Black Dragon, page 27
Less than five minutes later, the ungainly helicopter slowly crept up into the leaden sky. Yuri revved the engines and then flew out over the dark gray waters of the Pacific heading for Japan.
Tara stood in the dark. The only noise came from her deep breathing. She was surprised to find that aside from a nasty bump on the back of her head, she was all right. A burning, white-hot anger quickly swelled inside her.
Looking down at her watch, she saw that she had been out for just over an hour. She was the only survivor. She doubled back and quickly made her way to the tunnel entrance. When she found the stunned thug sitting at the bottom of the stairs, rubbing his hand on the side of his head, Tara swore and fired a round into his heart, killing him. The man wasn’t worth saving, reasoned Tara. She climbed out into the dull-gray light of dusk and swore at the top of her lungs when she found the two helicopter pilots sitting unhappily on the ground, with their helicopter nowhere in sight. With a snarl on her lips, Tara put a bullet in each man’s skull. She had failed again. Fighting to control the storm brewing in her heart, Tara dug out her satphone and called Cypher.
Taking the bad news with considerable calm, Cypher told her he would immediately dispatch another helicopter to her location to pick her up.
She thanked him, wondering how many more failures he would tolerate before finding someone to take her place. Resolving to never fail him ever again, Tara looked up at the cloud-covered sky and prayed that she wouldn’t have to wait very long by herself on the deserted island.
“I want you to join me in Texas,” Cypher told Tara. His words were like a tonic for her battered soul. Her mood quickly changed from despondency to one of resolve.
“Right away, sir,” replied Tara. “Sir, you know that Miss Satomi will talk. She’s not one of us. She’s not to be trusted. I have one of my new girls watching Satomi’s home. They will undoubtedly take her there. Shall I order her to break in and kill Miss Satomi?”
Cypher paused. “No, Tara, I have a better idea. We can still get her back. I want to kill her at my leisure and get revenge on Mitchell and all of his people at the same time.”
Tara listened closely as Cypher outlined his plan. A wicked smile crept across her dark, thin lips. Today’s debacle was quickly forgotten as she marveled at the brilliance of Cypher’s latest scheme.
When the call ended, she rummaged through her vest until she found her cigarettes. She lit one and stood alone, counting the minutes until she could have her revenge.
39
Taro Satomi’s home,
Tokyo, Japan
With a practiced, indifferent air, Taro Satomi’s white-haired butler moved about the room, handing out fresh cups of coffee to the scruffy-looking men seated at one end of the long mahogany dining table. Although English, the man had been in Mister Satomi’s employ for over two decades. He looked every bit the part of an old-fashioned butler. He wore an immaculately pressed, black, long-tailed jacket, a white shirt and black bowtie, with a gray vest and matching pants.
Mitchell thanked the butler and then stood up to stretch out his tired and aching back. He walked over to the window and took in the spectacular view of Tokyo from thirty floors up. The carmine sun was just beginning to rise over Arisugawa Park. Already people were hurrying to work. Tokyo, mused Mitchell, truly was a city that never seemed to sleep.
Taro Satomi’s home was atop a tall residential tower. He had purchased the entire floor and had it remodeled to suit his tastes. An eclectic mix of old and new furnishings and art filled the home. Collectors from around the world constantly bombarded Taro Satomi with requests to see his one-of-a-kind collection of Japanese medieval paintings. A private man, he turned them all down. His art would be put on display for all the world to see, but not until he had lived a long and productive life.
The flight from Matua Island to Japan had been uneventful. Jackson had sat up front with Yuri to keep him company while Mitchell kept a close eye on Atsuko. She sat there, never saying a word, her head hung low. She was defeated, drained of all emotion. Met in Sapporo by a small army of security guards, they quickly transferred to a jet belonging to the Satomi Corporation and then flew to Tokyo. Again, security was tight. Mitchell was pleased to see that Taro Satomi was finally taking his and his daughter’s safety seriously.
A side door opened.
Yuri and Jackson stopped going through the plans Yuri had found on Matua Island and respectfully stood up.
