Japantown (41 page)

I was the only one behind the lines. My presence in Soga territory left me with a clear mandate: I had to cut the odds—and find Jenny. Otherwise Soga would fill the night with their victims’ screams.

But time was short. I needed information fast. Which meant a live body.

Cloaked by darkness, I roamed the brush, getting a sense of the property I traversed. Ferns and light brush and deadfall composed the forest floor, but with the air laden with moisture, none crackled underfoot. Paths, mostly animal but sometimes human, wound their way through the trees.

You have to break your normal patterns . . .

Once I found a well-traveled footpath, I looked skyward. For a two-year stretch in my more reckless teen years, we took down street dealers for the wads of cash they always carried. It had been a risky enterprise, and looking back, bordered on insane. But it had worked beautifully. We’d map out a dealer’s nightly routine, then
search for a perch,
a position high enough to put us above the normal sweep of pedestrian vision.

I found a suitable tree, scaled it, and made myself comfortable on a massive limb, leaning back against the trunk to wait. I was about sixteen feet above ground. For a six-foot target, that gave me ten feet of loft.

I shifted the Beretta to the small of my back.

Before long I had a chance to play jungle monkey again. Thirteen years had slipped away since my last attempt, but in my veins the itch for action pulsed.

The trick was to position yourself between fifteen and eighteen feet above ground. You came at them from behind, using their body to cushion your landing and the force of the impact to stun them. The height spread supplied momentum and was crucial. Too high and the
timing became difficult; too low and the impact would not disable your target.

A male figure about my height came up the path. Perfect.

I scuttled farther out on the limb and squatted on my haunches.

He passed underneath.

I jumped.

CHAPTER 69

I
HIT
him perfectly.

My torso slammed into the back of his head, smashing him face-first into the ground. Stunned, he lay still, his eyes open but glazed. After casting a quick look up and down the path, I flipped my catch onto his back, grabbed his heels, and dragged him deep into the woods, where I straddled his chest.

He wore the same form-fitting black suit and state-of-the-art equipment belt I’d encountered in Soga. Needing him vulnerable and exposed, I ripped off his night-vision gear, then the hood. Underneath, I found his earpiece. I plucked the device from its nook and pocketed it along with the transmitter pinned to his chest.

Moaning, my captive trained unfocused eyes on my face. Before he could regain his bearings, I rammed the Beretta down his throat. “Stay very quiet,” I whispered in his ear. “No noise, no talking. Unless I tell you.”

His eyes widened, then his training kicked in and disorientation gave way to the same inbred cockiness Casey and Dermott had exhibited. I’d have to break that if I was going to get what I needed.

My captive was old enough to be a full-fledged Soga fighter with notches on his belt. He was forged from rough country stock, more worker bee than upper management material. If he hadn’t stepped aboard the Soga express, he’d be wading through a muddy rice paddy or manning a local road crew.

I jammed the muzzle in farther. On the edge of my vision, I saw his
fingers crawl toward the equipment belt. “If your hand moves another inch, I’ll put a bullet through the back of your skull. Blink once if you understand.”

Blink.

“You also understand that I can pull the trigger faster than you can attack—no matter what your training or any brainwashing may have taught you?”

Blink. Yes.

“Good. Now I want you to tell me how many men are on the grounds tonight. Can you do that?”

One blink.

“Okay, well?”

He blinked ten times, paused, and then nine more.

“Nineteen. Does that include women?”

Blink.

“How many?”

Three blinks.

“Are there trainees on the grounds?”

Blink. Yes.

“How many?”

Blink, blink. Two.

“Does that include you?”

Blink, blink. No.

“Which makes you smart enough to know I
will
kill you, right?”

Yes.

“Good. Don’t forget it. Do you know where the girl is?”

Two blinks.

“You’re lying.”

Two blinks. No.

“You are. There’s only the main house and the outbuildings. Each building has a function. Guesthouses, dorm, garage. Like that,” I said, filling in the holes with guesswork about what an American Soga compound would require. “So the possibilities are limited. If you know how many people are here, you know where the girl is.”

