Time of Attack (30 page)

M
rs. Mori was able to watch Bowen and Hase on the closed-circuit monitors in her office off the lobby of the Luxor love hotel. The detective waved at the hallway camera when they reached Room 402. The door gave a faint click as she opened it remotely.

The king-size bed was turned down, but empty. A pixilated adult movie played on the big-screen television. A single pair of well-worn but highly polished black shoes had been placed in the alcove just inside the door.

Bowen was hit immediately with a face full of steam and the heady odor of scented bath soap. The sound of dripping water to their right said Watanabe was in the bathroom.

Thinking it was his date, the yakuza soldier yelled something through the door.

Hase grinned, putting a finger to his lips. “He says he has the oil,” the detective whispered. “He wants us to come in and . . . apply it . . . In so many words.”

“This should be rich,” Bowen said, and pushed open the door.

He was greeted by the unpleasant sight of the heavily tattooed Isamu Watanabe, who was facedown and naked on a large plastic air mattress that took up all the usable space of the bathroom floor below the tub. The gangster’s right hand was wrapped in a bloodstained bandage. He kept it tucked in close to his side to protect it, but that hadn’t stopped him from using his other hand to douse himself with cooking oil. It puddled in the small of his back and ran down into the creases of the air mattress.

Facing away, with his cheek pressed against the plastic, he barked a command to who he thought was the girl he’d ordered from the free paper.

“He wants us to rub his back,” Hase said out loud. He stomped the end of the mattress, sending the startled yakuza rolling. “I don’t think I would care for that, would you?”

Watanabe spun at the male voice, drawing into a ball to cover himself and cowering against the far wall.

Body ink was nothing new to Bowen. Many of his friends in the military had tats. He’d heard of the Japanese mafia’s culture of tattooing their entire body, but he’d never actually seen one. Even on this sniveling runt it was an impressive thing to behold—blues, greens, and oranges flowing in surreal lines to form dragons and fire-breathing demons.

In a sudden gust of bravado, the surprised yakuza sprang for a pistol that lay on the counter beside the bathroom sink. He might as well have been reaching for the moon.

Hase gave the air mattress another stomp and sent the yakuza flying backward to bounce off the tile wall. By the time Watanabe could rebound, the detective produced an expandable metal baton from under his golf jacket and opened it with a flick of his wrist. Swinging the telescoping club with startling accuracy, the detective struck Watanabe twice in the injured hand and knocked out a front tooth before the man even knew he was being hit.

Bowen, who stood closer to the sink, snatched up the pistol and tucked it into his waistband, hoping Hase might forget he had it.

Though he’d appeared all mild manners and good sense from the time they’d met at the airport, Bowen was pleased to note that Detective Hase had an “on” switch. Evidently, Watanabe flipped it.

The yakuza soldier put both hands to his face and sank to his knees on the deflated air mattress. He sobbed as if he was choking to death.

Still clutching the expandable baton, the detective leaned in, launching into a series of spit-filled, rapid-fire questions. He hardly gave the cowering Watanabe time to answer before starting in on the next.

Bowen imagined it would be difficult for anyone to withstand a long interrogation by the screaming Hase, but enduring it with a mutilated hand while naked, slathered with cooking oil, and missing a tooth only added to the humiliation.

A look of amused surprise spread across Hase’s face. He turned to Bowen.

“Watanabe tells me that your fugitive cut off his finger last night and killed five members of his yakuza family. Ayako Shimizu killed a sixth.”

“So we were right that he is running with Shimizu?”

“Six dead.” Hase patted the metal club against an open palm. “And that is not taking into account those we found at Shimizu’s apartment. According to Watanabe, this American with a dark beard and cruel eyes cut the head off the gangster underboss and gave it to the top boss—a man called Tanaka.”

Bowen whistled. Quinn had really gone into the deep end of the pool.

“Does he say where we can find them?”

Hase began to shout again. The naked man groveled, still kneeling in the pool of oil. The peony flowers surrounding the fanged demons of his tattooed back appeared to ripple as his glistening skin twitched in pain and fear.

