Time of Attack (15 page)

 

M
ore than almost anything in the world, Isamu Watanabe wanted to be in charge. Slender and baby-faced, he went out of his way to dress in conservative suits, kept his hair short and businesslike—combed up in front, just like the boss. But it didn’t matter, none of those senior to him ever thought of him as an adult. He was tired of groveling to men like Masamoto—men who had no more good sense than a ginko nut but who had risen through the ranks simply because they had not been killed. The same age as Watanabe at thirty-two, Masamoto was still
sempai
—senior man. There was nothing to be done about it but be patient and hope the boss saw everyone for what they really had to offer rather than just seniority.

“You wait outside by the door while I go in,” Masamoto said, half barking the command as if he was already the boss himself. If the stubby, thickheaded yakuza was good for anything, it was as an example of what not to be.

“As you wish, but I think it would be better if we went in together,” Watanabe said, keeping his voice even, slightly subservient. “There is strength in numbers. The entire board will be present. It might not be a bad idea if there were at least two of us.”

“Maybe.” Masamoto began to rethink his plan.

Watanabe set his jaw, struggling to keep from saying what was on his mind. Yanagi Pharmaceuticals was a powerful enterprise, well established and respected. Such companies considered their honor and dignity to be sacrosanct. Anything that might prove damaging to a clean reputation could mar public confidence and hurt the bottom line. Loss of company face was to be avoided at all costs.

New national laws had made it illegal for anyone to do business with the yakuza and rendered many of their operations defunct or teetering on bankruptcy. This, however, was a tried-and-true yakuza scheme. Present the damning evidence to the board and offer them silence for a position in the company and protection money in the form of dividends. Still, it required finesse to pull such a thing off, finesse that Masamoto did not possess.

“Okay,” the senior man said. “You can come inside but wait by the door and let me do the talking.”

A petite young woman in a conservative gray skirt and matching jacket opened the door to the boardroom at precisely fifteen minutes past ten. Her hair was pulled back in a pink plastic clip. A white silk blouse was conservative and alluring at the same time.

Watanabe entered behind Masamoto and took a standing position to the left of the door as ordered. Eleven men, none under the age of fifty, sat in high-backed leather chairs around a long oak table. It was highly polished, and their dour expressions could be seen in their reflected faces on the surface of the wood. A tall man with thick white hair sat at the far end of the room, commanding the head of the table. He wore a tailored blue wool suit that accented his athletic build and a shockingly red power tie.

The man looked up from an open folder, both hands flat on the table. Dark eyes, kind and soft as those of a favorite uncle, met the gaze of the two yakuza men. Watanabe could not help chuckling to himself. This would be easier than he had thought.

Masamoto would, no doubt, assume this to be Yanagi, the owner and chairman of the company, since he sat at the head of the table. But Watanabe knew better. He’d taken the time to research Yanagi Pharmaceuticals on the Internet. The man at the head of this table was perhaps in his early sixties, but nowhere close to the company owner’s seventy-four years.

Masamoto gave his introduction, invoking the name of the boss and his organization. He kept his tone civil and his words humble, but the inference was clear. His boss had come into possession of certain photographs of a senior vice president from Yanagi Pharma engaged in a delicate situation with an underage girl in Thailand. In truth, the boss had followed the man on a business trip, gotten him drunk, and set him up. But that didn’t matter. What was important now was company reputation. Masamoto assured everyone at the table that with a seat on the board, he could keep this volatile information away from the media and stockholders.

All the men stared down at their respective stacks of paperwork, avoiding eye contact or even admission that a problem existed. The young woman in the gray business suit stood dutifully on the other side of the door, hands folded in front of her, face passive. Watanabe could not be certain, but he thought he could smell peppermint.

The man with white hair at the head of the table was anything but passive. The picture of polite behavior, he sat ramrod straight, nodding every now and again to show he was paying attention. In the middle of Masamoto’s presentation and proposal, the man took a fat tortoiseshell fountain pen from the pocket of his white shirt and made a note, as if to record some special bit of knowledge that was too precious to forget. His face appeared to glow with genuine happiness that the yakuza men and come to pay him a visit. Watanabe felt himself leaning forward, wanting to be closer to the man, to bask in his kindness.

At length, Masamoto reached the end of his practiced speech. He bowed, pushing the incriminating photos toward the head of the table.

The white-haired man sat still for a long moment, smiling and blinking kind eyes. Then, in the space of one of those blinks, the eyes grew flint-hard. One instant he was a kindly gray-haired uncle, the next, a seething, anger-filled mountain devil.

