Rogue Empire (Blake Carver Series)

by William Tyree

  Now armed, he slithered behind the car, waiting for the right moment. That came seconds later, as the driver broke into hearty laughter. Carver rushed the driver’s side door, reached through the window and plunged the sharp edge of aluminum into his larynx. Carver ground and twisted the makeshift blade until blood spurted past him out onto the asphalt. Unable to speak, much less scream, the driver grabbed at his throat with both hands. Carver opened the door and shoved him into the passenger floorboard, where he bled out as the voice of a bubbly young woman continued to erupt from the phone. The poor girl, Carver thought. She probably had no idea her boyfriend was such a lowlife.

  He hung up the phone and wiggled into the warm leather of the driver’s seat. Scattered raindrops appeared on the windshield and soon transformed into a drizzle. Carver put the car into gear and sped off until he found a relatively dark residential area about a mile south. Then he parked and put both hands out the window to rinse them in the cold rain. He wasn’t sure what was more disgusting – the sticky blood, or the smell of bitter coffee.

  Then he searched the glove box, hoping for a gun. Instead he found a switchblade knife. A significant upgrade over the prison shank. He also found a pair of driving gloves, which he put on immediately. He then took the pocket square out of the driver’s jacket and used it to wipe his fingerprints off the steering wheel and interior. Once he was finished, he surveyed the car’s navigation console. As he had hoped, the nav was set to log the car’s route history. Before pulling up to Free Ball, the car had come from what looked to be a large warehouse a few miles north of his present location. Before that, the car had been to the Green Ghost. Bingo. Eri was no longer at Sho’s fortified country house. She had to be at the warehouse. He just hoped she was still in one piece.

  Kyoto

  The warehouse was located at the dog end of an industrial street on the outskirts of town. The skies opened up as Carver approached, drumming the roof with an intensity that could even be heard over the engine. Carver switched on the car’s bright lights, and he saw the sign out front that read Ito Gardening Supplies. Hundreds of potted plants were arranged in neat clusters around the yard. A row of garden statues near the gate. That figured. The Kuromaku seemed to value anything uniquely Japanese, and there were few things more uniquely Japanese than the country’s immaculate gardens.

  As a rule, Carver did not believe in frontal assaults. But in this case, he regarded the red muscle car with the booming engine as the world’s most obnoxious Trojan Horse. The Kuromaku expected him to be at Free Ball, and they would expect the driver of the car to be one of their own. If he could just get inside the gate, he had a chance. Disorient, disrupt and destroy. That was the only way he was going to get Eri out of this place alive.

  He drove up to the gate, shielding his face with the visor and his hand. Bingo. It opened.

  He continued through the entry and past a row of pagoda garden statues, manipulating the angle of the vehicle as he turned into the driveway so that the car was neither head-on nor sideways. He braked about 40 feet from the nursery’s front entrance and backed the vehicle up against a cluster of potted bonsai. Then he put the vehicle in park. It emitted a throaty growl, even in idle.

  He belted the dead driver so that he was upright and behind the wheel. He cranked up the satellite radio station loud enough that J-Pop bass rattled the car windows. Then he crouched behind the car, waiting for someone to emerge from the nursery. It took less than a minute until a pair of black leather loafers scurried toward him. They stopped next to the driver’s side door. He heard yelling. The driver’s side door opened. A man’s voice bleated a bewildered sound of confusion.

  Carver rounded the rear bumper and lunged at the man’s ankles, driving the switchblade into his right Achilles tendon. He ripped sideways until the blade was free of the blood-soaked sock. His terrified victim went down fast, screaming hysterically, hands gripping his leg, eyes wide, not comprehending who or what had just assaulted him.

  As Carver had hoped, the ruckus drew three more men outside. By the time they reached their wounded colleague, who grew ever more delirious with each passing second, Carver had made his way among the potted boxwoods and bonsai around to the side of the greenhouse.