“He says he cannot seem to go two days in a row without someone beating him up.” Detective Hase half turned, trying to suppress a grin. “I told him you were an American police officer and your rules for interrogation were probably much more lax than ours.”

Bowen looked at the froth of blood streaming between Watanabe’s broken teeth. “Somehow I doubt that,” he said.

“He swears he hasn’t seen Ayako Shimizu since she stomped him in the groin . . .”

Watanabe broke in, bowing as he rattled off what sounded like a long excuse for something.

“Wait,” Detective Hase said. “He’s making a correction. Ayako Shimizu and the American were on a motorcycle the last he saw them, leaving a shrine near Tanaka’s warehouse.”

Watanabe chattered on, fearful he might leave something out.

“Apparently,” Hase said, rolling his eyes, “Watanabe has decided he hates being in the yakuza now.”

“Did he say where Shimizu and the American were headed?”

“He did,” Hase said. “I know the place. It is not too far from here. Yanagi Pharmaceutical.”

Q
uinn turned his back to the wind that whipped down the alley as he spoke, eyes still glued to the front of Yanagi Pharmaceutical.

“How did you find me?”

On the other end of the phone, Winfield Palmer gave a long, deliberate sigh. Quinn could picture him sitting behind his broad mahogany desk, perusing a computerized map of Japan with a red blip that signified Quinn’s location.

“Don’t blame Emiko,” the national security advisor said. “She would have helped you escape even if I’d not told her to.”

“Seriously?” Quinn scoffed. “You have known all the time where I was?”

“Pretty much,” Palmer said. “That leather satchel your IDs came with keeps us pretty up to date.”

“Can I ask why?” Quinn slowed his breathing, letting this new reality sink in.

“You’ve proven yourself too many times for me to think you shot Officer Chin.” Palmer paused as if he wanted to get his words just right. Such self-awareness was a rarity for him. “You were correct when we talked after Kim was shot. There is definitely something global in the works. That hit team in Vegas was just too neat and tidy. And then someone tries to frame you for the murder. If Oda is behind all this, as Emiko suspects, then there is a larger game in play. Oda is a big gun. It would be overkill to use his organization just to kill a member of someone’s family.”

“You have a theory?”

“Wish I did,” Palmer said. “But I do have another problem. Have you been watching the news?”

“I’ve been a little busy running from the law,” Quinn said.

“But you know about this pandemic?”

“I do,” Quinn said. “Looks awful.”

“For a time it looked like there might have been a bit of bright news on the horizon. Japan was hit with this same virus months ago. They were able to contain it but started work on a vaccine anyway. Our folks on the ground there say they have developed a live virus vaccine that produces antibodies in humans. The president wants it pushed through ASAP.” Palmer groaned. “A couple of wrinkles over here though have made me second-guess our celebrations.”

“Let me guess,” Quinn said, still watching the building across the street. “Yanagi Pharmaceutical is involved.”

“That’s correct.” Palmer sighed. “How did you know?”

“I’m sitting across from their front doors right now, waiting for Oda to show up.”

“Dammit!” Palmer hissed. “I knew a vaccine this soon was a fantasy. Can you get inside?”

“I can now,” Quinn said. “Has anyone tested the vaccine?”

“Supposedly,” Palmer groaned. “We have CDC and HHS personnel there now, but they’re under tremendous pressure to stop this virus.”

“Yeah,” Quinn said. “I just saw them come back from a break. Looks like the tests went well. They may as well have been toasting each other with champagne.”

“It wouldn’t be that difficult for someone to doctor the results enough for them to accept a bogus test.”

“Okay,” Quinn said. “I’ll go check it out. But do me a favor and tell Miyagi I forgive her.”

“She’ll be glad to hear that,” Palmer said. “Don’t quote me, but for some reason, I think she has a little teacher crush on you . . .” He chuckled. “Anyway, wish me luck. I have to go tell the president I’m taking away the good news for his State of the Union address tonight.”

Quinn ended the call and peered over at Ayako, who stood so the vending machine blocked some of the wind.

“Did you know about this?”