Focusing on Masamoto as if to set him on fire, the man snatched up the fountain pen and began to twirl it back and forth on slender fingers. Watanabe marveled at the precise movements. These were not the hands of a business executive.

The white-haired man stuck out his bottom jaw, breathing heavily. Watanabe would not have been surprised if fire had shot from the man’s nostrils. The pen flipped back and forth between his fingers, floating almost automatically as if moved on its own accord and not because of anything he did.

“Exactly what is it you would do?” the man asked, challenging.

Watanabe jumped when the man spoke. He glanced at the girl to see if she noticed. She was pretty, in a harsh sort of way, and he worried she might think him less of a man if she had seen him startled. She stared straight ahead like a store mannequin.

Masamoto bowed again, obviously buying time to think. Surely he hadn’t expected such a transformation from the dried-up company executive. “What would I do?” He let his eyes flit to each man around the long, polished table, as if one of them might throw him a life raft. “What would I do?” he repeated.

Watanabe had to force himself not to roll his eyes. Surely the boss should have put him in charge.

“Yes,” the white-haired man said, kind and smiling again, as if he was Masamoto’s uncle and wanted him to give the correct answer. “How do you envision your role in the company?”

“I, well . . . I would . . .” Masamoto stammered. Watanabe could see sweat forming on his
sempai
’s forehead. He knew things were about to go from bad to worse. When Masamoto became nervous, he got mean. Watanabe was no stranger to violence himself. He’d taken part in kidnappings, torture, had even helped dismember a girl and dump the pieces in the ocean on the other side of Shika-no-shima Island—but he had enough sense to know when a more diplomatic approach was warranted. Brute force was the only trick in Masamoto’s arsenal.

The man at the head of the table pointed his fountain pen at the stammering yakuza soldier as the good humor bled again from his face. The man’s emotions flowed back and forth like waves of the sea. Watanabe felt his stomach lurch at the suddenness of the change.

“It is just as I thought.” The man’s voice dripped with acid disdain. “You bring nothing to this table but empty threats.”

Here it comes, Watanabe thought. It was his duty to support his
sempai,
but he kept his hands locked behind him, hoping it wouldn’t come to that.

“I assure you,” Masamoto snapped like an angry child, “I bring the protection of our organization.”

“Protection from what?” the white-haired man demanded.

“I would offer protection from fear,” Masamoto said. He shot a glance at Watanabe, proud that he’d come up with such a fine answer so quickly.

The white-haired man stopped, then nodded as if Masamoto might have actually given a good answer. He removed the cap from his fountain pen and made a few notes in the folder in front of him. When he was finished, he blew gently on the ink, then set the pen on the table. Rising from his seat, he took off his suit jacket and draped it across the back of his leather chair. He picked up the fountain pen and began to twirl it again; this time he left the cap off so the gold tip glinted in the boardroom’s fluorescent lighting.

Watanabe’s eyes widened at the sight of the man without his suit coat. Long, fluid muscles moved under the white shirt like those of a racehorse under shimmering skin. This was no ordinary old man.

“Fear?” The man stepped around the table to face Masamoto as if they were gunfighters from an American Western movie. “Tell me. What do
I
have to fear?”

They were still twenty feet apart, but something told Watanabe that was much too close.

Masamoto looked helplessly at Watanabe for an answer. “You . . . We . . . You . .
.
”

The white-haired man put up a hand, silencing the dumbfounded gangster, moving ever closer as he spoke.

“Sometimes,” he said, “it is wise to fear things that are certain do us great harm. Such a notion that we might be injured keeps us safe. Don’t you think? Have you ever heard that there are four things to fear in Japan?”

Masamoto’s mouth hung open. He shook his head. Though more stoutly built than the older man, he was at least six inches shorter—and, to Watanabe, looked to be growing smaller.

“
Earthquakes
,” the white-haired man snapped, halfway across the room now. “
Thunderbolts
.” He cocked his head to one side, letting his words sink in. It seemed to Watanabe that he glided across the floor. “
Fire
.” The man stopped in front of Masamoto, chest to chest, towering above him. “And perhaps the most fearsome of all . . .” His eyes narrowed. The pen twirled. “
Old men
.”

Watanabe knew something bad was about to happen before he saw it. His hand dropped to his waistband to draw his gun, but a sudden crushing pain to his windpipe sent a shower of exploding lights through his head. The girl in the gray business suit struck like a viper, slamming a hammer-fist into his throat. She moved in close, her face just inches from his as she snatched away his pistol. The odor of peppermint on her breath hit him full in the face. She wagged a manicured forefinger back and forth as one might do to warn a small child to stop some bad behavior.