  He entered the building through an open service entrance built wide enough to accommodate delivery trucks. Judging by the lack of activity, and the lateness of the hour, the nursery workers had all gone home long ago.

  There, among rows of potted apricot trees, sat Eri. She was bound to a chair with heavy gauge utility wire. As Carver drew closer from behind, he began counting appendages. He saw eight fingers and two thumbs. Both ears were still attached as well. Everything in its right place.

  “Don’t move,” he whispered as he came up behind her. She drew in an astonished breath. Carver took the pair of wire cutters from the shelf behind her and began clipping the bonsai wire they had used to bind her wrists and arms to the metal chair. “How many are there?”

  “Four.”

  “Make that three and a half,” Carver said, counting the man he had cut out front.

  Now the rumble of the muscle car’s engine stopped abruptly, and he could hear his victim's gut-wrenching screams. Overhead, heavy rain pounded the greenhouse roof.

  Once he had freed Eri’s hands, he began working on the several layers of wires that bound her ankles to the chair. The screams of agony grew closer as they dragged Carver’s victim inside.

  He managed to free her hands just as a door slammed at the other end of the space. She tried to stand. “Can’t walk,” she said. “My legs are numb from sitting.”

  “Happens to me all the time,” he said as he set her back down on the chair.

  “You still read on the toilet?”

  “I’m a pro. Just start moving your toes up and down to get your blood flowing. The numbness will go away within a minute or two.”

  The voices were getting closer. Then he heard footsteps on the concrete flooring. He took one of the gardening forks from the shelf behind him and gave it to Eri. The short-handled instrument with massive black iron prongs resembled the talon of an enormous bird of prey. “Use this if they get close.”

  “What about you?”

  He took a gardening scraper – a hatchet-like tool with a handle that was about 20 inches long – off the shelf. Then he slipped his shoes off, and kissed Eri on the cheek. “Just sit tight. I’ll distract them from the other side until you can get to your feet.”

  Now the men were shouting at each other. Judging by the direction of their voices, they had split up.

  Crouching in his sock feet, Carver went deeper into the warehouse, careful to stay behind rows of vegetation, until he was at the far wall. Then he began working his way back, hoping to outflank them.

  He soon came across a wheelbarrow full of volcanic rocks. They were several inches tall, jagged in shape, and typically used to symbolize mountains and Zen gardens. He took one. It was surprisingly light, due to its porous composition.

  He kept moving until he could see the back of one of the attacker’s heads. He was standing in the mulch aisle on his tiptoes, peering over a row of neatly stacked bags, wielding a dagger in his right hand. Carver cocked his arm back, raised up, and threw the stone. His aim was true, striking the man’s scalp, knocking the thug off balance. Carver took three lunging steps and swung his gardening scraper. He wedged the blade into the man’s neck, careful not to damage the larynx. He wanted to make sure this one could still scream.

  Now having added a second voice to the chorus of agony, Carver left the wounded man in the mulch aisle, took the dagger, and moved quickly to another section of the warehouse. The others were shouting again now. But among the mostly indecipherable chatter, Carver heard something he didn’t like: “Sato! Sato! Ikimasho!”

  Dread welled up in him. They had realized that to flush Carver out, they just needed to threaten Eri. And how right they were. Carver stood upright and looked across the warehouse. Both men were heading t
oward the back, where Eri was still trying to get the blood flowing in her legs and feet.

  He put his thumb and index finger into his mouth and emitted an ear-piercing whistle. An old trick he learned while deer hunting. Carver had been just 12 years old when he had discovered that the secret to stopping a running deer was to whistle loudly. Nine times out of ten, the deer would stop and look back. That was all the time he had needed to line up the kill shot.

  But he had no rifle here in Kyoto, and when both of his prey stopped and looked – both were tall, lanky men with bad skin – they weren’t taking the bait. They simply resumed their march toward the back of the warehouse.

  It looked like checkmate.

  Carver broke into a run, but they were faster. The lanky one was the first to reach her. He pulled a knife from his belt and grabbed her with his free hand.

