Time of Attack (23 page)

“This is sort of a middle place for the drugs,” Ayako said. “Sato will hold them here before they go out to the dealers.” Her eyes narrowed behind the round goggles. “We must be careful. If he keeps his drugs here, he will also have weapons.”

“That’s a good thing,” Quinn said. “I was starting to feel naked.”

F
ive minutes later saw Quinn and Ayako standing beside the sliding wooden door in the alley alongside Sato’s noodle shop. The bike was parked safely behind a broken vending machine three buildings away.

“Once this door opens,” Quinn said, “we can’t slow down. Stay close, but not too close.”

The rain had abated some, falling now in a light mist. Ayako took a deep breath, amazingly calm for what they were about to do.

“Sato would have Miyu downstairs where he could keep her quiet,” she said. “They will surely send up an alarm as we pass through the noodle shop.”

Quinn nodded. “That is why we have to be fast. Your job is to go straight to your niece and protect her. I’ll take care of the others. Got that?”

“Got it,” Ayako said, her hand pausing at the door. Helmet and goggles abandoned with the bike, her round face shone with the rain. Wet hair clung to her skin. “I counted six plus Sato. That is a great many people to fight your way through.”

“It is.” Quinn nodded.

If there was a positive side of fighting a large group of people, it was that they tended to be overconfident. The younger, less experienced ones relied on others to look for threats, while the older hands focused on training their juniors rather than looking outbound as they should.

Pig Face, the man who had been closest to Sato at the fights, would be a different story. There was a reason a man like Sato had survived as long as he had—and Pig Face was in all likelihood that reason. Quinn would fight his way to that one. Incapacitate him and the rest would fall in place, particularly Sato.

“I need Sato alive,” Quinn said as Ayako began to slide the door open.

“For a time,” she whispered.

A bell tinkled as Quinn stepped through the door and shouldered his way past a set of hanging curtains. The sea-salt smell of warm fish stock and boiled noodles hung heavy on the humid air. A bald man wearing a white apron shouted the traditional Japanese greeting of “
irashaimase!
” Please come in!

The two youngsters in tracksuits stood behind a long, waist-high wooden counter talking to the man in the apron. Trays in hand, they were getting Sato his dinner. Quinn vaulted the counter, hitting the nearest kid in the nose as he moved past. The kid yowled as an entire bowl of steaming noodle soup spilled onto his chest.

The second kid dropped his tray and went for a butcher knife on the counter. His strategy was good but his tactics were slow, and Quinn was able to trap his wrist before he could bring the knife into play.

Quinn had decided before he went in that there would be no talking to anyone but Sato. The overwhelming odds of seven against one made no room for error—or compassion.

He turned the boy’s wrist back on itself, snapping the bones and allowing him to grab the blade before it fell. Quinn’s attack was brutal, striking the young gangster repeatedly with the knife in the chest and neck, then letting him fall as he turned on his partner.

Half blinded by the pain from a bath in scalding soup, the other man didn’t notice Quinn had focused on him until it was too late.

Both men lay dead on the kitchen floor half a heartbeat later, their bodies facedown in a bloody mixture of noodle soup and gore. Quinn looked up at the cook and put a finger to his lips.

“Shhh,” he spoke in Japanese. “I will not waste words on men who would keep an innocent girl prisoner for someone else to rape.” He turned the knife so the long blade glinted in the stark light of the kitchen. “Are you such a man?”

The cook shook his head, lips clenched into a tight line. “No, no . . . I am but a noodle cook.”

“Where is Sato,” Quinn hissed, still turning the blade.

The cook glanced toward the back of the restaurant. “Downstairs.” He gulped. “There are four others with him.”

“And the girl?”

The cook clenched his eyes together, bowing his head. “Yes,” he whispered, gulping as if he knew the information would get him killed. “She is down there as well, in a small bedroom directly under the kitchen.” He blinked tearful eyes. “Please, show mercy, I beg you. Sato is a violent man. He makes me pay him a percentage of my income for the privilege of having him do business in my shop.”

“Leave,” Quinn hissed in guttural Japanese. “Leave now and don’t look back.”

The addled cook was moving before Quinn finished the sentence. He left the sliding door open, exposing the curtains to a torrent of wind and rain.

Ayako stood at the counter, staring down at the two dead teenagers on the floor. “They were bad boys,” she whispered. “And would have grown into evil men.”

Neither of the dead had a gun, so Quinn kept the butcher knife.

“You would go against four of Sato’s men with a kitchen blade?” Ayako gave a smiling nod of approval. “Emiko told me you were such a man.”