Watanabe collapsed to the floor, his back sliding against the wall. He watched helplessly as the white-haired man smiled and then, with the slightest flick of his fingers, drove the fountain pen deep into Masamoto’s left eye.

Screaming, the stubby yakuza dropped to his knees. He tried to draw his pistol, but the white-haired man swatted it out of his hand and sent it skittering across the floor. Blood poured down his cheek, splattering his shirt.

“You will pay!” Masamoto screamed, his voice shattered from the excruciating pain.

The white-haired man nodded at the girl in the business suit. She bowed slightly, eyes going wild as if she’d just been unleashed. Using both hands, she hiked up the gray skirt. The colorful flash of a black and green tattoo covered the taut skin on both her hips above black knee-high stockings. Drawing back, she kicked Masamoto in the face, driving the pen into his brain.

“There,” the white-haired man said, bending low to look Watanabe in the eye where he’d still sat helpless, collapsed against the wall. “Please inform Tanaka-san that Yanagi Pharmaceuticals has nothing to fear. There is a new man at the head of the table.” He slapped Watanabe’s cheek, bringing the taste of blood to his lips. “Did you understand that?”

Watanabe nodded, feeling stupid for being so frightened of an old man. Of course, this particular old man had just stabbed his partner in the eye.

“I understand.”

“Good,” the white-haired man said. “Tell Tanaka he owes me a new pen.” He took his seat at the head of the table, nodding at Masamoto’s still twitching body. “He may send his men to pick up the pieces later this evening. I will have him prepared for easier disposal. It is the least I can do.”

“I understand.” Watanabe’s head bobbed quickly. “I will tell him.”

The young yakuza stumbled out of the boardroom, leaving behind the body of his dead
sempai
. Perhaps, he thought, being in charge was not as good as he had believed.

Q
uinn left Emiko Miyagi’s home feeling honored that she would confide so many personal details to him and, at the same time, weighed down by the knowledge she had given him. Trying to find a killer was an entirely different thing if that killer happened to be the daughter of a dear friend.

Two miles later he ran into a traffic accident that completely blocked the George Washington Parkway. Gassing the Boxer engine, he leaned the lanky GS into a quick U-turn and backtracked to cut through a neighborhood so he could take Fort Hunt Road into the city. The Bluetooth speaker buzzed inside his helmet shortly after he’d turned onto the quiet two-lane.

“Quinn,” he said, half annoyed at the interruption to the solitude of his ride. Were it not for his job, he’d never sully a journey on the back of a motorcycle by connecting himself to any form of electronic communication.

It turned out to be Ronnie Garcia, an ever-welcome distraction. “Hey,” she said. “You okay?”

“I am.” Quinn slowed a hair, keeping a wary eye for traffic that might pull out in front of him on the side streets while he talked. “You?”

“On a break from pursuit driving class,” she said. “It’s fun and all, but nothing like the real thing. I think working with you has ruined me.”

You and me both, Quinn thought, but he didn’t say it.

“Listen,” Garcia continued, “I feel like I should tell you, Palmer is really pissed. He called to ask me if I thought you were cracking up under pressure . . .”

“And what did you tell him?”

“I told him you were the most stable crazy person I knew.” She laughed.

“Really?”

“Of course not,” she said, sounding hurt. “I know psychs are nothing to screw around with. I said you were fine. He is worried that you’re going to go gunning for every Asian female that you think looks out of place.”

“Thanks,” Quinn said, watching the side mirror as a Fairfax County blue-and-white fell in behind him. “. . . I appreciate it.”

The cruiser followed for half a block before the top lights came on.

“Listen, Ronnie,” Quinn said, “I’m gonna have to call you back. There’s an Asian female police officer about to pull me over . . .”

“Shut up.” She laughed.

“Seriously,” Quinn said. “But not to worry. She looks harmless. Gotta go.”

Used to last-minute interruptions from a man like Quinn, Garcia said good-bye and ended the call.

Quinn pulled the BMW to the curve under a stand of white-barked sycamore along the quiet Fort Hunt neighborhood.

The driver was a slender woman of what Quinn guessed to be Chinese heritage. His conversation with Ronnie Garcia notwithstanding, and considering recent events, he kept a wary eye on everyone, Asian, female, or otherwise.

This one approached in the lead while her partner, a burly blond man, followed a few steps to the rear.

Though he’d never worked traffic, Quinn knew it was one of the more dangerous aspects of patrol. He put the sidestand down but remained on the BMW to ease the approaching officers’ nerves. He had his helmet and gloves off by the time they reached him.

