Time of Attack (22 page)

 

T
he five local doctors and the nine additional docs and nurses CDC had sent in had their hands full seeing the rapidly weakening patients. News reports said stores in virtually every city west of the Rocky Mountains had run out of food and flashlight batteries. At first, students were sent home from school if they sneezed more than once. By the second day, the schools closed altogether. Thriving communities turned into ghost towns overnight as residents opted to stay inside and fill their minds with the endless supply of conspiracy theories and fearmongering on radio, television, and social media.

The disease manifested itself in such a horrific way that the media began to show seemingly nonstop footage of boil-infested bodies, heaping on to the already hysterical fear. Grassroots groups who had once fought the government for the right not to vaccinate their children clamored for action, demanding that same government do something to stop the spread of this “biblical plague of boils.”

The number of plague victims in Kanab appeared to have leveled off at twenty-one with no new cases in the last few hours, but in a town of 4,500, half of them Mormons, there were bound to be births. Broken arms, an emergency appendectomy, and a thumb cut off in a fight with a table saw all kept hospital and clinic personnel hopping.

CDC personnel took over as soon as they were on the ground—and Elton was happy to let them. They set up a triage unit in the clinic, sealing off the connected hospital with sheets of clear plastic and duct tape. Anyone going in had to don an orange chem-bio suit complete with hood and filter. FEMA engineers had arrived shortly after the CDC, landing in a squadron of dark helicopters that were certain to raise the blood pressure of more than just the conspiracy theorists in the little southern Utah burg.

Todd Elton pulled on one of the hoods and made his way past a knot of CDC staff gathered around a quaking Mrs. Johnson as she sat on the edge of a gurney in the hallway. The poor old woman’s white hair was still in perfect order, though her frail body had been overwhelmed with red sores. She deserved her own room, but there just weren’t any left, so she joined the others in a row of rolling beds in the hallway beside the nurse’s station.

The CDC docs had consulted with him at first, but after they felt they had the lay of the land, all but pushed him to the side. He’d been in close contact with the infected, so they saw him as a potential patient. As a scientist, he couldn’t really disagree.

Elton reached the room he was looking for, knocked on the door, and pushed it open.

The man on the bed groaned, turning his head to look up. “Hey, Doc,” he whispered, licking cracked lips. His lungs rattled and wheezed. “How you holding up?”

Elton picked up the chart hanging beside the monitor. He had only known R. J. Howard a few days, but it was impossible not to like him.

“You’re a strong guy, R.J.,” he said. “If news reports are correct, you and several others in your unit picked this up overseas.”

“Yeah, the CCD guys had me answer a whole list of questions about what we did over there.” Howard grinned. “I think they figured we were running around with the massage girls or something and caught it that way. But Bedford was a hundred percent loyal.” He turned away, sighing. “I was too, a lotta good it did me . . .”

“I’m sure you were,” Elton said.

“Can I ask you something, Doc?” Howard kept his face toward the window, keeping the pressure off a scabby red boil behind his right ear.

“Sure.”

“I heard some of the CDC guys talking. They said that this stuff was one hundred percent fatal in Japan. Is that right?”

Elton made a mental note to talk to the lab rats about their bedside manner and patient outlook. Still, as a physician, he’d made it a policy to be direct and honest when someone asked him a question.

“I heard the same thing about the cases in Japan,” he said. “But I will tell you what I do know. Whatever this is, you and Bedford have had it longer than anyone here.”

“Hey,” Howard interrupted, licking his lips again. “How is Rick doing?”

“We’ve had to put him on a heart-lung bypass—but that’s keeping him alive. Your body is doing a much better job of fighting it than some people who have had it for less time.”

“I feel sorry for them, then, because this stuff is kicking my ass—” Howard broke into a violent coughing fit, his face dark as it struggled to get his breath before finally calming back down. He started to finish his thought, but Elton held up a hand to stop him.