  He suddenly stiffened and straightened weirdly, stepped back and turned. Both hands were wrapped around the huge gardening fork wedged into his abdomen. He collapsed in a heap.

  Eri ripped the iron talons from his abdomen and got ready for the hedgehog. Realizing he was outnumbered, he bolted for the service entrance.

  Carver decided not to pursue him. Better that the survivor reported what he had seen here. If he could throw the Kuromaku into chaos, perhaps they would finally make a mistake big enough for the world to notice.

  Now Eri stood over the dying man, seeming to enjoy the sudden reversal of power.

  “Eri,” Carver called out. He snapped his fingers. “We have to go.”

  “Can I kill him first?”

  “He’s already dead. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

  Julian Speers’ Residence

  As Speers’ wife started the minivan and rolled the windows down, he leaned into the driver’s side window and kissed her cheek. He then move to each of the back windows and kissed his children as they slept in their car seats. “You guys are going to have a great time with grandma, right?”

  In the hours before dawn, Speers had convinced his wife to take the children to her mother’s place down in North Carolina. It’s probably nothing, he had told her, doing his best to mask the level of alarm he felt inside after Kang’s speech. The incident in the Pacific had set off a heightened military readiness level. That, combined with the knowledge that the Chinese were already moving their VIPs out of the country, had convinced him that it was for the best.

  Now he moved back to the driver’s side window. “It’s just for a few days. Promise.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll be somewhere safe. I can’t say more.”

  She put on a brave face and put the car in gear. “Call me tonight.”

  He watched until the car was out of sight. Then he got into the SUV that had been waiting for him. “Upstate Maryland,” he told his driver.

  “Sir?”

  “I’ll disclose more information as we go. Take the 27 toward Westminster.”

  The driver’s hazel eyes filled the rear view mirror. “Is everything okay, sir?”

  “Good Christ. Will you please stop asking questions and drive?”

  “Yes, Mister Director.”

  Speers was uncharacteristically quiet as they pulled out of the driveway. The various threads of the security situation swirled in his mind like so many pieces of shredded paper. As the car entered the freeway onramp, his phone rang. It was his assistant in McLean.

  “Mister Director, I have Ambassador Kai Nakamura on the line. He says it’s urgent.”

  Speers’ stomach filled with butterflies. After Carver had sent photographs that seemed to imply the Japanese had some connection to the attack on the Chinese embassy, Speers had hoped to avoid further contact with the Japanese until they had more evidence. Unfortunately, the man they had sent to Tripoli to connect the dots, Aldo Rossi, was still missing. To make matters worse, Carver himself had gone completely dark.

  “Okay. Put him through.”

  Nakamura’s voice crackled over the line. “Julian, I apologize for calling you directly. Protocol would have me place this call to your secretary of state. But after our recent meeting at the White House, I felt most comfortable sharing this tragic news with you. I must inform you that the emperor has died.”

  “Oh,” Speers managed. “I’m very sorry to hear that. I trust he passed peacefully.”

  “Suddenly, in fact. While conducting state business with the PM. A historic moment. And given his considerable age, and Ito’s relative youth, it signifies a passing of the torch, don’t you think?”

  A passing of the torch? A curious turn of phrase, especially considering Ito had spearheaded a return of modest powers to the throne. “Uh, yes, quite,” Speers agreed nevertheless. “Please, Kai, tell me how I can help.”

  “Well there is something. Typically, the death of a monarch calls for a long official period of mourning. But given the current crisis, don’t you agree that the G8 must go on as planned?”

  “I can’t pretend to know what is best for the Japanese people at this time.”

  “What is best, Julian, is that the United States and Japan continue to cooperate to defend against Chinese aggression even while we de-escalate tensions. Therefore, we will hold the state funeral for the emperor on the first night of the G8, so as to make it easy for all heads of state to attend.”

  “I see. Does that mean that President Kang will attend the G8 after all?”