She shook her head. “I am beginning to believe Emiko-chan does not tell me anything. I can guess from your half of the conversation that the authorities know where you are?”

“They do,” Quinn said, dark eyes narrowing as an idea formed in his head. “Would you mind if I make another quick call?”

 

 

Veronica Garcia answered on the second ring.

“Hello?”

Her honey-soft voice caused Quinn to catch his breath.

“It’s me,” he said, feeling a little dizzy at the sound of her.

“Jericho?”

“Yep.”

“Oh . . . a . . . hi.” Her voice was hollow, distant.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call before I left.”

“Okay,” she said, her voice noncommittal. “Jacques gave me your message.”

“Yeah,” Quinn said, picturing her. “But I still should have called.”

“That’s true,” she said. “Turns out you were right about the feds. A deputy U.S. marshal came by looking for you. I was able to tell him you were too big a jerk to call me before you ran.”

“You’ll probably be mad at me for asking this,” Quinn said. “But do you know how Kim is doing?”

There was silence on the line. Quinn felt like an idiot. You didn’t ask your girlfriend to check on the status of your ex-wife.

Garcia rescued him. “She’s doing better every day. OSI still has her under protection. Mattie, too.”

“Thanks.” He wanted to say more, but Ayako stood too close, arms crossed and a jealous pout pinching her face. “Listen, I have to go. I’ll call you again soon. I . . .”

“I know,” Garcia said, and hung up.

 

 

Garcia slipped the cell phone into the pocket of a black Massif Nomex jacket, then looked up at Thibodaux and Miyagi with a tear in her eye.

The big Cajun gave her shoulder a squeeze in an attempt to console her.

“You okay, cher?”

She sniffed. “I’m fine.”

Thibodaux turned so he could see her with his good eye. “He asked you about Kim?”

“He did.” A broad smile spread over Ronnie’s full lips as a realization dawned on her. “But do you know what that means? It means he called me first.”

 

 

Quinn handed the phone back to Ayako and grabbed the helmet from where it hung on the handlebar of the Blackbird.

“Was that your girlfriend?” Ayako frowned.

Quinn pulled on the helmet and fastened the strap. “She is.” He threw a leg over the bike and pushed the starter. “Or she was. To tell you the truth, I’m not sure anymore.”

“Hmmm,” Ayako said, climbing on behind him. She snaked her arms around him as if she didn’t want him to get away.

Quinn released the clutch and pulled out of the alley to wait at the curb for traffic. Remembering he was in Japan and not the United States, he looked right first, then left for oncoming traffic. Jetting across when he had an opening, he leaned the Blackbird into a tight U-turn on the narrow street that ran alongside the Yanagi building. Ayako scrambled off and he kicked the side stand down next to the curb, facing the main thoroughfare again but from the opposite direction.

Still straddling the bike, he watched as a silver gray Suzuki Hayabusa roared down Sumiyoshi to park directly in front of the building. The big motorcycle dwarfed the rider, but she handled it as if she’d been born on the back of one.

Quinn’s gut tightened as she shook her long black hair free of a matte black helmet. It was the woman from the gondola canals at the Venetian—the woman who shot Kim.

If Miyagi had been right, this was her daughter,
Ran
.

Ayako gave a pitiful groan.

The young woman glanced up and down the street, paying particular attention to the way she’d come and the roofline of the buildings above her. An assassin herself, she knew where she would hide and considered those the danger areas she needed to watch.

The Blackbird was parked behind a concrete pillar and difficult to see from her vantage point.

Apparently satisfied that she hadn’t been followed and wasn’t about to be shot by a sniper, the woman bounded up the long stairway to the Yanagi building and opened the front door.

Without thinking, Quinn abandoned his helmet on the handlebar of the Blackbird, breaking into a trot for the door. He’d been focused on finding Oda so he would lead him to this girl. Now, he could go straight to her. Oda may have ordered the hit, but she had pulled the trigger and deserved a little something extra for that.

He was vaguely aware of Ayako running beside him with the guitar case strapped over her shoulder as he jerked open the glass door.

