The Devil Inside (15 page)

“Then you call him, find out where these people operate, what businesses they own. We have to find her.” My poor baby sister. I love Mina to bits. She’s innocent in all of this. I would never forgive myself if something happened to her. I’m going to look all over this town, high and low, visiting every strip joint and sleazy bar and neighborhood until I find her.
 

I’m hoping she’s just out with friends, that her phone’s out of charge and she’ll be home any moment now. But deep down, I know that’s not the case. I’m not going to sleep until she’s home safe and sound. But there’s a huge task in front of me. This town is a decadent, seething mess. Under the glamorous surface is an ugliness that invades everything. If this place sucks a person in, it’s hard to find a way back out.
 

But I have to try. And if I don’t get anywhere, there’s someone I can ask for help. I get the feeling Kaito’s closer to that world than I care to admit.
 

Beneath the bright lights is the underworld that we all touch at some point in our lives, even if it’s just for the shortest time. I wonder how deep Kaito swims in that dark, murky ocean.
 

Adele

Two days pass. There’s no sign of Mina. Her phone goes straight to voicemail now; it’s turned off. I’m frantic with worry. I’ve asked Dio to help. We’ve driven all over LA, visiting every single seedy venue, every business that might have underworld ties. I’ve grown sick to the stomach entering bar after bar, strip club after strip club, taking in the rank smell of cigarettes and alcohol and sex.
 

I’ve been to Kaito’s apartment. No-one home, according to the surly concierge who greeted me in the lobby.

I’ve been to Black Rose. Masahiro stared daggers at me but didn’t say a word. Left me the hell alone. Mama-san says she hasn’t seen Kaito. I eventually went to Masa, tail between my legs, and asked him for Kaito’s number. He told me to fuck off.
 

We’ve notified the police. They’ve put out a missing persons alert. The woman at the station was blasé about it. Said this kind of thing happened all the time, especially with teenagers. Told us Mina would probably be home in a few days, when she had a change of heart.
 

It wasn’t reassuring.
 

Mom and dad are both nervous wrecks. Dad hasn’t touched a drop, and he’s wasting away.
 

I don’t have the energy to be angry at him anymore. None of us could have predicted this might happen.
 

Mina’s disappeared, sucked into the dark, ugly undertow of this city, and I don’t know what to do. I’m getting desperate.
 

I need to find Kaito.

Kaito

I search for Vincent Lucini for three days. Three days of driving around this sprawling city, through plush neighborhoods with multi million dollar houses, past gated estates with manicured lawns, down to the sunset strip, where tourists crowd the sidewalks. Then to the rough parts, where I witness LA’s hidden side; prostitutes on street corners, once decent houses turned into crack dens, drug deals going on in broad daylight, suspicious looks directed my way as I drive past, suddenly conspicuous in my clean, middle-class car, an outsider. I wonder how much of their supply comes from Kuroda.

I haven’t seen Adele in that time. I can’t see her when I’m like this. I’m not the same. This frame of mind drives people away. Scares them. Soon, I’m going to kill a man. I can’t let her sense that. I’m focused, alert, ready. I’ve shut away my emotions, and allowed that familiar, cold numbness to settle over me. Focusing on the job. Not thinking about consequences. Logical. Patient. No fear.

Even after three years, it comes back too easily.

Masa was touchy when I caught up with him, acting unusually quiet and reserved. He didn’t bring up the incident at Black Rose. He gave me a list of businesses owned by the Lucini family. So I’ve been staking them out, visiting each address in the hope I’ll come across my target.

I’ve got a Glock with a silencer in my glove compartment and a
tanto
, a Japanese knife, hidden beneath my seat. I’d been careless enough to leave it on view in the kitchen when I took Adele home the other night.
 

She’d noticed it, a bundle wrapped in cloth, questions dancing in her eyes. She opened her mouth to ask, but then something stopped her.

To my relief, she let it slide. I don’t know how I was supposed to explain away a thing like that.

Sloppy of me. But then again, I hadn’t been expecting to bring anyone home. That girl has a way of getting past my defenses. She’s already learnt too much about me. I blabbed like a lonely housewife about my past. Fuck. She says she accepts me, says she understands it all. But what’s she going to do when she figures out how ruined I really am?