No.

“Then I have no more use for you. Say good-bye.”

I shoved the barrel in farther until he started to choke. He began to blink rapidly.

“Would you like to reconsider?”

One blink. Yes.

“So your memory’s improved?”

Blink.

“Are you sure? One more lie and I’ll kill you and go find myself a trainee.”

Blink.

“Very good. Now, I’m going to retract the gun enough for you to speak but not shout. Wrap your lips around the barrel. Any foolishness and I pull the trigger. Speak softly, tell me the truth, and you’ll live through this. You cross me and your brains will be fertilizing ferns. We clear?”

Blink.

“Good. After you answer, I’m going to tie you up with your own rope and gag you. No one will be able to find you and you won’t be able to escape. If my daughter is not where you say she is, I’ll return and put a bullet between your eyes. So consider your answer carefully.”

I retracted the gun barrel a fraction of an inch.

“Hanashite kudasai,”
he wheezed.
“Onegaishimasu.”
Release me, I’m begging you.

“If my daughter is where you say, you’ll go free.”

“Just let me go. I got younger brothers and sisters.”

“How old are you?”

“Nineteen and a half.”

And a half.
Not only was my estimate off but my captive was still of an age where six months mattered. Shame colored my cheeks.

I pushed the barrel back down, suppressing his tongue. “So you lied to me. You’re a trainee.”

He hesitated, then blinked once.

“I understand why you lied about your skill level, but the next lie sees you dead. Got it?”

Blink.

“Where’s the girl?”

CHAPTER 70

I
ADVANCED
through the green landscape of the night-vision goggles swiftly and without incident and approached the guest cottage from the rear.

According to my young captive, Jenny was being held in a second-floor bedroom of the third cottage down. Architecturally, the cottage echoed the manor. Redbrick walls, redbrick chimney, white shutters at the windows. I’d passed two more just like it and perceived the blocky shadow of a fourth in the near distance.

The night-vision apparatus allowed me to catch movement at one of the second-story windows, which confirmed what I suspected: inside, they would be waiting for me. There, and along the road, and anywhere else they thought I might turn up.

You have to break your normal patterns . . .

The Soga uniform was a miracle of garment design. Aside from a two-inch shortfall, it fitted me to perfection. The fabric stretched to accommodate minor body variations but hugged every curve and muscle. It was as thin and light as fine silk, yet breathed and retained body heat. It was also nearly weightless. Under normal conditions, clothing adds three to seven pounds of pull. This suit’s drag could be measured in ounces. No wonder Ogi and Casey and Dermott oozed such confidence. Everything about Soga was supremely evolved.

As I drew up in front of Jenny’s supposed holding area, every nerve in my body hummed with tension. They wouldn’t have assigned many to guard her. I figured two or three. One upstairs, one down. And maybe a roamer. Which made the coming confrontation dicey.

The rear door was painted white to match the shutters and had a glass panel in its upper half, subdivided into six small panes. I unclipped a blackjack from my equipment belt and held it alongside my leg, then tapped on the glass with my free hand. Sweat collected in the small of my back where the Beretta pressed against the Soga black. A dark form emerged from the shadows of the cottage and yanked open the door.

“Any news?” the cloaked figure asked in Japanese.

“Just what they broadcast,” I answered in the same language. “Casualties on their side. We’ll be evacuating soon.”

Nodding, the guard glanced about before signaling for me to enter and retreating to the interior. Easing the door shut behind me, I trailed after him, eyes darting into every corner for signs of another guard. We were in a small pantry. A well-equipped kitchen branched off the right side, running along the back of the lodge. No bodies there. A second doorway loomed up ahead, leading to the front of the house. No one. When I clubbed him, the crunch of packed-grain on skull sent a jarring vibration down my arm. My black-suited envoy stumbled but didn’t fall, so I cuffed him again and he melted to the floor with a thud.

“Damn,” I muttered in Japanese.

“There a problem?” a soft voice said from the front room.