“I get the picture, R.J.,” he said. “You just rest. I’ll be back to check on you in a little while.”

Elton forced a smile as he turned to leave. R. J. Howard was getting worse before his eyes. It wouldn’t be long before he’d need ECMO treatment just like Rick Bedford. And it was a sure bet the townspeople would revolt if he put the people who made them sick on the only two units available that had any chance of saving their lives.

Q
uinn bought a ticket to the fights six rows from ringside for ten thousand yen—roughly the equivalent of a hundred dollars. He followed the flow of the crowd into the squat tan building known as the Kyuden Memorial Gymnasium. Aging posters from previous boxing matches, WWF wrestling, and long-ago concerts by Journey and Queen hung framed on corridor walls.

Tables set up just inside the lobby sold programs as well as bouquets of flowers fans could give the fighters. Vending machines along the wall sold Pocari Sweat and vitamin drinks. Beer, assorted brands of sake, hot dogs, and rice balls were available outside the door to the main hall.

Apart from the slight odor of seaweed from the rice balls, the smell was much like the fights Quinn went to in the States. The difference being that when he attended fights, he was usually the one wearing trunks and gloves. He had the crooked nose to prove it.

Inside the main hall, the buzz of the crowd and sight of the canvas itself flooded Quinn with a sense of nostalgia. There was a particular energy in a group that came to watch people hit each other that wasn’t found anywhere else. Boxing had a referee, judges, and plenty of rules—but it was a fight, and those who came to watch were not truly happy until they saw blood.

Quinn couldn’t blame them. He felt the same but was happiest when he was the one in the ring, drawing the blood and doing the bleeding. Still, it was a young man’s game. Every fight, in or out of the ring, took something from him—maybe not years, but definitely something. He wondered if he would have chosen to be a fighter if he had it to do over again—or if there had ever really been a choice at all. Maybe his life had chosen him.

Ayako was already in place. She ignored him when he walked by, looking for his seat number. She had gone in first and sat at the end of the bleachers, three rows up from where the scantily clad Filipina ring girls waited with their cards to number the individual rounds. The main event on this evening was an All-Asia lightweight title between a local favorite named Uta and a thick-necked boxer from the Philippines named Ortega. A sizable number of fans from the Philippines crowded the floor seating around their champion’s corner.

Ayako sat directly above them with a clear view of the ringside seating where Sato would sit. One of Uta’s major sponsors, the yakuza underboss of Taniguchi clan would get the best seats in the house, right beside the judges.

Quinn had just taken his seat beside an older Japanese man when Sato walked in surrounded by a cadre of younger subordinates. A stout man, he wore a camelhair sport coat over a black turtleneck and black slacks. His black hair was neatly trimmed and combed back to reveal a prominent widow’s peak. Wire-frame glasses gave him a studious look for a gangster.

When he reached his seat, Sato handed his overcoat to a skinny subordinate with wavy hair and a black turtleneck that matched his boss’s. From Ayako’s description, this one was likely Watanabe.

The younger man took the coat while another held the chair for Sato as he sat down. The crowd around him, including the judges already at ringside, gave the yakuza underboss deferential nods when he looked at them. He folded his arms across his belly and waited for the fight to start, apparently tired from his flight in from Guam.

Quinn studied the four subordinate gangsters. None of them was very tall, with Watanabe the tallest if not the biggest, at about five-nine. What they lacked in height, they all made up for in intensity. Each man scanned the crowd for signs of threat against their boss. All four carried themselves like bullies, men used to forcing their way in the world. They were all too happy to do the dirty work so Sato could keep his hands relatively clean.

The heaviest one—Quinn thought of him as Pig Face because of his wide, flat mug—was the apparent second in command. He stayed within arm’s reach of Sato and the others deferred to him when he spoke or even looked in their direction—especially Watanabe, who looked several times like he might wet himself when the bigger man said something to him. Pig Face weighed in at around 220, heavy for a man just over five and a half feet tall. The size of his belly caused him to have to hitch up his slacks every few seconds, exposing the slight bulge of a handgun against his black leather jacket each time.