“It does the job.” Quinn shrugged as he made his way to the back of the restaurant. “Remember, your job is to find Miyu.”

The stairs leading down to the basement were made of dark, well-worn wood and likely dated back to before World War II. Quinn moved down them with purpose, knowing the creaking steps would take away any chance at surprise.

Years of hunting animals in Alaska had taught him that tentative movement drew attention to itself. Sato and, more important, Pig Face expected the two underlings to bring down noodle soup at any moment. Although they were sure to look up at the approach, they were not likely to arm themselves right away.

An impatient voice came from around the corner as the last stair creaked under Quinn’s weight. “Hurry up, you two,” the voice snapped, growing closer. It was low, as one might speak to a dog. “The boss is getting impatient—”

Quinn met one of the twins with the point of the butcher knife, driving it deep into the V of his collarbone at the base of the windpipe. He stepped past as the sputtering man sank to his knees. Unable to cry out or do anything more than gurgle, the man’s fingers clutched his neck, vainly trying to stanch the spray of blood.

The second twin drew his pistol and did enough shouting for himself and his downed partner. Quinn caught a flash of movement in the corner of his eye. He turned a fraction of a second too late to stop the crashing blow of a glass beer mug as it impacted the back of his head.

Stunned and reeling, he let the knife slip from his hand. He staggered forward, knowing he had to close the distance before the second twin brought the pistol into play. He hit the man with all his force, driving him backward and grabbing the wrist that held the pistol.

Someone hit him again, this time low in the kidney with a series of potent fists that sent waves of nausea through his gut and took him to his knees. The twin with the pistol wrenched away, cursing from nerves and disgust. Strong hands grabbed Quinn by either arm, hauling him to the desk where Sato sat smugly watching the encounter as if he was used to such things happening virtually in his lap. A trembling girl cowered on a cushion behind him, eyes red from nonstop crying. She wore a T-shirt and cutoff jeans, likely the same clothes she’d been wearing at the time she was abducted.

A fist thudded into Quinn’s kidney again to get his attention. Unseen hands bent him forward to rub his face against the desk as if trying to smear him into the polished wood. Quinn swallowed hard, trying not to vomit from the excruciating pain in his back.

“Who are you?” Sato said. An air of smug superiority hung over him like a dark cloud. “And more importantly, where are my noodles?”

The man to Quinn’s right cackled with laughter at his boss’s joke. This must have been the groveling Watanabe whom Ayako had told him about.

Sato gave him an amused grin.

“Really now. Who are you?” He nodded toward Ayako. The surviving twin had both her arms pulled behind her back. “You are with the whore, so I must suppose you have come for my young prize.” He wagged a bony finger back and forth. “An unwise move, I can assure you . . .”

A short dagger, not unlike Quinn’s blade, Gentle Hand, rested on a small maple stand to the yakuza boss’s right. It was mere inches from Quinn’s face.

“Trade . . .” Quinn mumbled. He eyed the dagger with his teeth pressed against the desk. His words were slurred, but he could tell from the half grin on Sato’s face that he’d gotten the point across.

“What did you say?” The yakuza lieutenant smirked at the fact that his prisoner would even speak, let alone try to bargain with him. He flicked his fingers at the two captors, motioning for them to ease up enough so that Quinn could be understood.

“You are correct, Sato-san.” Quinn moved his aching jaw back and forth. He bent in a modified half bow once he was allowed to stand, still wincing from the blows to his back. “We have come to retrieve Miyu-chan. She is not what you believe her to be.”

“Oh, I doubt that.” Sato smirked. “I believe her to be pure and unsullied by other men—nothing like her filthy tramp of an auntie.”

Quinn let out a long, panting sigh. “Then I suppose she is exactly what you believe her to be,” he said. “But that does not change the fact that I have come to get her back.”

Rough hands still held on tight to his arms. He’d been right about Pig Face; the man held his left arm like a vise. It threatened to cut off all circulation from the elbows down. Watanabe put on a good show but was without a doubt the weak link of Sato’s lackeys.

Quinn shot a quick glance at Ayako. She fluttered long lashes and gave him an almost imperceptible nod. He hoped it meant she had control of her own situation and was just waiting for his move.

“Shall we take him to the boat?” Watanabe offered. Quinn could feel a trembling surge of emotion run through the man’s hands each time he spoke directly to his boss.

“There is always time to resort to more violent measures,” Sato said. He peered at Quinn. “I find myself interested to hear exactly what you believe you have to trade.”

“This is a matter of honor.” Quinn stood up straighter. “You will return the girl unharmed—and I will cut off a little finger.”

