Trigger Break

by Ty Patterson

  Meghan had brief bios for each woman. Jessica was pursuing a doctorate at the University of Tokyo. No known romantic relationships. Quiet woman, according to friends and family. Tall, blonde, and green-eyed in appearance.

  Cynthia was working as a journalist for the Asahi Shimbun. She covered the foreign desk. Zeb circled her name. She was engaged; her fiancé was in the US. She too was tall, a dark-eyed brunette.

  Stacey worked for the Japanese Red Cross Society. No relationships. Average height. Brown hair and eyes.

  Why no eyes on them? Their fathers are high-profile, he messaged Meghan.

  None of them are active on social media. Have called their security cordons. No response, she replied.

  That doesn’t mean anything, he figured as he watched the countryside roll past. The passengers in the train were quiet, a cultural characteristic that he appreciated. He caught the eye of a fellow traveler, who bowed slightly and smiled.

  Did you ask Dana Kantor? Do any of them work with WAS?

  Yeah. She chewed my head off and asked me not to call again.

  Get Clare to arrange eyes-on for all those who don’t have protection details. Each of those women should be protected, if they aren’t already. Run all of them through Werner and see what comes up.

  Werner would check out the women’s work, their social and travel habits, and would come up with a probability of any of the women being a WAS reporter.

  Why are we focusing on daughters only? Just because of Shira and Theresa?

  He fired off another message to Meghan. Check out wives too.

  He stretched his legs and considered the list on his screen. Jessica, Stacey, and Cynthia. The last two have the opportunity to investigate the yakuza. It would blend in with their work profile.

  He pulled out his phone, made several calls and got Kevin Lusk’s number.

  ‘Special Agent Lusk, this is Zeb Carter,’ he introduced himself.

  ‘Yeah. I got a call from the director. He said you would make contact. What’s this about Cynthia?’

  ‘Sir, she works with the Asahi Shimbun?’

  ‘Yes. She’s been there a few years now.’

  ‘Is she investigating the yakuza in any way, sir?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’ Lusk was clearly puzzled. ‘What’s going on, Carter?’

  Zeb took him in confidence and heard the sharp intake of breath at the other end.

  ‘How sure are you that she’s in danger?’

  ‘Not sure at all, sir. Otherwise I would be with her right now. There’s a probability they’ll target her if she’s involved with any yakuza investigation.’

  ‘I don’t think she is. However, let me check and get back.’

  Lusk hung up and called back in less than half an hour, sounding relieved. ‘Nope. She says that’s a different desk.’

  ‘I would still tighten the security around her, sir. Till this blows over.’

  ‘I’ll get on top of it.’

  He couldn’t get through to Stacey Hayes or her dad, Mervin. He left messages for both and tried Jessica Whitley. Voice mail. He requested her to call back.

  Alexander Whitley had been the ambassador to Japan for close to a decade. He had been appointed by a previous president and reappointed by the new administration.

  Zeb patiently went through several gatekeepers until he got the ambassador on the line.

  ‘Sir, I’m Zeb Carter—’

  ‘Yes, I was expecting this call. Someone called Clare—never heard of her—spoke to me. Jessica’s got nothing to do with the yakuza as far as I know. She’s been in the US for some time. She’s returning to present her paper in a few days’ time. Something on medieval Japan. No gang investigation, Mr. Carter.’

  ‘You’re sure about that, sir?’

  ‘Of course, she’s my daughter. I know what she’s studying.’

  ‘It might help to have security around her, sir.’

  ‘She has, and thank you for your consideration.’

  The ambassador wasn’t rude; he was busy. Zeb got it and hung up. He was thinking of crossing the three names off the list, but something held him back. Rule them out only after Meghan or I have spoken to them.

  He tried their numbers again. Busy.

  He toyed with his phone, pressing random buttons, as he listened to quiet conversation in the train.

  If WAS kept their investigation and reporter a secret, how did the yakuza find out?