The other two looked enough alike they could have been brothers. Both were in their mid-twenties, and while followers, had no problem staring down anyone who got near their boss. All of them, including—no, especially—Watanabe, would be armed. He didn’t look the type to do much fighting unless he had what he thought was a clear advantage.

When confronting multiple opponents, Quinn preferred to take on the toughest one first. Pig Face would earn that honor. The twins would be next. If they were brothers, they would fight for each other as much as for Sato. That would make them dangerous. Watanabe, last on the list, was not quite a pushover but definitely someone Quinn could handle—as long as he made it through all the others. One good pop in the nose would likely render the man inoperable.

Of course, there would be others where they were holding Miyu prisoner, but Quinn supposed Sato would want his best men with him and leave underlings to guard a mere girl.

A shout went up as the announcer introduced Ortega, a 134-pound bruiser at the heavy end of lightweight class. A crowd of women, some older grandma types and others busty, dark-complexioned women in tight jeans and T-shirts, shouted “Viva Philippines!” over and over as their favorite son climbed into the ring. He wore black shorts with a bright orange belt and matching boots.

A commotion arose on the near side of the ring. Drowning Pool’s “Let the Bodies Hit the Floor” began to build over the overhead loudspeaker, buzzing the cardboard program in Quinn’s hand. A small army of high school boys, still in their black uniforms, marched in from the dressing room carrying tall purple banners, like those a samurai army might have carried into battle. Each wore a white headband with the Japanese characters for
Hisshou
emblazoned on the front on either side of a rising sun—
Must Win
.

The entire gymnasium broke into raucous cheering as Uta strutted out with his entourage packed around him. He wore black shorts embroidered with a line of pink cherry blossoms.

Only in Japan, Quinn thought, would a boxer allow pink flowers on his trunks.

The crowd went wild after one of the high school boys stepped to the microphone and sang
Kimigayo
, Japan’s national anthem.

After a quick introduction of all the judges, the announcer stepped from the ring with his microphone, giving the exaggerated signal for the start as his feet hit ground level.

“Roundo One!”

The first four rounds of the eight-round fight easily went to Ortega. Uta, though a talented enough boxer, was badly outgunned by the taller Filipino and did a mighty job just not falling down.

Quinn let his eyes play around the crowd during the early rounds—scouting, planning. He paid special attention to Sato and the way he worked. A flick of the yakuza boss’s wrist sent Watanabe scuttling to a man who sat with his back to the wall, high in the bleachers. He was obviously a bookie. The skinny soldier handed over a long envelope, listened for a moment, then bowed deeply before scuttling back down the bleachers to whisper something to Pig Nose, who in turn whispered the information to Sato.

Up in the bleachers beside the bookie, an attractive middle-aged woman in designer jeans and a fuzzy white angora sweater leaned in to listen for instructions before standing to move ringside. She sat in a vacant seat behind the three judges. She waited for the bell, then leaned forward to whisper something to the man in the middle.

Though the yakuza underboss sat only three chairs away from the cooperative judge, by using a cutout, he was able to communicate his wishes—and thus control the outcome of the fight—without speaking to anyone directly.

By the eighth round Uta had landed some decent body blows, but all the smart money was on Ortega. Sato’s smile flickered only briefly during the last ninety seconds of the fight when Uta went down and it looked like he might have a hard time getting up. At the screaming insistence of his coach, the boy crawled to his feet and held up his gloves, nodding to the referee that he was okay to continue.

Sato’s smile returned. A minute and a half later, the fight was judged a draw. Even the Filipinos seemed resigned to the decision.

Sato and his men filed out with Watanabe bringing up the rear to collect Sato’s winnings from the bookie.

Ayako moved up beside Quinn as soon as they’d gone.

“A draw?” Quinn said, chuckling. “Does anyone really believe that?”

