Blowback

by James P. Sumner

  I stamp my foot to the floor, causing the engine to rev harder than it’s meant to. I reach the cordon placed around the area by the police—plastic barriers positioned across the street, with abandoned police cars on either side. The gap between them looks wide enough for me to fit through.

  Maybe.

  I brace myself, locking my arms straight. I grip the wheel until the color drains from my knuckles. I burst through the barriers like they weren’t even there and fly through the narrow gap, clipping the police car to my right. I see the sparks of metal on metal in the wing mirror but pay little attention.

  I struggle against the flow of adrenaline to keep my breathing calm and my mind clear.

  “No running from me this time, asshole. This ends tonight.”

  27

  21:53 JST

  I drive as fast as I dare, splitting my focus between the chopper and the road ahead. Thankfully, it’s remained quiet since leaving the Yakuza warzone. The sidewalks are practically deserted, and the roads have nothing more than a light scattering of cars and scooters. Luckily for me, everyone’s driving sensibly enough that I can navigate through the traffic at speed with little issue.

  I’m trying to work out where Kazawa and Miley would be heading. Whether they realize it or not, there’s nowhere big enough or secure enough to effectively protect them from me. And they just left Tokyo’s equivalent of Fort Knox, which arguably wasn’t their smartest move. If I’m being honest with myself, there was next-to-no chance of us breaching even the lobby of that place, let alone all the floors separating us from them.

  So, why leave? Where’s better to regroup than a mile-high fortress? Did he know I would follow? Is he leading me into—

  Shit! A red light!

  I slam the brakes on and turn the wheel quickly, throwing up spray from the road and smoke from the tires behind me. I fight to retain control as the car fish-tails. I narrowly miss the car in front of me by sliding clockwise around it, then immediately move counterclockwise around an overly eager pedestrian who is halfway across the street.

  I steer into each slide, working with the angles instead of against them until I clear the intersection. I hit the gas again, powering the car straight as I resume my pursuit. Seeing the road immediately ahead of me is clear, I glance up at the chopper.

  Oh, for fuck’s sake…

  Where is it?

  I crane my neck to check as many directions as I can to find it, but the buildings lining this particular stretch of road are tall, so they’re obscuring my view of the clouds.

  “Come on, come on… where are you, you sonofa—”

  A gap appears in the skyline thanks to a run of low-level restaurants, offering a glimpse of the night sky. The rainclouds are outlined by the eerie, artificial glow from the signs beneath them.

  I squint in the neon glare, desperately searching for the familiar pinpricks of light.

  “There you are.”

  In the distance, I make out the faint illumination from underneath Kazawa’s chopper. It’s peeling away to its right, putting even more distance between us.

  “Shit.”

  I stamp hard on the brakes and take a sharp right, desperate to get back on their tail. The buildings around me begin to change. Restaurants and offices and stores disappear, replaced with warehouses and factories. A road sign flashes past me. The needle’s pushing ninety, but I made out the image on it. I’m heading for the docks, which can only mean one thing.

  The piece of shit has a boat.

  I need to reach him before he boards whatever he has anchored here. Otherwise, I’ve no way of going after him.

  The haunting outlines of large cranes form on either side of me up ahead, hiding in plain sight against the night sky. I’m already trying to work out what lies ahead—a dockyard, warehouses, stacks of shipping containers. Potential dock workers as well.

  Innocents are the last thing I need to deal with right now. All that matters now is that I stop them before they—

  An explosion of breaking glass forces me to stop thinking. Instinctively, I duck low behind the wheel.

  “What the fuck was that?” I yell out to no one.

  I glance over my shoulder to see a million tiny fragments of what used to be my rear window covering the seats. The back windshield is gone, shattered by the gunshot from the guy leaning out the passenger side of the black sedan that’s now chasing me.

  “Are you kidding me?” I mutter. “Like I don’t have enough to fucking deal with.”

  More gunshots.

  Knowing I have little ammunition to retaliate with, I sink further behind the wheel, to the point where I can barely see over it. What remains of the wing mirror on my right vanishes with a high-pitched ping. I instinctively lean to the left.

  I think it’s safe to assume these assholes are Kazawa’s men. They probably followed me when I left the party back there. So, now I have to keep an eye on Kazawa’s chopper, the road ahead, and watch I don’t get shot from behind.

  Talk about there being no rest for the wicked.

  I speed up, taking advantage of the near-empty road stretching out before me. The car behind keeps pace; its dark frame dominating my rearview mirror. The shooter has ducked back inside, presumably to reload.

  I need to get rid of these pricks soon. I’ve got more important things to worry about. Sooner or later, my luck’s going to run out, and they’re going to hit something significant. Like a tire. Or the fuel tank. Or me.

  Come on… think, Adrian!

  Up ahead, cars are parked on either side of the street, probably belonging to workers on the night shift in one of these warehouses.

  I check the mirror again. The shooter is leaning back out of the window, preparing to fire. Whatever I do, I need to do it now.

  …

  …

  …

  I know!