“Stubbed my toe.”

The next instant a silhouette appeared in the doorway directly ahead of me. I shot it twice in the chest with the silenced Beretta and the figure slumped against the wall and slipped sideways, sketching a dark arc of blood across the painted surface.

I stepped up for a closer look. Dead. A woman.

Teens and females.
A sour taste crossed my lips. I’d shot a woman. Something deep inside me shriveled. In the village, I’d fought but killed no one. Tonight I’d become a killer, a badge of distinction I despised. I fell back against the nearest wall, slid to the ground, and let my head fall between my knees.

Get a move on, Brodie.

I felt tainted. Disgusted with myself.

You have no time to waste. What if another one walks through the door?

I jumped up, alarmed. While struggling through moral quicksand,
I’d dropped my guard long enough to get myself killed. If I wanted to live through the night and save Jenny, I couldn’t fall apart now.

Hurriedly, I pulled both bodies up against the innermost pantry wall, then stood alongside them, hidden from line of sight if another guard rushed in from the front or the kitchen. With Beretta drawn, I listened for sounds inside and out. Scents of oak and pine and cleaning solvents saturated the cottage. Outside, an owl hooted. A cricket chirped. Inside, I heard nothing. Neither downstairs nor overhead. No scuffling. No creaking floorboards. No hushed preparations to counter my double takedown. I let another minute pass. The owl hooted again. Long Island pastoral. What could be more disarming?

No guards appeared, so I braced myself and stepped cautiously into the kitchen, weapon raised. Still empty. No one rushed to the attack. The kitchen fed into a small hall, which led to a bathroom and den. No new foot soldiers. Beyond the den I could make out the front door and a living room.

After pausing a beat to quell my adrenaline-charged heart, I swung into the living room, the night-vision goggles illuminating every shadow-steeped recess. There was a black leather couch with matching chairs and a vast window overlooking a well-groomed lawn and the woods. But no black-clad guards.

I scanned the room, then the exterior grounds. No movement. No glowing, green-hued human forms. Keeping to the shadows, I crossed the room quickly. A third door at the far end brought me full circle to the pantry and the two prone guards.

The first floor was secure.

I removed the guards’ transmitters and crushed them underfoot, then dragged the bodies into the bathroom and locked the door. I grabbed some toothpicks off a kitchen shelf, jammed them into the keyhole, and snapped them off. While I considered it unlikely the man I’d clubbed would recover any time tonight, you never knew, so I’d followed Noda’s lead and put a bullet in his head. It troubled me greatly, and there were moral issues to consider, but not now. The short version was these guys had crossed a line in taking my daughter, and for now I took comfort in the fact that one less kidnapper could come back at us.

With the lower floor safe, I mounted the stairs, holding the gun
back behind my thigh, broadcasting my approach with undisguised footfalls.

At the top were three doorways along a short hallway. I figured two bedrooms and a bath. From the third door, a head emerged and looked my way. I waved with my left hand and fired with my right. The first shot went wide but I kept firing as I advanced and the second and third struck the head and throat. As the Soga fighter went down, I backpedaled quickly to the top of the stairs and flopped to the floor, planting my elbows firmly on the thick carpet, pistol aimed at a spot midway down the hall, so I could fan either way in a hurry if a fourth figure or more appeared.

I maintained the position for one minute, then another. Nothing. I crawled forward on my stomach and nudged open the first door. No movement. I went in fast and low. More nothing. I hit the middle door in the same manner. Bathroom. Empty. I approached the last room with equal caution, stepping over the body of the guard, this time going in low and slow.

There was a closet to my left and a large double bed against the far wall with a body under a dark blue summer quilt.

I edged open the closet door with the gun barrel.

Clear.

I peered under the bed.

Nothing.

I straightened to my full height.

Motionless on the bed, her face thrust into a pillow, was Jenny.

My heart plummeted.
I was too late.
Just as I feared, once the fighting began, the leverage my daughter brought to the table as a captive was moot and they’d killed her. From the looks of it, they’d smothered her with the pillow.