PRIMAL Fury (The PRIMAL Series) (32 page)

CHAPTER 61

MORI-KAI CASINO CONSTRUCTION SITE, HIMEJI

Hideaki drove the Lexus down the ramp into the underground parking lot and pulled in next to a line of black SUVs. The car had barely come to a halt when Masateru climbed out, speaking rapidly into one of his phones. Twenty seconds later the call was over. He dropped the phone in his pocket and pulled out another. He stripped the sim card out and ground it into the concrete with the heel of his Italian shoes. Then he threw the phone against the wall, smashing it to pieces.

“Is everything all right,
waka-gashira
?” his bodyguard asked as they walked across the parking lot to where Ryu was supervising the unloading of a truck.

“No, it’s fucking not,” Masateru snapped as they joined the Kissaki commander.

“
Oss
,” Ryu greeted him in the traditional way.

“I just got a call from France.”

“Rémi?’ Ryu asked. “Has he confirmed the quality of the product?”

“Not exactly…he’s dead.”

“What? How?”

“Our man doesn’t know.” Masateru referred to the Kissaki that they had left in Europe to keep an eye on the Frenchman. “He disappeared. Police found his remains in a burned-out farmhouse near Lyon.”

“The
oyabun
will be furious,” said Ryu. “To make matters worse we still don’t know who we’re up against.”

“We’ll find out soon enough. Do we have enough weapons yet?” He gestured toward the wooden crates the men had been unloading.

“For the peasants, yes. But my men need more specialized equipment.”

“Yes, the additional list you gave me. It has been arranged. Expect delivery in the next twenty-four hours.”

“Once it arrives we will be ready.”

“Even the gangs?”

“Yes, the training has progressed well. Would you like to see them?”

“Please. A favorable report on our capabilities may temper the
oyabun
’s rage.” Ryu guided them toward his SUV. “We started with the basics; now they’ve moved on to fire and movement in pairs.” Ryu climbed into the driver’s seat. Masateru and Hideaki got into the back. They drove up the ramp and out into the muddy construction yard, where they weaved between heavy equipment.

“Are they going to be capable of dealing with the foreign mercenaries?” Masateru asked.

“More than capable. Those two that attacked us at the ambush site were skilled but not well armed.”

“It was easy for us to get weapons; no doubt it will be easy for them.”

“True, but they are not the Kissaki.”

“Yet they have still managed to kill a handful of your men.”

Ryu accepted his boss’s rebuke silently as he drove them up a dirt track at the rear of the construction yard. At the top of the steep rise they pulled over.

“This way.”

He led Masateru and Hideaki along a footpath that weaved through the thick vegetation, stopping at a high vantage point looking down over a large, open-cut quarry. “Be careful, it’s a very long drop.” Ryu gestured toward the men in the quarry below. “We’ve been training them here for a few days. They have improved significantly.”

“Not the rabble we last saw,” added Hideaki.

Down in the quarry half a dozen Korean and Chinese gang members crouched behind cars, barrels, and other debris. They fired AK assault rifles at targets, covering each other as they dashed forward to gain ground. Their fire was synchronized, one man shooting as another tore a magazine from his vest and reloaded. Black-clad Kissaki moved among them, providing instruction, yelling at those who did not move fast enough.

“Are they using silenced weapons?” Masateru asked, noting the lack of gunfire.

“No, airsoft guns. They operate the same as the real thing, just fire BBs instead of bullets.”

“Very good, no chance that the Koreans will turn on your men and steal the weapons.”

“My men can take care of themselves. This is more about conserving ammunition and not drawing attention to what we’re doing. Once they become competent we’ll move them on to live rounds.”

They watched the training for another five minutes before Masateru spoke again. “You’ve done well, Ryu. They will be effective against our enemies.”

“Thank you,
waka-gashira
.” The former military officer paused for a few seconds. “I have been thinking…If we could ambush the foreigners we could easily defeat them.”

“I have come to the same conclusion.” Masateru took his cigarettes from his jacket.

“We just need something to lure them out of the shadows and into our trap.”

“Every trap requires bait.”

“We need to find something they want.”

Masateru lit one of the slim cigarettes and smiled as his thoughts strayed to his night with Karla. “We already have exactly that.”

CHAPTER 62

KOBE DOCKS

Cargo container LASU4588993 shuddered as the unloading arms lifted it effortlessly off the deck of the container ship. A scanner built into the gantry read its radio frequency tag, giving the operator instructions on its destination.

It was marked
HIGH PRIORITY
, meaning it would be immediately loaded onto one of the waiting container trucks and freighted direct to its destination.

