Kage (26 page)

the Mexican and U.S. governments begin to squeeze, the vari-

ous groups involved in the trade are increasingly at odds. What

you saw with that group was probably the simple hijacking of

a delivery.”

“They killed everyone,” Jackson noted.

“In some ways, not a bad thing,” the Border Patrol supervi-

sor commented. “… Let God sort them out.” The room was

silent. The view from a desk was different from the field. Jack-

son and his men knew that most of the “mules” used to trans-

port drugs across the border were simply poor and desperate

men.
Nobody deserves to die like that,
Jackson thought.

The supervisor cleared his throat self-consciously. “Well…

headquarters is concerned that this is all spiraling up out of

control. There’s concern that the violence is going to spill over

into the local communities more than it already has.”

Jackson grunted. On the Tohono Reservation, that had

already happened. Some tribal members had been co-opted by

the allure of quick money. Many families had relatives on either

side of the border, and some young men served as guides. Oth-

ers had been forced into cooperation. It was not unusual for

people living on the desolate reservation to have their buildings

used as stash points for drug smugglers.

“Most of all, gentlemen,” the supervisor continued, “we’ve

172

Kage

got some real and growing concerns for your safety. We’ve got

some very strong intel that a rogue Mexican group is in the

area, highly armed and making a play for domination of the

local smuggling routes. We need to take them out.”

The team sat, stunned. Eventually, Jackson stood up. “With

all due respect, sir, we’re happy to help. But we’re trackers. It’s

not a combat unit. Some of my people have never even been in

the military.”

“Relax, Jackson. I’ve made it pretty clear to higher-ups

just what our capabilities are and what we can and cannot be

expected to do.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that we’re getting help.”

Jackson’s head rocked back in surprise.
Help? What kind of

help?
The supervisor picked up his desk phone and spoke a few

words into the receiver. The door to the briefing room opened

and a group of men filed in, dressed for the desert, and wearing

combat harnesses.

“Who are they?” Jackson asked.

“Sierra Tango,” the supervisor said. “A special tactical

response unit of HSA.”

Jackson looked at the men; the way they held themselves,

the lean cut of their faces. They stared at Jackson and his team

impassively.
These are hunters,
he realized.
A wolf pack.

“They’re not native,” someone objected. “They can’t go

onto the Tohono lands.”

“The regulation has been waived by executive order,” the

supervisor informed them. He motioned the new men to their

seats. Jackson’s people were silent.

“Let’s get on with today’s mission, people…” His briefing

droned on. Jackson registered the salient details, but most of

173

John Donohue

his attention was occupied with the implications of this new

development and how it would shape their life in the field.

Once again, he felt a sense of foreboding wash across him.

Something dangerous in the wind.

“… tracker team drop will follow normal protocol,” the

supervisor concluded. “Sierra Tango team will follow at a dis-

tance by special insertion.”

And then Jackson knew. He and his team were no longer

being used to track prey. They had become the bait.

174

15

Lost Boys

Yamashita sat, immobile. His skull was a weathered lump

of ivory, his eyes slits, and his respiration was down so low that

its tidal flow was impossible to detect. His thick hands were at

rest in his lap, empty of weapons. But his fingers curled slightly

as if gripping an invisible haft—the body memory of a swords-

man’s life.

I sat and meditated with him, waiting. I should have been

a hollow reed that permitted my surroundings to ebb and flow

through me. Clear. Calm. At peace. But even the best of stu-

dents is imperfect.

I sensed pressure building somewhere out there; the psychic

energy of a violent threat pulsed like a living thing seeking a tar-

get. My teacher has worked with me over the years to enhance

my sensitivity to vibrations unseen. What the Japanese call
ki
,

an invisible force that permeates the universe, can sometimes

be harnessed and often be sensed. But it takes some doing.

Recently, Yamashita had become even more insistent that we

both work to strengthen this skill. I knew, in part, that it was a

reaction to his wounds; as his pure physical ability deteriorated,

he sought to enhance his more esoteric powers. But my master

is a complex man and always blends things of mystery with

those of practicality.

For psychic energy is real: it pulses off an opponent and

is conducted down a blade as you cross swords. If you’re pay-

ing close attention, it can tell you many things. In
kendo
, they

175

John Donohue

speak of
seme
, a type of aggressive energy that can be used to

intimidate an opponent. It’s one facet of the larger phenom-

enon of
ki.
Yamashita has honed my acuity to such a point that

I am increasingly aware of the wash of
ki
in the air around me.

The only problem is that, once you become receptive to it, it’s

hard to block out. Now I was being battered by a feeling that

danger was closing in.

I sighed and Yamashita’s head swiveled slowly in my direc-

tion. The light in the room was dim and his eyes were fathom-

less, dark things. It was hard to tell what he was seeing and

what thoughts were slowly swirling in his head. He seemed

remote, otherworldly, and dangerous.

I sat, immobile, and we regarded each other in silence: two

very different wheels linked to the same cart.

Yamashita stirred. “You can feel it,” he said, and it wasn’t a

question.

“Yes,” I admitted.

His hand came up and swirled in a small circle. “Multiple

points. Different motivations.”

He’s reading my mind again.
But I had grown used to it. I

had been thinking about just this idea. All this violence could

not have been generated merely by Lori Westmann’s latest liter-

ary hoax. By this time, the publishing world was used to frauds

of various types. There was something else going on.