Taro Satomi walked as best he could into the room. Dressed in casual attire, he looked as exhausted as they did.
“My daughter is sleeping now,” announced Satomi. He had had been talking to her alone in his study ever since they had arrived in Tokyo.
“I will need to speak with her when she wakes up,” said Mitchell respectfully.
“Naturally.” Taro Satomi took a seat and was then handed a cup of coffee by his servant.
“How is she doing?” asked Jackson, taking his seat once again.
“She is an emotional wreck. The man she thought she loved just tried to have her killed. My daughter is confused and deeply ashamed of all that has happened,” replied Satomi. “She was rebelling against me for being a poor father. That I can forgive, but for all of the death that has followed, she will have to answer to the authorities.”
“Did you tell her about the attempt on your life?” asked Mitchell.
“Yes. She was shocked and said that she was unaware that Cypher had ordered my death.”
“Do you believe her?”
“Yes, I do, Mister Mitchell. If you could have seen the look of horror and revulsion in her eyes when I told her, you would have no doubt, either.”
Yuri said, “Sir, Cypher is playing a big game of chess. Your daughter was nothing more than a pawn to him.”
“In a sense yes, but she was also a willing one. She is old enough to make up her own mind and to know the consequences of her actions. I am deeply ashamed that I was not a better father to her when she was growing up.”
“Sir, my son fell in with the wrong crowd during one of my deployments overseas,” said Jackson. “With a bit of tough love and structure he came around and is doing just fine now.”
Taro Satomi smiled weakly. “Mister Jackson, if I had paid more attention like you have when Atsuko was younger, we wouldn’t all be in this predicament. Unfortunately, you cannot change the past, only influence the future.”
Satomi painfully stood. His broken foot still hurt when he placed any weight on it. He said, “I am going to get some sleep now. Johnson will show you to your rooms when you’re ready to put your heads down. You must all be exhausted after all that you have been through.” With that, Satomi left the room.
“He looks like he’s aged ten years overnight,” said Mitchell, feeling sorry for Satomi.
“I don’t envy him. That’s for sure,” added Jackson.
Mitchell turned his attention to the plans spread out all over the table. “So, Yuri, what can you tell me about the bomb they were building?”
“Ryan, I’m not an explosives expert,” said Yuri, “but from what I have read, this bomb was designed to be dropped near its target in order to cause an earthquake. Inside the tail section was a massive parachute. When the bomb was nearing the ground, the tail fin section would be jettisoned and the parachute deployed to slow the descent of the bomb. The drill would then activate, allowing it to penetrate deep into the earth before detonating.”
“Quite ingenious. But how would it cause an earthquake?”
Yuri paused for a moment to ensure that what he was about to say in English made sense. “The device is a tectonic weapon. It is designed to manipulate electromagnetism in the earth to produce an earthquake from one as small as the one in Mongolia to ones capable of levelling entire cities.”
Jackson shook his head. “Yuri, you lost me at electromagnetism. All I know is, if Cypher has built one or more of these devices you can bet your bottom dollar that he intends to use them.”
“Yeah, but when and where?” said Mitchell, absentmindedly running his hand over his stubble-covered chin. “We need to inform General O’Reilly and Mike Donaldson about this.”
“Sir, if I may suggest,” said Satomi’s butler from behind Mitchell. “I can provide you with a secure laptop. We keep several in the house, should Mister Satomi’s business guests need them.”
Surprised that he hadn’t noticed Johnson was still in the room, Mitchell thanked him and then waited for the butler to return. He looked out at the rising sun and wondered what Jen was up to and when he would see her again.
40
Hamilton Heights,
New York City
Jen grabbed her gym bag and waved to a couple of friends. “Are any of you coming to the gym tomorrow? I’m going to take in another cross-training class.” With staged groans, her friends all agreed to meet her again to be tortured by a woman barely out of her teens who seemed to have limitless energy and enthusiasm.