Maybe I should end the misery before it even starts. But I’m not strong enough to do that.

When it comes to her, I’m helpless.

Right now, I’m in the parking lot of a strip club. It’s called “Bootyland.” These Lucini people don’t score any points for originality. But in America, stating the obvious works. It’s a far cry from the bizarre excesses of Kuroda’s Tokyo soaplands. If there’s one thing my people sell and package well, it’s sex. And that’s not anything to be proud of.
 

It’s midday, but the place is busy. I see men in suits coming in and out of the club. I can tell the difference between the ordinary customers and the mobsters. It’s in the flash of gold from a chain or watch, the shadow of a tattoo here and there, the cigarettes, the swagger.

Erika’s people have given me a single, grainy photo. It’s not much to go on. In the picture, Lucini junior is stepping into a tinted SUV, sunglasses covering his eyes. He’s a solidly built man with dark hair, greying at the temples. He’s got a small, hard mouth and a slight paunch. The look on his face tells me he thinks he owns the street he’s walking on, the shops in front of it, the whole fucking town.
 

Broad daylight, or under the cover of night, I don’t care. He’s a dead man walking.

I’m sitting in my nondescript Toyota with a Lakers cap pulled down to hide my face, waiting. I’m using a different car for this job. It’s also been conveniently supplied by Erika’s people. It’s a grey import from Japan; untraceable, with fake plates. Ordinary looking and easy to ditch.

This routine is familiar to me. Sometimes it take days, weeks, even months, before I find my mark.
 

This time, I’m lucky.
 

Three men come out of the club, with a girl in tow. They’re crowding her, and I read fear in the way she walks, the way she hangs her head. She’s looking down, her long, dark brown fringe hiding her features. She looks young, delicate. Maybe not even legal age. She’s got no chance against these hardened men. One of them wears a tracksuit, the other two are in dark suits. They enter a black SUV with tinted windows.

After a while, another man exits the club. This one is familiar.

He’s the guy in the photo.
 

Got you, asshole.

This is the son of Enzo Lucini, the troublemaker called Vincent. The man who, in his ignorance, mutilated the hand of a Kuroda boss. He has no idea of the price he’s about to pay. If this were Japan, he’d already be dead.
 

Lucini junior pauses outside the doors to drop a cigarette and grind it out with his foot. Then, he makes his way over to the SUV.

One of the goons jumps out and opens the door for Lucini junior. He gets in and the car pulls away. I wait a moment until they’ve turned off onto the street and stopped at a set of lights. I follow them.
 

We cruise through busy streets, and turn onto the interstate. I keep my distance, staying a couple of cars behind. They’re always in my sights, but I’m not close enough for them to notice me.
 

Eventually, we get off the freeway, turning off into the suburbs. It’s a nice neighborhood, this one, with lowest stucco houses and well kept lawns. The SUV pulls into the driveway of a double storied house. It’s got whitewashed walls and a clay-tiled roof. Pink and peach roses sprawl around a stone footpath that leads to the front door. I park across the street, two houses down, and wait. Once they’ve all entered the house, I get out, walk up to the front door and knock.
 

No answer.

I knock again, louder this time.
 

The door cracks open, a face appearing. It’s tracksuit guy. He stares at me with hard, angry eyes. “Who the fu-”

I don’t give him the chance to finish. I shoot him in the head, twice. He crumples to the floor, a crimson dot appearing in his forehead. A thin trickle of blood winds down his pale skin. I enter the house, making my way down the tiled hall on silent feet. Voices float to me from the back of the house.
 

“Yo Jimmy, who the hell-”

I turn a corner into the kitchen and find the other two. They look up in shock.
 
They’re in shirtsleeves, their jackets thrown carelessly across the kitchen bench. One of them is mid-bite, a sandwich in his meaty hand. They stare at my face, then at the gun in my hand. The sandwich drops to the counter, sending bread and tomato and pastrami flying. They’re both reaching for their guns, scrambling over each other, one of them still chewing the remains of his sandwich.
 

It’s almost comical.