  “Naturally. Considering the emperor’s death, he now feels a diplomatic obligation to do so.”

  “Naturally.”

  “Also, I have a message for President Hudson.”

  “What is that?”

  “The Chinese have agreed to private peace talks – so long as they are kept secret from the public. I am quite confident that they will be fruitful.”

  Kyoto

  10:20 pm. Carver and Eri were racing toward Kyoto Station, where he hoped that they might catch the last train to Tokyo. He felt decidedly conspicuous. There were few people on the road this time of night, and perhaps only one white intelligence agent driving a loud red muscle car.

  Eri powered the window down and tossed their SIM cards out the window. One block later, she flung the phones themselves into a ditch. Still, she seemed to be having second thoughts about the plan. “We could leave the country. I know a marina on the coast that’s full of smugglers. For the right price, one of them would surely take us to South Korea.”

  “No. The Kuromaku came all the way to Arizona to find me. They’d go to Mars to get you. We have to finish this while we still can.”

  “Tell me again. I don’t understand how this can work.”

  “Ito has to be exposed. It’s the only way. When we get to Tokyo, I want you to go to the American embassy. Ask to get a message to my old boss, Julian Speers.”

  “Old boss?”

  “It’s complicated. Just tell them I sent you. They’ll pretend they don’t know who I am at first, but they’ll get Julian, and he’ll listen. Tell him you have information about the embassy bombing, but don’t give it to him until he agrees to grant you political asylum.”

  “You’re not coming with me?”

  Carver’s face grew even more serious. “Sho is going to assassinate the president at the G8.”

  She pulled her legs down and turned sideways in the leather seat. “You have proof?”

  “Not exactly, but I’m sure. I’ll fill you in on the train.”

  As the station came into view, Carver pulled over and helped Eri out of the car. She was walking much better now, and that was a good thing, since they had just 15 minutes to get their tickets and get on the train. As they picked up the pace, their hands touched briefly. Then again. And then suddenly, they were holding hands.

  Eri spoke in a tender tone that he had not heard in years. “I didn’t expect you to come after me tonight.”

  “You would have done the same for me. Just promise me that if anything happens, or if we get separated, you’ll go to the embassy and get a messa
ge to Julian.”

  “Promise.”

  At last they came to the station. Along the far wall by the turnstiles, Carver spotted a series of green pay phones. “I have to make a call.”

  “The last train leaves in six minutes!”

  “This won’t take long. Go get tickets. I’ll meet you at the turnstile.”

  He fed money into the phone, then dialed the Four Seasons in Las Vegas and asked for Suite 40404.

  The phone rang for what seemed like an eternity.

  Come on, Nico! Answer the phone!

  After the eighth ring, the call was kicked back down to the front desk. The hotel operator asked if he would like to leave a message. “Try it again,” he said. “Suite 40404.”

  As the phone rang, the stationmaster’s voice came over the PA system, announcing that the eastbound Shinkansen – a high speed cross-country train – was about to leave.

  The phone rang five times. Finally, Madge answered in a language he assumed was Etruscan.

  “It’s me. Put Nico on.”

  “He stepped out. Can you call back?”

  “I might not be able to. Just tell him that I was right. The robotic cat that vacuums his floors is guilty as sin.”

  “Come again?”

  “He’ll understand. But tell him he has to get proof. And he has to find a way to make it public.”

  He looked up. Eri was on the other side of the turnstile, waving her hands frantically.

  “Be right there!” he mouthed.

  Now she screamed and pointed. “Behind you!”

  Carver ducked and rolled left, but he wasn’t fast enough. There were simply too many Kuromaku. He nailed one of them with a forearm shiver to the neck before something hard and heavy hit him behind the head. The world faded to black.

  PART VI

  Somewhere in Tokyo

  When Carver woke, he did not know if it was day or night. He blinked, seeing nothing but blackness. His hands and ankles were bound with zip ties. His skull ached. There was no way to hold his head that didn’t hurt.