She stepped out onto the busy street. Jen was dressed in loose-fitting sweats. She swung her gym bag over her shoulder, and started to make her way home. The sidewalk was packed with people still making their way home after another day at work. Jen found that spending time at the local gym with some of her close friends was a good way to burn off a few unwanted calories. It also kept her mind from constantly worrying about Mitchell while he was away. Glancing down at her watch, Jen saw that it was closing in on seven in the evening. She had skipped supper to join her friends at the gym; her empty stomach growled loudly, reminding her that it was time to eat. Trying to decide what to have—a salad or a small portion of salmon with rice—Jen didn’t notice a black woman wearing an open, dark red jacket and blue jeans step out from a side street and begin to follow her.
For a few minutes, Jen strolled up west 145th street, oblivious to the threat stalking her. She waited for the traffic to stop so she could cross the street. Unexpectedly, she felt a hand tap her on her shoulder. Jen turned her head and looked into the face of a tall, lean black woman.
“Miss, I think you dropped something,” said the woman with a thick, East African accent.
Jen’s heart skipped a beat when she saw a small pistol in the woman’s hand aimed straight at her stomach.
The woman’s eyes turned as cold as ice. She stepped in close to Jen and said, barely above a whisper, “Don’t make a sound, Miss March, or I will kill you. Now turn about slowly and keep walking.”
Jen turned around and joined the stream of people crossing the street. Fear filled her mind. She had never seen the woman before in her life, but her gut told her it had to do something with Mitchell’s current assignment. Jen knew that if the woman had intended to kill her that she’d already be dead. The criminal wanted her alive for some reason. Moving as slowly as she dared, Jen tried to see a way out of her dilemma. With a pistol jammed tight in her back, she doubted that she would get more than a meter or two before being shot. Jen wasn’t a former soldier like Mitchell. She was an academic and had never fired a gun in her life. It was something that she intended to correct if she ever had the chance.
An ordinary-looking, yellow-painted taxi pulled over to the curb just in front of Jen and the woman. The rear driver’s-side door opened, and a short man with a baldhead stepped out. He looked every bit as unforgiving and deadly as the woman did.
“Keep quiet and get it in the cab,” ordered the woman.
Jen’s heart was racing wildly in her chest. She had mere seconds before it would be too late for her.
From out of the bustling crowd, stepped two broad-shouldered men wearing tight-fitting rugby shirts. Their noses were askew and their hair cut down to the wood.
“Is this cab for hire?” asked one of the men, his accent Scottish.
“No, it’s not,” curtly replied the bald-headed thug.
“I wasn’t asking you, mate,” said the Scotsman.
“Yeah, piss off mate,” added his redheaded friend, slurring his words.
Jen saw her salvation in the form of two inebriated Scottish rugby players. She knew that she had to time her escape perfectly or end up with a bullet in her back.
“Look, boys, this cab is not for hire, so why don’t you just move along,” said the hired killer, trying to get rid of the two drunks.
“Who you calling a boy?” said the first Scotsman, towering over the thug.
Jen felt the pistol jam hard into her back. “Ignore them. Keep moving,” threatened the woman.
It was now or never! She pretended to trip over her own feet and fell forward into the arms of the redheaded drunk.
“Oy, Dan, it’s my lucky day,” said the redhead with a smile on his face as he looked down at Jen.
Jen wrapped her arms around the man’s neck and said, “Help me please.”
With Jen in the redhead’s arms, the bald-headed thug realized that their plan to quietly abduct Jen off the street had failed. He balled up his fist and struck the first Scotsman as hard as he could in the mouth. On any ordinary man, the blow would have put him on his back, but not today.
With a bloody smile on his face, the Scotsman reached over, roughly grabbed the goon by his jacket collar, lifted him off the ground, and then body-slammed him onto the pavement. The sound of ribs cracking and air painfully escaping his lungs filled Jen’s ears. Moaning in agony, the thug rolled about on the ground.
Still holding tight to the redheaded man, Jen turned her head to look back. The black woman stood there with a look of incredulity on her face. For a brief moment, she hesitated, not sure what to do. She knew that she could never hope to kidnap Jen with her accomplice lying on the pavement struggling to breathe. Her orders were to capture, or, if that failed, to kill Jen March.