He caught a glimpse of the young woman’s gray motorcycle jacket starting up an open flight of stairs at the far end of the expansive lobby, across fifty feet of pink granite tile. The entire ground floor was a perfect example of minimalist style with little more than a few simple calligraphies, an oval reception desk, and a half a dozen uniformed security guards.

The nearest guard called out in challenge as soon as Quinn entered the lobby. The young woman turned, saw Quinn coming for her, and ran for the cover of the stairs. All six guards converged on Quinn as he closed the distance.

He was vaguely aware of hitting the first one under the chin, snapping the man’s head back and driving him to the tile like he was spiking a volleyball. He swatted the next two out of his way like spiderwebs on a trail—annoyance more than anything. Ayako met one, grabbing the poor man around the neck and pulling him to her to give him three rapid-fire knees to the groin before shoving him to the side.

The next two were in the process of a coordinated attack when gunfire opened up from the stairs above. Nothing more than hired security, these two fled toward the front doors, realizing that Quinn was the target and wanting to get as far away from him as they could.

Quinn drew the H&K and sent the young assassin scuttling with two well-placed shots. He raced up the stairs after her, pistol trained on the balcony where she’d disappeared. A set of wooden doors, like those found in a hospital, were still swinging when he rounded the corner.

Not wanting to give the woman time to set up an ambush, Quinn pressed on with Ayako right behind.

Ahead, a Japanese lab tech in a long white coat pushed a metal rack taller than his head across the hallway intersection, blocking the young woman’s escape. Quinn paused to take a shot, but Ayako slid into him from behind, spoiling his aim and allowing his target to slip away. The fleeing woman yanked the rack sideways as she went around, sending twenty-four hundred eggs crashing to the polished laboratory floor.

Quinn ducked as two more rounds zinged off a stainless-steel lab shelf behind him. Struggling to keep his feet in the slippery mess of eggs and crushed shell, he shoved the surprised lab tech out of the way and moved to the corner where the woman had disappeared.

Two men in suits met him head-on as he did a quick-peek around the corner. These were much more devoted to their jobs than the uniformed guards downstairs.

“Kill them,” the young woman yelled from the far end of the hall, twenty feet away.

The lead man, a bruiser built for power over speed, hit Quinn hard between the eyes.

The blow felt like a brick, but Quinn had been hit before and rolled with it, stepping back against the wall. He was not in the habit of shooting innocent security guards who were just doing their jobs, but this guy went for a pistol, apparently happy to carry out the kill order. Quinn beat him to the punch, firing the H&K from tight against his waist. His first round connected—there was nowhere else for it to go with the wide man standing in front of him—but to little effect.

Quinn swatted the guard’s pistol out of the way, then angled the barrel of the H&K upward, firing again as the man battered him with left hooks, trying to bring his gun into play. He was amazingly agile to be as big as he was and carrying two bullets. Quinn’s third shot took him under the chin, stopping him in his tracks. He swayed, falling forward, dead weight smearing Quinn into the wall on his way to the floor.

When he finally shook himself free, Quinn looked up in time to see Ayako withdraw the blade of her father’s short sword from the belly of the second security man. He’d seen this one before, even snapped a photo when he’d caught the guy following him at Reagan National Airport two months earlier.

Before he could move again, two pistol rounds slapped Quinn in the chest. The ballistic armor under his leather Transit jacket stopped them from penetrating, but the blunt trauma felt like he’d been kicked by a horse. He stepped sideways, returning fire as he pulled Ayako out of the way.

The young woman shot again, then ducked around a corner where the hall jogged to the right.

Quinn dropped the magazine on the H&K during the momentary lull.

“Four rounds plus one in the tube,” he whispered.

Ayako nodded, bloody sword at her side.

Quinn advanced quickly down the hall behind the pistol, hugging the wall so he could use any doorway for cover. Ayako stayed behind him. Well back from the corner he began to step sideways, inch by inch, to broaden his field of view. It was called
cutting the pie
.

The hallway was empty and footfalls echoed down the stairs at the far end.

She was running, circling back to the lobby, probably aiming for the front door.