S
ato leaned back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. On his left hand, he wore a gold ring with a milky white stone. It looked like a human tooth—likely that of some past enemy, Quinn thought. The yakuza underboss looked him up and down.

“Your Japanese is excellent,” he said. “Are you European?”

“I am serious,” Quinn said, earning another jab to the kidney. He swayed on his feet, waiting for the sickening waves to pass.

“The boss asked you a question,” Pig Face said, hitting him again for good measure.

Quinn sagged on his ankles, forcing the two men to work harder to hold him up in front of Sato. He was certain another punch like that would knock him out—and probably send him to the hospital.

“I . . . I . . . am not European,” he panted. “Forgive me . . . I knew it was a breach of etiquette to barge into your place, but please understand, Miyu-chan is the niece of my friend. I mean what I say. I will give you a little finger to atone.”

“That would be a very interesting thing to witness,” Sato mused. “You are aware that in my world, one has to make the finger fly himself.”

“I understand.” Quinn let his head hang down in humility.

“I must admit that we would all enjoy such entertainment.” Sato slid the maple stand along with the dagger across the desk. He nodded at Watanabe.

The yakuza soldier released his grip on Quinn and stepped tentatively away. Then, as if he’d done this many times before, he took a white handkerchief from the pocket of his jacket and placed it flat on the corner of the desk. He drew a pistol from his waistband, then slid the dagger so it lay against the edge of the cloth.

Quinn waited for the reassuring pressure of the gun’s muzzle against his neck as Watanabe stepped behind him. The closer the weapon was to the target, the easier it was for that target to move out of the line of fire. And, more important, if Watanabe was close enough to touch Quinn, he was close enough for Quinn to touch him back. It was a rookie mistake—and it would cost the man dearly.

Quinn placed his right hand flat on the cloth, fingers spread. He took a deep breath, settling his thoughts—and then slowly picked up the blade with his left. Pig Face followed his movement, continuing to hold his upper arm like he might fly away if released.

“I have seen this done before,” Sato said. “Take it from me, you cannot simply saw off a finger. The bone, though small, gets in the way. It must be more of a . . . chop.” He turned to Pig Face. “Did not Tanda-kun use a chisel?”

Quinn made his move while Pig Face was busy answering his boss.

Turning his head just enough to get out of the line of fire, he let Watanabe’s first round fly past. Quinn lowered his center, stepping back so Watanabe’s gun hand extended well over his shoulder before grabbing the wrist and bringing it down in an arm bar, using his own collarbone as a fulcrum. Trapping Watanabe’s pistol in his right hand, Quinn brought the dagger in his left hand backward, arcing the flashing blade across the tender flesh of Pig Face’s throat. Tendons at Watanabe’s elbow crunched. His finger convulsed on the trigger, firing a round into the wall just inches over Sato’s head. Pig Face’s grip fell away and he sagged to his knees, unable to believe the man he’d just pounded had killed him so quickly.

Quinn wrenched Watanabe’s wrist sideways. The pistol clattered to the floor and the man’s fingers splayed open. In the same breath, Quinn reached up and hacked off the screaming soldier’s extended little finger, letting it thud neatly to the white cloth. Blood arced from the wound, spraying the desk and Sato’s face along with it.

Still unsure of what was going on behind him, Quinn stepped under Watanabe’s outstretched arm, reversing his wrist and flipping the squalling man over on his head, all the while retaining his grip on the trapped, and now mutilated, hand.

Quinn ducked to grab the pistol before Sato could retrieve a weapon from his desk. A broad smile crossed his lips as he leveled the gun at the yakuza boss. “I never said the offer was for
my
finger.”

With both Sato and Ayako now in view, he was able to see that she had stabbed her captor in the side of his neck with a small blade she’d produced from her bra. The screaming man lay on the floor clutching himself and writhing in a rapidly growing pool of his own blood.

Miyu flung herself toward the safety of Ayako.

“Which one took you?” Ayako asked, brushing a lock of hair out of Miyu’s face.

The girl shot a frightened glance at Watanabe, nodding at him.

“You?” Ayako stared wide-eyed at the bleeding yakuza soldier. He leaned against the wall, leg’s splayed, clutching his mutilated hand. Without another word, she stepped over and kicked him twice in the groin before he could roll into a tight ball. Head hanging toward the floor in pain and shame, he alternated between whimpers and dry heaves.

Sato set his jaw and clapped his hands in mock applause. “Well played,” he said. “But surely a man of your skill did not just come for the girl.”