  He thought about several possibilities. A leak seemed to be the most obvious one, but there was no electronic one—otherwise, Werner would have detected it. Dana Kantor ran WAS, supported by a few administrative staffers. Only she knew who the reporter was.

  She had come out clean after Werner had turned her electronic life inside out.

  Someone recognized the reporter? Yakuza spotted the reporter talking to captured women? A gaijin woman would be noticeable.

  A boy was playing games on his console a few seats ahead of Zeb. He watched the game idly and then it suddenly came to him.

  This is the most technologically advanced country in the world. They have robots at home to empty the garbage. Robots to manufacture robots. Surely the yakuza would have the darknet.

  The darknet was just that—an entire Internet away from public eyes. Websites and message boards on private servers whose addresses were never revealed to Joe Public. There were several hoops to jump through even if one had the IP address. There were several layers to the darknet. Each gang might have its own comms channel in the darknet. All gangs might have a common page, for shared problems.

  Werner could crack the darknet only if he had a starting IP address.

  He called Nishikawa.

  ‘Carter-san, life has been quiet without your calls. Too quiet.’

  ‘You’re missing me, Nishikawa-san?’

  ‘Not really’—Nishikawa snorted elegantly—‘I am missing the true peace that will come only when you leave my country.’

  Zeb grinned. The police chief’s sense of humor was growing on him. ‘Nishikawa-san, you have a way to contact the yakuza, don’t you? Can you pass a message to a specific member?’

  ‘That can be arranged, I think. Who are you talking about?’

  ‘Heita Oyahashi.’

  ‘There are rumors that he’s no longer with Iitsuka’s gang. In fact, some people have said other gangs are out to kill him.’

  ‘I know.’

  A long pause. ‘You knew and you didn’t tell me?’

  ‘Nishikawa-san, you would then ask me how I knew. And I would have to tell you that I fought some yakuza in Kobe. And you would then wonder why that was never reported. It’s better like this, Nishikawa-san.’

  Nishikawa’s voice softened. ‘I see what you mean. What message do you want passed on?’

  ‘Let him know that the gaijin is thinking of him.’

  ‘Just that? How will he contact you?’

  ‘You know that number in the newspaper ad? He can call that.’

  ‘About that.’ Nishikawa’s voice rose in irritation.

  ‘I’ve got to go, Nishikawa-san.’

  ‘Where are you going now, Carter-san? Dare I ask?’

  ‘To Fukuoka.’

  ‘Surely not to see Mount Aso?’

  ‘No, Nishikawa-san. I am not after volcanoes. I am after killers.’

  Chapter 39

  Zeb decided to go to Harata’s home first, in Sue. If I was a yakuza finger maker, I would be as far away from the main cities as possible.

  Sue was half an hour away from Hakata by car and took the same time by train. However, he would have to change trains to get to his destination.

  Car it is. He rented a sturdy black Toyota and set off, reminding himself to drive on the left side. The car came with a GPS, and he was able to navigate easily out of the city.

  Once the urban sprawl fell behind him, he accelerated and reached the outskirts of Sue, just as it started getting dark.

  Sue was a small town, about twenty thousand people. A lot
of its population worked in Fukuoka, or farmed in their agricultural plots outside the town. It was largely a residential town.

  Zeb drove around town, its small streets, familiarizing himself, watching his mirrors. No one seemed to be trailing him. No one made frantic calls when spotting him. Harata’s home was a two-floor house on the corner of a street, at the bottom of a hill.

  The street was narrow, and a neighboring house crowded it on one side. What seemed to be a convenience store was on the other side of the street.

  Harata’s a physician who deals in herbal medicine. Meghan had sent him a short bio, along with a picture she had extracted from tax records. The house, white with black tiles on a sloping roof, had a discreet sign in a corner that advertised his medicines.

  Zeb parked his car two streets away and pushed his seat back. He would enter half an hour after dinnertime. Around eight p.m. He had his gun, his knife, his NVGs, and a few other tools. He was wearing yet another layered shirt, dark in color, over dark jeans. Armored vest underneath his shirt.