The assassin’s brief second of indecision cost her.
From out of the crowd stormed a third drunken rugby player. Like a bull charging at a matador’s red cape, the man hit the black woman square in her chest and sent her flying headfirst onto the hard, concrete pavement. With a muffled cry, the assassin was
knocked senseless, her pistol clattering off under a car.
With a loud screech of burning rubber, the cab peeled away from the street and within seconds was lost among the dozens of other cabs making their way up 145th street.
“Are you okay, miss?” asked the redheaded man as Jen slowly, hesitantly, let go of his thick neck.
“Those people were trying to kidnap me,” said Jen, pointing at the two thugs lying on the ground.
“Do you hear that, Andrew . . . we’re bloody heroes,” said the redheaded Scot to the third rugby player who had tackled the black assassin.
People from all around were beginning to congregate around Jen and her protectors. Many were busy taking pictures on their phones. The three young men smiled and posed for the people while holding onto their prisoners, enjoying their instant celebrity status. The sound of sirens racing to their location made Jen realize just how close she had come to being abducted.
Looking down, she saw her hands trembling.
The redheaded Scot smiled over at Jen and then asked her if she would like a drink after the police arrived.
Nodding, she knew that she would probably like more than one.
With a loud whoop, the man jumped up into the air. The smile on his face made him look as if he had just won the lottery.
Shaking her head, Jen couldn’t believe the reckless bravado of the three men. Being drunken rugby players hadn’t hurt. The men grabbed hold of their prisoners and waited for the police to arrive.
Reaching into her pocket for her phone, she thought about calling Mitchell. She quickly realized that there was nothing he could do about it while he was still in Japan. Instead, Jen decided to call General O’Reilly. She quickly passed on what had happened and was relieved when O’Reilly said that one of his best men, a former NYPD police officer, would pick her up shortly and bring her to O’Reilly’s home for safekeeping. Thanking him, Jen ended the call as a police sergeant stepped out from the crowd and asked what was going on.
With a grin from ear to ear, the redheaded Scot announced that they had simply been teaching some Americans the sport of rugby. Shaking her head from side to side, Jen intervened. She quickly took charge and explained what had happened before her protectors ended up being arrested for drunkenness and fighting.
A half hour later, Phillip Harris, the man assigned to pick up Jen and take her to O’Reilly’s home, found her sitting on the bar in a local pub being loudly serenaded by three very drunk men. From the look on her face, Harris was certain that Jen was well on her way to being drunk as well.
41
Taro Satomi’s home,
Tokyo, Japan
The annoying buzz of Mitchell’s phone vibrating on the nightstand beside the bed wouldn’t go away. No matter how many times he swore at it, the phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. He reached over and saw that it was just after two in the afternoon. He was exhausted and had tried getting a few hours’ sleep before Atsuko Satomi woke up. Wearily, he sat up and answered the call.
It was O’Reilly calling.
Mitchell barely said hello before O’Reilly dropped the news on him. Instantly awake, Mitchell stood and listened intently as his mentor filled him in on what had happened in New York. It was only when O’Reilly told him that Jen was safe and staying with him until Mitchell returned, did he relax somewhat. The next piece of information hit him hard, as if he had been sucker-punched in the stomach. Asking the general to repeat himself, Mitchell’s anger began to boil up inside him. Cypher had made the assignment personal and for that, Mitchell vowed to himself that he was going to kill him. The authorities could all go to hell; he wanted to deal with him the only way men like Cypher knew how to act. Ending the call, Mitchell stepped into his bathroom, turned on the cold-water tap on the sink, and then splashed the cool water over his face. Looking up at the man in the mirror, Mitchell barely recognized himself. His eyes were red and puffy. He needed a shave, and a good, long, hot shower. Pushing those thoughts aside, Mitchell threw his shirt back on and then went to wake up Jackson. He wasn’t looking forward to telling him that his son, Daniel, had not come home last night and was last seen being forced into a cab.