  I hit the brakes again, screeching to a long stop on the wet surface. The car behind me closes the gap down to nothing in seconds. I watch through the rearview, running through my next move over and again inside my brain, simulating the execution, playing out the calculations and the math. I see the eyes of the driver pop wide in shock as he rapidly approaches the back of my car. He swerves at the last second, moving instead to draw level on my passenger side.

  Wait for it…

  Wait for it…

  Now!

  I hit the gas, forcing my tires to spin as they battle for traction on the rain-soaked blacktop. I accelerate forward as the sedan with Kazawa’s men inside it begins to pull ahead. As the trunk passes my hood, I turn hard, smashing into them.

  The slippery surface of the road works to my advantage. The driver loses control, forcing them to spin away at the exact moment I pass a mid-sized truck parked by the side of the road. The sedan’s front-end smashes into the large rear compartment. The sound of the chassis crumpling against the stoic truck is like an eruption, amplified by the night sky, drowning out the sound of the heavy rain.

  I speed away, glancing in the rearview just in time to see what’s left of the sedan careen back across the street and collide with another parked car. The momentum and severity of the impact causes it to flip. All four wheels leave the ground as it rolls over the car, seemingly hanging in the air for an eternity before smashing into the low concrete wall surrounding the nearest building.

  Well, that worked.

  I check the sky again. The chopper’s banking left, coming across my field of vision. It’s also getting lower. I need to get to them before—

  Shit!

  Dead end.

  A chain link fenced gate stands defiantly ahead of me, blocking my path. Beyond it is the dockyard and, somewhere, Kazawa’s chopper.

  …

  …

  …

  Ah, screw it.

  I slam my foot to the floor, revving the engine harder that it sounds like it was built to. I grip the wheel until my knuckles lose their color and lock my arms straight, bracing for an unknown level of
impact.

  I burst through the closed gate like a bullet through a wet newspaper, tearing it from its hinges on either side and dragging it through with me, trapping it beneath the car. I hit the brakes and turn, sliding to a long halt in the middle of a wide-open work yard. The door is open before the tires stop smoking. I step out, quickly scanning my surroundings.

  Warehouses all around form a network of avenues to help navigate the docks. The cranes loom over everything like metal guardians. A few dock workers stand around, dumbfounded and uncertain, looking at each other, seemingly unsure whether to approach me or run away.

  With my back to the newly exposed entrance, I see a clear path at my ten o’clock that leads to the loading bays and the pier. That has to be where they are.

  I reach behind me for my loaded Raptor and check the magazine. I have five bullets left and no spare ammunition.

  Screw it. I only need two—one for Bonnie, one for Clyde.

  One way or the other, somebody isn’t leaving these docks tonight.

  I break into a light jog, careful of the wet ground and my own physical limitations.

  Everything is bathed in a sickly yellow fluorescence by floodlights. Ahead, out over the water, the half-moon is shielded by low clouds. Its faint glow is nothing more than a token gesture in the all-consuming night.

  All around, the sounds of the dockyard carry on the wind. Though it’s unlikely to be as busy as it is during the day, there’s still a low symphony of whirring machines, accompanied by the shouting of foremen to their subordinates. But it’s the growing noise of the water I find unnerving. Already turbulent from the storm, I see high waves breaking against the side of the docks, crashing like cymbals in this dreadful orchestra, drenching the pier ahead.

  I move past a fork-lift and take a left by a stack of crates seemingly positioned to direct me that way. The turn brings me onto the pier itself. To my left is a long line of low buildings. Storage facilities, I presume. To my right lies the Pacific Ocean and—

  “Holy shit…”

  That has to be the biggest yacht I’ve ever seen in my life! It completely dominates my field of vision and towers over the pier like a floating city. I see Kazawa’s chopper on the helipad near the stern. Lights form a perimeter around the outside edge, still flickering in a clockwise circuit. The blades are still spinning but silently slowing down, the noise drowned out the ever-increasing storm.

  Beneath it is a block of cabins. The middle of the deck is lowered—an open space with a small crane and a speedboat stored there. Below is a long run of interior space, probably more cabins or a hold of some kind. Beyond that, slightly shrouded by darkness, is the bow. Another block of cabins stands tall and proud, with what I assume is the bridge and helm on top of it, mirroring the helipad above me.

  I see movement—faint outlines of silhouetted bodies moving with purpose in every direction. Moments later, I hear the engine fire into life. The muffled, bubbling roar of unfathomable horsepower explodes like someone converted a volcano into a jacuzzi. Almost immediately, I hear the yacht’s engine revving. The deck is bathed in pale luminesce. I catch myself staring in awe at the size of it. Standing here, I don’t think there’s ever been a time where I’ve felt more insignificant. This thing is easily two hundred feet long. Maybe thirty wide. The equivalent of three or four stories high.

  It begins to move slowly forward, inching away from the pier. The movement snaps me out of my trance. I’m standing almost level with the back of the boat, but nearly the full width of the pier separates us.

  In my peripheral vision, I see a few more people standing around, staring at me like I don’t belong. But they don’t concern me. My mind is engaged, running through all available options open to me.

  I have to find a way onto the boat.

  But how?