  Blending into the night wouldn’t be a problem.

  The weight of the hunt got to him momentarily, and he slumped with his eyes closed. Got to find which gang, quickly. Then I can take more direct action. Before whatever goes down.

  He shut the door to his car softly when it was time, and walked casually. Just another townsperson.

  There wasn’t anyone on the street. It wasn’t the kind of town that saw lot of traffic after dark.

  Harata’s house was well lit when he approached it. He leaned against a wall, inconspicuous against its darkness, and watched the house and the neighborhood through his NVGs. No movement. No suspicious figures visible.

  One of his tools was a thermal imager, a compact one that fit into a jacket pocket.

  It showed three figures on the ground floor of Harata’s house. Two adult-sized figures, one a child, seated. No pets.

  He listened to his messages while he waited. There was two, both urgent. The first was from Oyahashi. He had given a number to call back.

  ‘Gaijin, what is it?’ he whispered when Zeb dialed it.

  ‘Why are you whispering?’

  ‘There are men waiting for me. To kill me.’

  Zeb didn’t know how to respond. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘No. This is our code. What do you want?’

  Zeb explained rapidly, and a note of respect entered Oyahashi’s voice. ‘I said you were on the right track. I was hoping you would ask for this link.

  ‘Gaijin, in a different time, we would be friends,’ he told Zeb as he gave Zeb the link and hung up.

  Two figures in Harata’s house went to the upper floor while the third remained at the rear of the house. Zeb moved only to listen to the second message.

  He stiffened when he heard the urgency in the speaker’s voice, a man he had spoken to previously.

  ‘Mr. Carter, call me as soon as you get this.’

  Zeb tried his number and got voice mail. He left a message and dialed Meghan.

  ‘Something for you,’ she burst out with as soon as she took his call. ‘One of those three women has been back in the US for a few months. Didn’t return to Japan.

  ‘But get this. Six months back, she replaced her father’s security detail. Brought in private contractors. They are good. Known to us. I checked them out. They made her change her routine. Kept her moving from place to place.’

  ‘Who is she?’

  Meghan told him the name and he closed his eyes. If the twins had been with him, they would have fist-bumped him. Now the pieces were falling into place. Now, the call from the father made sense.

  He checked his watch. Twenty minutes since Harata’s wife and kid had gone upstairs. He would wait ten minutes more.

  He gave Meghan the darknet link and knew she would put Werner on it. They had created several fake identities a few years back. A Mafia gangster, a Mexican drug runner, even a yakuza. Meghan would use the yakuza’s cover to go into the darknet and browse.

  ‘Let me know as soon as you get anything,’ he told her and straightened.

  Harata’s house had a small porch and a screen that separated it from the entrance door. He tried the entrance door. Locked.

  He went around the house, trying various windows. He got lucky when one moved when he applied pressure. The window slid noiselessly and was open for the least amount of time, just enough for him to slip inside.

  No alarms rang. No shouts sounded. Not that kind of town.

  He was in a living room. Wood floor, small carpet. A TV. Bamboo chairs. A small table. Walls lined with shelves. From deep inside the house he heard the sounds of washing, and from the upper floor, he hears soft conversation.

  He moved deeper inside the house. Dining room. A spare room, looked like a playroom. What was that door?

  He tried it and entered a small office-like room.

  Harata’s study.

  A desk and a chair. A filing cabinet in one corner. More shelves and files on the walls. Jars of medicines. He pointed his flashlight at the files. They were patient records. He riffled through a few of them. For herbal medicines. No prosthetic fingers.

  He turned to the filing cabinet, held his breath and eased the first drawer out. It opened noiselessly. Racks of folders. More patient records.

  He opened the second one. More of the same. The third drawer had fewer files. Back, right at the back, was one folder that caught his attention. Something shiny and round near it.

  He was drawing the folder out when the study’s light turned on.