Giant pulleys sang as the container descended toward the next truck in the lineup. The six-wheeled Nissan accepted the twenty-foot container with the slightest dip of its suspension. It drove the length of the wharf and turned into a vehicle park, joining a line of other trucks. The driver slowed to the directed five-kilometer-an-hour speed limit as he passed through a sensor gateway. A green arrow flashed, directing him out of the queue and into a dedicated inspection bay.

The driver parked the truck in the designated area, jumped out of the cabin, and joined a customs officer in his lead-lined control booth. An X-ray machine had scanned the truck, displaying its contents on a screen.

“There’s something wrong here,” said the officer in Japanese. The screen showed a cold-storage container full of boxes of fish.

“What’s the problem?” the driver asked.

“The refrigeration unit doesn’t look right, it’s not working.” He left his inspection box, climbed up onto the back of the container, and inspected it with a light. “It isn’t working at all.”

“Sometimes they don’t need it,” said the driver, eager to be on his way.

“The manifest says the load is fresh salmon from Australia. It has priority because it needs to be delivered within twenty-four hours.”

“It will be if you let me go. If it’s broken it’s not my problem.”

“Open it up.”

“Fine.” The driver stomped his way to the rear of the truck and cut the security tags with a pair of pliers. “You need to sign though. I’m not losing my bonus because you wanted it open.”

“Just let me inspect it quickly. Then you can go.”

The driver cracked the handles and swung the reefer doors open. He recoiled back as an overwhelming stench of fish hit him. The stacked foam boxes completely filled the container.

“OK, OK, close it up.” The inspector screwed his face up in disgust. “I’ll print you off an inspection form and then you can go. The customer can have his rotten fish.”

“I don’t care if it’s rotten, I just need to make sure it gets there on time.” The driver resealed the container.

“Someone’s going to be very unhappy…” The inspection officer handed over the paperwork.

“Not my problem,” the driver replied as he climbed back into the truck.

Three hours later the container finally reached its destination, a warehouse on the outskirts of Osaka. The driver checked the address against the invoice and backed the truck into the compound’s parking lot. It was a simple drop-and-go, no signature required.

The Nissan was designed to offload containers without the use of a crane. The driver activated the hydraulic system and the deck that held the container slid rearward. It tipped slightly, extending toward the ground. With a snort of thick smoke the truck shuddered out from under the container, which slid off the tilt tray and onto the ground with a thud. The driver jumped out of the cab, checked there was no damage, and returned the tray to its transit position. A minute later he was on the highway, heading back to the port.

The container sat in the parking lot for another five hours before a taxi pulled up outside the warehouse. A tall, lanky backpacker paid the fare, then wandered into the compound.

The tourist wore a scruffy-looking fleece jacket, jeans, and a baseball cap, his angular features unshaven. Closer inspection revealed he looked to be in his late twenties, older than the average backpacker.

He wandered around the container, checked the serial number, and took out his cell phone. He activated an application and punched in a code.

With a hiss the back of the container hinged upward, broken cooling unit and all. Inside the container, shielded from X-rays by high-tech panels, was a white Toyota van. There was a whir of gears and the nose of the van slid forward on a moving floor until the front doors were clear of the container. The backpacker reached under the front wheel arch, removed the keys, and climbed into the cabin. He drove out into the parking lot, the container closing behind him.

The van’s GPS was already programmed with a route and he activated it, noting that it was in English. As he followed the directions he snapped his smartphone into the cradle and initiated a secure call.

“Bunker, this is Kurtz, checking in.”

“Kurtz, this is Bunker. Can we confirm you have married up with your equipment and are now en route to pick up Aleks?” a crisp military voice asked over the speaker.

“Confirmed, container is now ready for pickup. Please pass on my thanks to Mitch.”

“Roger, good luck.”

Kurtz terminated the call and checked the GPS again, making sure he was still on the correct road. He yawned, still jet-lagged. The flight from Paris passed through eight time zones and he had not slept well.

He drove for ten minutes into the bustling city before stopping the van in a loading zone in front of a train station. It was only a few minutes before an imposing, bearded figure approached.

The passenger door opened and Aleks jumped in. “Hello, Kurtz, been a while.” They had traveled to Japan separately, a standard security precaution.

“Are you a retard? It’s been eighteen hours.” Kurtz pulled the van away from the curb and into the traffic.

“I was making a joke!”

“Well, your jokes stink.”

“Not as much as this van.” Aleks sniffed the air. “Did you steal it from a fishmonger?”

Kurtz laughed.

“See, my jokes are good.”

Kurtz shook his head. He glanced at the GPS and then at the heavily congested traffic in front of them. “It says two hours until destination. At this rate we’ll be lucky to get there in three.”