard the tale when he was a kid, back in the fifties.
It can’t be, he thought. This lady is barely in her thirties. The woman he was thinking of should’ve been a lot older than that.
3
The Third Floor
Minutes Earlier
Pulling on her bracelet’s largest bead, Violet unsheathed her favored method of killing. The custom-made garrote wire was thick, yet flexible, and mostly unbreakable. Unless he had a pair of wire cutters in his undies, Violet’s target was as good as dead.
As soon as the wire touched his neck, he did what they all did. Tattoo freaked out and began to thrash. But being the seasoned veteran that Violet was, she quickly locked her ankles around his midsection and pulled back with all her strength, using his seated position against
him. The easiest way to dislodge an attacker using a device like hers was to backpedal and slam them up against a wall.
Another advantage of using a garrote wire was that it was sharp and it dug deeper into the victim’s flesh the harder they fought it. If you didn’t die of suffocation, you’d sooner or later succumb to blood loss.
She screamed in anger and pulled harder, enraged that he somehow got a hand up to keep the wire from fully engaging his skin. Instead of him yielding to her typically flawless attack, he grunted and rolled over. Violet would’ve preferred she stay on her back like before, but at least she still had a firm hold on her weapon.
He put a hand down and pushed off the bed.
Impossible!
The guy was barely bigger than she was—and still conscious! She knew of the gang’s habitual drug use, but this was something new altogether. Nobody, absolutely nobody, should’ve been able to do what this man was doing now. He stood, shaking as Violet sawed deeper into his neck and palm, blood running down her hands as well.
Even with her vice-like legs still locked around his waist, Violet was quickly starting to lose her leverage as well as her grip. His blood was acting like a natural lubricant beneath her fingers, and the shock of him fighting back had dulled her concentration.
Doing the only thing she could, she let go and shoved Tattoo towards the bed, racing for the nightstand. Grabbing his straight edge, she leapt on top of him and flicked it open. Reacting like she was made of acid, he bucked wildly and threw her from the bed all the while his neck was gushing blood from the wound.
What the hell are these guys on? These guys… Ruby!
There was no way that her target was the only one putting up a fight. The other Dragons must’ve been having their own issues too. Violet also doubted that the six had clients as slight as the man here. Ditching the stealthy attack, she tossed the blade away and jumped onto the bed. Using his back as a springboard, she vaulted over him with ease and landed on the floor on the other side.
Beautiful Dragons Page 2