  Harata, in his early sixties, was of average height, lean-faced, the skin on his cheeks sagging. He had thinning hair, and his eyes turned wide behind his thick glasses. He was blinking in astonishment at the stranger in his study. He took a few seconds to comprehend, during which Zeb moved swiftly.

  He cupped a hand over Harata’s mouth and dragged him inside the room. He shoved the physician in the lone chair in the room and shut the study’s door.

  ‘Is your family sleeping?’

  Harata ogled at him, amazement battling with the fear in him. A gaijin speaking in his tongue.

  ‘Is your family sleeping?’

  He nodded.

  ‘If you shout, warn them, or make any noise, they will be hurt. Do you understand?’

  Harata nodded fearfully.

  Zeb removed his hand and leaned against the small desk.

  ‘You are the yakuza’s finger maker,’ he stated.

  Harata shook his head, his throat working.

  Zeb removed his Glock and placed it on the table. The physician’s eyes darted at it. He moistened his lips and dragged his eyes back to Zeb.

  ‘What do you want?’ he whispered.

  ‘Which yakuza gang do you work for?’

  ‘I don’t work for the yakuza. I don’t make fingers. I sell medicines.’

  Zeb straightened and Harata flinched. Zeb went past him and extracted the thick file he had been fingering. His hand dove back into the drawer and came out with a plastic jar. He rattled it and Harata’s face turned ashen.

  The jar contained several prosthetic fingers.

  ‘I won’t be so polite if you continue to lie. You make fingers?’

  Harata didn’t answer. He swallowed, and when Zeb fingered the Glock, he nodded.

  ‘Yes.’

  Zeb tossed the file at him. ‘Those are your clients?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All yakuza gangsters?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They are ex-yakuza?’

  Harata didn’t understand, and Zeb asked him again, using different words.

  ‘No, they are still in the gang.’

  ‘How did you get into this?’

  ‘Family business,’ Harata said, a hint of pride in his voice. ‘Yakuza take good care of me.’

  ‘In return you make them the fingers? Where? You need molds. Equipment.’

  Harata pointed a shaking hand at the back of the house. ‘It’s all
there.’

  ‘You keep records?’

  Harata looked at the file. It was thick with papers. Of course, he kept records.

  Zeb removed the dead killer’s photograph and showed it to Harata. ‘Recognize him?’

  Harata’s eyes slid away.

  Zeb grabbed his head and turned it to the picture. ‘You know him, don’t you?’

  His fingers were digging into the old man’s face. He loosened them consciously and forced himself to stay calm. ‘Harata-san, I am not here to hurt you or your family. But if you don’t answer my questions, I will. Your yakuza friends killed innocent women. They are planning more killings. If you tell me everything you know, I can help you.’

  ‘Yakuza will kill me.’ Harata tried to wriggle away.

  ‘I will kill you if you don’t tell me.’ Zeb slapped him lightly and put on his stone-cold killer face.

  The blow made Harata tremble visibly. He reached out to the file and flipped through several sheets with names, photographs, and drawings. He drew out one sheet.

  Naruki Koki was the name on the sheet. A sneering face stared out from a photograph. Zeb held it up and compared it to photo. It was the same person.

  He remembered the second set of photographs Meghan had sent, of the yakuza who was killed in California.

  ‘What about him?’

  Harata looked at the second man for a long time as he tried to recollect. ‘How many years back?’

  ‘Three.’

  Harata rose to his feet and removed a thick file from an upper shelf. He ran through several pages, stopping to compare photographs, before he came to one.

  ‘Abe Tamura, made for him long time back.’

  Zeb wasn’t paying attention.

  A plastic folder had slipped out of the first file, disturbed when Harata had stood up. The folder had a familiar name on it.

  Harata followed his gaze and bent to pick the folder, but Zeb was faster. He snatched it and removed four sheets of paper from inside the folder.

  Each sheet had a name, a photograph stapled to it, and drawings of the left and the right hands.

  Zeb paid little attention to the sheets, his eyes still on the name printed on the plastic folder. ‘You work for them? Exclusively?’