“Perceptive,” Quinn said, speaking low Japanese as if he was speaking to a dog, or worse yet, as Sato might speak to a woman. “It is easy to see why you are in charge.” Considering the man’s past history with Emiko’s mother, Quinn wondered what Emiko would do to him now, if she were there.

Ayako removed the thin leather belts from two of the dead yakuza and tied Sato’s hands to the arms of his heavy desk chair.

The gangster looked on with detached interest. He must have assumed that if they were going to kill him, they would have done so already. In truth, Quinn hadn’t made up his mind.

“I understand you have information about Oda.”

Sato blanched white as if his throat and not Pig Face’s had just been cut. Beads of sweat formed on his upper lip at the mention of the man’s name.

“You are the underboss of a powerful yakuza family,” Quinn said. “Surely you are not frightened of this man.”

Sato shook his head. Face was everything to a yakuza chief. Loss of it meant giving up control, and lack of control in his world meant certain death. He breathed deeply as he weighed his options.

Quinn kept the handgun pointed at Sato’s chest. “You know where he is?”

“I do not,” Sato said.

“Then you are no good to me.” Quinn’s finger tightened on the trigger.

“Wait!” Sato screamed. “Tanaka is the boss. He would know where Oda is.”

“I see.” Quinn nodded. “And where do I find this boss of yours?”

“I would have to set up the meeting.” Sato’s face twitched.

Quinn shot a glance at Ayako, who’d been whispering in the corner with her niece. She shook her head, then stood to stride purposefully to the desk.

Staring down at Sato with a molten hatred unique to tormented women, she leaned in, her lips brushing his ear.

“We saved Miyu,” she hissed. “But you will just find another girl and do the same thing to her.”

“I—”

“Shut up!” Ayako pressed the point of her dagger to his shoulder. “You take whatever you want with no thought to the suffering you cause. Let me tell you what it feels like to be on the receiving end of such treatment . . .”

Sato’s lips pulled back in a tight line, revealing his teeth.

“Such violation is a slow arrow through the heart,” Ayako whispered. “First there is a terror, then helplessness—then pain . . .” She pressed the blade home, slowly at first, using the flat of her hand to drive it deep into the fleshy part of Sato’s upper arm.

Sato jerked hard against the belts holding his wrists, arching his back as the blade severed nerve and muscle.

Quinn wondered how many helpless young women he’d terrorized, sending them into such spasms as they tried in vain to get away. He touched Ayako’s hand when she withdrew the knife and moved to stab Sato again. She wilted immediately. Hand trembling, she let the bloodstained blade clatter to the desk.

Killing a man was no small thing. She’d already done it once tonight, and Quinn wanted to save her from the added memory of another. Sato’s black eyes flicked back and forth as he watched the exchange, his body collapsing against the chair when he realized Ayako wasn’t going to end him right there.

He should not have relaxed so soon.

Quinn turned to a whimpering Watanabe, who had come to his senses enough to stare wide-eyed at his thrashing superior’s treatment at the hands of a woman he paid for sex. Up to now, he’d been so absorbed in his own injuries that he’d paid no attention to what was going on.

Quinn gave him a nod. “I’m assuming you can take us to Tanaka.”

“Yes, yes, yes!” Watanabe nodded his head so hard it looked as if he might break his own neck.

“I told you he smelled of urine,” Ayako said, looking up from where she comforted Miyu-chan.

Quinn rubbed his chin with the rear sight of the pistol. It was an H&K P30 and fit his hand perfectly.

“Here’s the deal,” he said. “Go tell Tanaka exactly what happened here. Make sure you tell him we killed six of his guys and whacked your pinkie off with relative ease. Then, tell him I’ve got his shipment of Ecstasy.”

Watanabe looked up, kneeling, both hands flat on the ground in front of him, subservient.

Quinn was tempted to prod him with a foot but didn’t want to make the mistake of getting too close unnecessarily. “You understand?”

“Yes, yes,” he said. Blood pooled on the floor around his mutilated hand. “I understand.”

“You have Ayako-chan’s cell number?”

“Yes.”

“Then get out of here.” Quinn pitched the man his severed finger. “And tell Tanaka he doesn’t have forever to get back in touch.”

Watanabe flailed to his feet and disappeared up the stairs as if being chased by a ghost.

Suddenly exhausted, Quinn looked around the room at the blood and devastation. The cloying smell of blood and urine filled the basement room.

“Take Miyu-chan ahead.” He waved Ayako out the door but kept his eyes focused on a quaking Sato. A picture of Emiko Miyagi as a motherless child flashed across his mind. “I have one more thing I have to do.”