“Fuckin’ yakuza asshole!” Sandwich guy lays a hand on his gun, but I’m too fast for him, sending a bullet to his temple. Two taps and he’s down. His partner lets out a roar of anger, charging me.

I shoot him in the face.

The whole thing lasts less than ten seconds. Two bodies lie in front of me, blood pooling on the porcelain tiles. There’s a round slice of tomato near one man’s hand. Blood seeps along its edges, encircling it in dark, liquid red.
 

Blood leaked from an artery, that moments ago, was beating in life. These men just happened to be in the wrong house, part of the wrong mob family, at the wrong time. It doesn’t matter to me. I know these types.

I’m detached from it all. I still have a job to do. This is the old me, the real me.
 

Welcome back.

No regrets.

The dull thump of footsteps reaches me from upstairs. I creep along the wall, turning into the living room. This house doesn’t look lived in. There’s a single black leather couch in the middle. It looks as if it’s never been sat on.

I catch sight of the staircase. It has black, wrought iron railings that look out of place in this almost bare house.
 

“What the fuck is going on, Mickey? Steve?” I hear a low, gravelly voice calling out from upstairs. This would be Vincent Lucini. He must have heard the shouts. I edge along the wall behind the staircase, so he can’t see me.
 

“You there, Mickey?” Lucini calls out again, wary this time. His voice echoes down the empty corridor. Then, nothing. I know what he’s thinking. By now, he’s spooked. He’s probably looking for a weapon up there. But if the American Mafia is anything like the Yakuza, he doesn’t have a gun.
 

Guns are for soldiers, executioners. Not kings. The higher up you are, the fewer weapons you need. Because your men do the carrying for you.

I wait until I hear the sound of searching; the soft click of a cupboard closing, the rustle of clothes, slow, careful footsteps on creaking, wooden floors. Then, I rush up the stairs, taking them three at a time. I reach the landing and come face to face with Vincent Lucini.

He looks older than the man in the photo.

He’s wearing crumpled black trousers and a white shirt that’s open, revealing a chest matted with dark hair and a bulging stomach. A thick, gold chain hangs around his neck.
 

Vincent Lucini stares at me with a look of pure hatred, his dark eyes hard as glass.

He’s furious.

Because he knows his time is up.
 

“This is on behalf of Mr Goto.” I shoot him twice in the chest. With me, it’s always twice. Just in case the first one misses something vital. Can’t take any chances. I like to be certain.
 

Lucini falls to the floor, dead.

And with his life goes my last chance at ever being normal. I am who I am. Nothing’s going to change that.

His face is mashed against the carpet, the features twisted in death, as if in perpetual outrage.

The
tanto
is sheathed at my back. I pull it free and sever Lucini’s unmoving pinky finger at the joint. I pick it up with a small plastic ziplock bag, careful not to touch it. This will be my proof to Erika Goto, a gift of revenge for Kenichi Goto and a message for the Lucini family.

I stab the
tanto
into the wooden floor beside Vincent Lucini’s twisted face. It’s unmistakably Japanese. A souvenir. These mobsters will be left with no doubt as to which group ordered the hit on their favorite son.
 

They’ll be howling for blood.

The Kuroda Group better prepare for war.

Is this what Erika wanted? Is this all part of some greater plan? I wouldn’t put it past Erika and Hajime. The
kumicho
plots his moves from miles away. He’s brought about the downfall of entire rival Yakuza organizations, and they never saw it coming.

I rise slowly to my feet. There should be one more person in this house. Looking up, into the bedroom beyond, I spot a large bed with messed up sheets. At first, I see nothing. Then, there’s a slight twitch.
 

I walk slowly into the room.
 

There’s a woman, fuck, she’s barely more than a girl, lying on the bed. She’s tangled up in the sheets and she stares up at me with huge, brown eyes full of fear. Her hands and wrists are crudely tied together with rope.

Fucking Lucini. Is that what he was into?

She’s naked and trembling. I blink, staring at her face for a long time, unmoving.

What the hell?

“I won’t talk,” she stutters, her voice low and soft and full of terror. “I didn’t see anything. I won’t say anything to anyone, ever. Just don’t kill me, please.”