“Uta is Japanese.” She shrugged. “And we are in Japan. Come, they’re getting away.”

A heavy rain fell outside Kyuden Gymnasium. Car lights bounced off wet pavement, turning the streets into shining rivers of red and white light. Umbrellas blossomed everywhere like black flowers in the night.

Traffic was heavy, and it was a fairly easy task for Ayako’s Honda Super Cub to keep up with the two black yakuza Toyota sedans. At first, she insisted that she be the one to drive. It was her bike. Quinn suspected it was because she liked him grabbing her around the waist. The wet roads and Quinn’s added weight finally convinced her that she could have just as much fun holding on behind him.

Quinn stayed at least two cars back as the sedans cut through the narrow streets of a residential area, presumably watching for a tail. Looking for other yakuza families after revenge, they didn’t appear to notice the angry little prostitute and the American agent looking for answers on the yellow motorbike.

Or, Quinn thought, the yakuza underboss was drawing him into a trap.

“They’re going to Nakasu,” Ayako shouted over his shoulder, loud so he could hear her above the hissing spray of rain and din of traffic.

“Nakasu?” Quinn repeated. The word meant nothing to him.

“Have you been to Kabukicho?”

“I have,” Quinn said. Her helmet bumped against his as he stopped abruptly for traffic. “Crazy place.”

Kabukicho was the world-famous red light district of Tokyo, crammed full of hostess bars, massage parlors, prostitutes—and the criminal gangs that ran them. It was not an uncommon occurrence for a drunk salaryman to wake up without his wallet—or worse—after his drink had been spiked.

“Nakasu is like Kabukicho,” Ayako said, scrunching in close. “Only more dangerous . . .”

 

 

Ten minutes later, Quinn followed the black sedans across the Naka River and onto the island known as Nakasu. Pay-by-the-hour love hotels, clamoring Pachinko parlors, and brightly lit soap-bath establishments lined the twisting streets. Set apart from the rest of Fukuoka, Nakasu was exactly what its name implied, an island in the middle of two rivers.

Men in white tuxedo shirts and snappy black ties stood outside curtained storefronts, hawking the young and tender merchandise they had inside. Girls dressed in abbreviated schoolgirl uniforms stood under umbrellas. Petite costumed maids stood in open overcoats exposing short skirts and laced bustier tops while they handed out brochures among crowds of pedestrians. Flashing neon reflected off their smiling faces and heaving chests, giving the place the frenetic, strobe-light feeling of an entire neighborhood caught in a rave.

“You see something you like?” Ayako chuckled. Her chest bounced against his back as he maneuvered the little bike through the crowds.

“I guess maids are a big deal here in Nakasu,” Quinn said, shaking his head.

“Most of those girls will not actually touch you,” Ayako said. “Oh, they will call you master and charge you a great deal of money to serve you drinks. I, on the other hand, will touch all you want for a price, but I refuse to call anyone master.”

Quinn stopped suddenly, planting both feet to keep the bike upright. He watched as the sedans slowed, then turned to park in an alley behind a two-story wooden structure jammed in among a Lawson convenience store and a shop that sold graphic novels. Rainwater poured off the tile roof, splashing the grimy pavement. The sign out front said the place was a buckwheat noodle shop.

“Of course,” Ayoko said, her voice tense. “They would keep her here.”

“What is this place?” Quinn asked. He was pretty sure “noodle shop” only scratched the surface.

“If Sato catches any of his men using drugs he requires them to cut off a finger as penance,” Ayoko said. “But he has no problem selling such poison to make a profit. I have heard Watanabe talk of shipments from Korea—most likely things like
yao tou
.”

Chinese for “head shaking,”
yao tou
was the street name for Ecstasy in many parts of Asia.

Down the block, two yakuza wannabes wearing dark tracksuits hustled out with umbrellas to meet their boss and senior leaders in the arriving sedans. Both were boys, Quinn suspected high school dropouts in their late teens.