  And what I am going to do when I’m on it? I make out several people patrolling the decks. You could fit a couple of hundred people on there. How do I know that’s not exactly what he’s done? It would be the smartest thing he’s done in the last two weeks if he has.

  My window is closing. It’s moving farther and farther along the pier and already halfway in its turn to pull away.

  If I get on that boat, there’s every chance it’s a one-way trip. There’s no exit strategy. No safe way off that thing. It’s the middle of the night, and the water is fatally freezing. Right now, I don’t see a way back. All I know is Kazawa and Miley must die. Nothing else matters.

  When your back’s against the wall, the only place to go is forward.

  My vision blurs as my mind shifts itself into a state of intense focus. A level of functioning I’ve spent most of my adult life refining. A place inside my head where I consciously switch off all regard for my own well-being.

  Something I’ve had to do more times than I would’ve liked over the years.

  Shit.

  Shit, shit, shit!

  I sigh. Clench my jaw until my teeth ache.

  Ruby would want to be here for this. She owes these two bastards almost as much as me. If I die taking them out, she’s so going to kill me!

  Ahem.

  Huh?

  While you’re standing here having a moment with yourself, you know the boat’s getting away, right?

  My vision re-focuses in time to see the stern of the boat drawing level with the pier.

  “Oh, crap!”

  My Inner Josh flicks the final switch inside my head. Autopilot engages. My Inner Satan’s cage is unlocked.

  I tuck the Raptor into the waistband behind me. I take two measured steps back. My gaze locks on the wide gap at the stern that’s revealed itself as the boat creates more distance from the pier. It’s got to be twenty feet wide, easily. A platform almost level with the water. I’m guessing it’s where people dive from or climb onto jet skis. On either side of it is a curved stairwell, leading up to the main deck and a metal door leading inside the cabin area beneath the helipad.

  One deep breath.

  I lunge forward, accelerating as fast as my old and beaten body will allow. I stomp each sprinted step down, searching for every ounce of grip I can get from the wet ground beneath my feet.

  I cut across the pier, toward the edge, ignoring the pain in my chest from the exertion. All that matters is getting on that boat.

  The edge approaches. I can see the water now. The stern is maybe six feet from the pier. Maybe the same again ahead of me.

  I grit my teeth until my jaw aches. I suck in deep, painful breaths.

  If I never do anything again, I need to do this.

  I flick a glance up ahead. I’m running out of pier.

  I’m running out of time.

  I will myself to ignore the insanity of what I’m asking my mind and body to accept. My foot plants down on the edge. There’s nowhere left to run. Without hesitation, I push off and fly forward, my arm stretching out in front of me, desperately reaching for something to grab a hold off.

  I hold my breath, frozen in mid-air.

  …

  …

  …

  Shit!

  28

  22:19 JST

  I land heavily on the platform. My shoulder takes the brunt of it as I slide across the wet surface, coming to an abrupt stop as I collide with the wall beside one of the staircases. The impact momentarily knocks the wind out of me.

  I lie still, my head propped awkwardly against the corner, breathing fast and deep to stem the flow of adrenaline and regain my composure. I stare out at the expanding sea and the shrinking pier of Tokyo’s dockyard.

  Fuck me.

  …

  …

  …

  Okay, now what?

  A quick physical assessment tells me my ribs and shoulder took a knock and my face is hurting like hell, but other than that, I’m in one piece.

  For now.

  I shuffle upright and shift so that I’m crouching on one knee. I reach behind me, feeling for the satisfying and lethal comfort of my gun. I’d b
est keep that for emergencies. I’ve no idea who knows I’m here… if anyone heard or saw me. I’ll assume they didn’t until I see evidence to the contrary, which means I need to stay out of the lights, move quietly, and stealth my way around this thing until I reach my target.

  Ha!

  Kiss my ass, Josh. I can be stealthy.

  Really? Give me one example of when you even tried to move unseen, let alone succeeded?

  That’s not the point. Or the time to question things.

  I smile to myself.

  I need that—his voice in my head. It keeps him with me. In times like these, he would be in my ear, offering advice or lightening the mood—whatever I needed to complete the mission, to take out the target. It keeps things feeling normal. Plus, it keeps my Satan company.

  If I ever spoke to a shrink about all this, I suspect they would say my Inner Satan is nothing more than a manifestation of the worst part of myself. That separating the evil inside me and giving it an identity somehow helps me disassociate myself from all the bad things I’ve done.

  They would probably be right too. But now isn’t the time for disassociation. Now is the time for very bad things.

  I’ve never been on a boat like this before. I have no idea of the make or model. Or if boats even have a make and model. I don’t know the layout, beyond the glimpse I caught from the pier. All I know for sure is I’m currently at the rear, about as far back as you can be without getting wet.

  When your back is against the wall, the only place to go is forward.

  If I’m going to do this, I need to figure out where Miley and Kazawa are holed up, then find the quietest route around this boat to get them.

  If I were a six-foot sack of crap and a teenage whore with anger issues, where would I be?

  …

  …

  …

  I would be surrounded by as many of my disposable foot soldiers as possible. It doesn’t really matter where, at this stage. The trick is going to be actually getting to them on a borderline level playing field.