“Good afternoon, sir,” the female officer said. She had high cheekbones and what his mother would have called laughing eyes. Her name was Officer Chin. “Looks like you have a taillamp out.”

“Sorry about that.” Quinn held out his driver’s license and insurance card.

The big Swede, whose nameplate said he was Larsson, took a half step forward. “You armed?” he said, giving a sideways glare at Chin for not asking.

“Pardon?” This was a first.

“Simple question,” Larsson said. “Are you carrying a gun?”

“I’m a federal agent with Air Force OSI,” Quinn said. “My creds are in my inside left pocket.”

“I don’t care who you work for. This is northern Virginia.” Larsson smirked. “We got a dozen federal cops per acre. That wasn’t my question.”

Some federal agent must have run away with this guy’s wife or something. “Yes.” Quinn lifted the corner of his Transit jacket to reveal the butt of the Kimber.

Larsson gave a low whistle. “Shit, that is a nice pistol. I thought you Air Force boys carried Sigs.”

“Most do,” Quinn said without further explanation.

“I’ll need to take a look at it for a minute,” Larsson said.

Both Quinn and Officer Chin looked up in surprise.

“Right here on the side of the road?” Quinn asked.

Larsson held out his hand, palm up. “Yes, right here on the side of the road.”

“Come on, Max.” Chin shook her head. “We don’t have time—”

“Who’s the training officer here?” Larsson chided before turning to Quinn. “I don’t know how long you been doing this, but there’s an old saying in traffic. The guy running the stop is always right—and that would be me. You wanna complain, be my guest—after we’re done.”

Quinn took a deep breath. It went against everything he knew to hand over a sidearm like this. Still, Larsson was correct. He did have the right to secure the weapon during the stop, even if all he wanted to do was drool over it. Quinn decided not to mention the suppressed Beretta .22 under his arm.

He handed the Kimber to Officer Chin, who passed it back to a gloating Larsson.

“See, that wasn’t so hard.” The big Swede chuckled, an instant before he flicked off the safety and shot Officer Chin in the face.

Quinn leaped off the motorcycle, moving toward Larsson rather than away from him. Quinn wasn’t the type to hide behind a tree, and there was really nowhere else to run.

Larsson dropped Quinn’s Kimber to the pavement after the initial shot and drew his own pistol. Quinn caught the man’s arm as the weapon cleared the holster, pinning it against his side and driving him backward all the way to the hood of his patrol car. He was big, but slow, and had relied too much on bullets doing his work for him.

Quinn gave him a vicious head butt, all but destroying the man’s nose. The Sig fell out of his hand to thump against the hood of the car before sliding to the pavement with a clatter.

“Who are you working for?” Quinn threw the stunned man to the ground, kicking the weapon out of his reach before dropping a knee into his groin. A ballistic vest protected the downed officer from any body blows, so Quinn grabbed him by the collar, slamming his head against the pavement.

“Who . . . are . . . you . . . working for?!” Quinn yelled, slamming the man’s head back at each word. Spit flew from his mouth. He rolled the officer and handcuffed him before he could regain his senses and fight back. With Larsson contained, Quinn turned to check on Officer Chin but found the 10mm round from his Kimber had taken much of her throat and lower jaw. She’d been dead before she hit the ground.

Quinn returned to the fallen Swede, taking some satisfaction in the trickle of blood oozing from the man’s ear. “I’m going to ask you one more time.” Quinn took deep breaths, working to regain his composure. “Who’s calling the shots?”

Larsson clenched his eyes shut and laughed through the pain of his wounds. “You are a dead man, Jericho Quinn.”

Sirens wailed from less than two blocks away. Quinn cursed under his breath when he saw the ‘man down’ radio on Larsson’s duty belt. As soon as Quinn had thrown him on the hood of the cruiser, the device had signaled an alert to his dispatcher. When he’d failed to answer, they’d sent the cavalry to assist.

Quinn nodded to the dash camera mounted in the patrol car but Larsson shook his head.

“That? Camera’s been tits up for a week now.” He winced. “Just my word against yours, cowboy. And I say you killed my partner dead and then tried to do the same to me. These guys will gun you down the second they get the opportunity.”

Tires screeched as patrol cars converged from both directions of Fort Hunt Road, sliding to a stop and boxing Quinn in.

Responders saw a grim picture. Officer Chin lay in a pool of blood, half her face torn away. Larsson should have won an Oscar for his performance. Flat on his back against the pavement, he screamed, turning his face as if he was in mortal fear for his life. Quinn stood over him with a gun in his hand.