“I believe so,
sensei,
” I said.

He grunted. “This is what comes of such ventures. Better

to stay in the
dojo,
Burke.” There was a fleeting tone of recrimi-

nation in his voice, but then he smothered it. He began again.

“Each time the warrior crosses swords, the odds against him

increase. Remember the rule of three.”

I sighed. In the Japanese tradition, samurai knew that they

176

Kage

had a one in three chance of coming through a duel unscathed.

“We have a duty to the
dojo
, Burke,” my teacher said. “Who

will succeed me when I am gone?” He looked at me, eyes and

face rigid. When he spoke again his voice was rough. “The

other students depend on you… I depend on you.”

The words hung between us, their truth difficult to admit

but unassailable. Then Yamashita shrugged his shoulders, a

man ridding himself of a burden. “Yes, the
dojo.
But first, there

is danger that must be addressed.”

I cocked my head. “How so?”

“Burke,” he said and smiled slightly, “sometimes I do not

think you are aware of how much you yourself already know.”

He came forward off the
zabuton
and moved slowly to his feet.

The motion was a ruse, the elegant slowness designed to dis-

guise the stiffness of old wounds.

He gestured at me. “A multiple-threat attack in the
dojo.

You are surrounded. What do you do?”

I shrugged. “Take the initiative. Break the circle and stack

‘em up in line. Work fast.”

“So,” he nodded approvingly. “This is good. To remain in

the center of the circle is to merely be a target.”

I rubbed my healing arm and nodded ruefully. “I know, I

know. The problem is that I can’t
see
these attackers. Unless I

can identify them, I can’t stack them up.”

Yamashita moved into the kitchen. I heard water being

poured as he prepared to brew the coffee he loved so much.

It was a curious enthusiasm that made him seem more human

and more complex at the same time. I got up and followed him

into the narrow galley kitchen that was always kept immacu-

lately clean.

My teacher poured beans into a hand grinder. His moves

177

John Donohue

were measured and precise, the expectant look on his face that

of an alchemist, perpetually alive to mysterious possibilities. I

did the grinding; his elbow joints give him trouble.

“The
kagemusha
is a formidable opponent,” he said. A

shadow warrior. Someone who can conceal intention, who

gives nothing away before the fight is joined.”

“How do I coax him out into the light?”

The water boiled; he let it sit for a time to cool slightly, and

then began to brew the coffee. The aroma filled the narrow

space.

“You can move and hope that your action creates a response

that pulls the opponents out of the shadows. Or you can wait

and watch until something gives your opponents away.”

“But you said waiting wasn’t good in a situation like this,”

I responded.

He looked at me blankly. “Life is complex, Burke. Solutions

are not always automatic.”

Or available,
I thought, with just a hint of annoyance.

Yamashita poured the coffee in a carafe, set it and some

cups on a wooden tray, and ghosted into the sitting area. He sat

gratefully on a sofa, poured for us both, and brought the cup

to his lips, letting the aromatic steam wash over his face before

sipping.

“For now, we will wait,” he told me, “and enjoy the coffee.”

He could sense my consternation and gestured for me to sit. I

obeyed grudgingly. Yamashita gestured at my cup and I took

it up.

“There are many things at play here, Burke. Perhaps you

have sensed some of them. But there are other more subtle

currents…” His voice trailed off for a moment, then gained

strength once more. “You will not have to wait long.”

178

Kage

He nodded his head slowly as if responding to some inner

voice. Then he held up one thick finger and seemed to listen to

something far away.

“Your brother,” he said.

The phone rang.

“How badly did you get burned?” I asked Micky.

He snickered, and even though we were talking on the

phone, in my mind I could see the defiant cast of his face.

“A few of the bosses in the counter-terrorism bureau got some

juice with the commissioner,” he said. “And we’ve done good

work for them. Me and Art will survive.”

“That’s good,” I said.

“Yeah, sure,” he said and his voice got harder. “But fun

time’s over now, buddy boy. You gotta get your head straight

on this one and we gotta nail it all down. Fast.”

“Hey,” I told him, “point me in the right direction and I’ll

bring the hammer.”

My brother grunted. “Connor,” Micky said, “some of the

pieces are coming together… We need to talk. And not on the

phone.”

“I’m on my way,” I told him

These days, the actual location where Art and Micky work

is not generally accessible to civilians. It’s a nondescript brick

building in the outer boroughs, just one more squat cube in a

desolate industrial zone of body shops, welders, and junkyards.

Despite its nondescript exterior, Micky and Art tell me that

the inside of the counter-terrorism bureau’s headquarters is like

nothing they had ever experienced in their lives as cops: hi-tech

and state of the art. The glass in the windows is bullet-proof

179

John Donohue

and the walls are covered in ballistic sheetrock. They have

secure communication lines and backup power generators to

keep the servers humming and the walls of display monitors in

the Global Intelligence Room flickering.

After 911, NYPD realized that the City was going to be a

high priority terrorist target for a long time to come. And no

New York cop trusted the people they called “the three-letter

guys”—CIA, FBI, NSA. So the NYPD decided it was going

to build its own anti-terrorism capabilities. The bureau that

Micky and Art consulted for collected and disseminated intel-

ligence from all over the world, while operatives simultaneously

worked the streets of Manhattan, watching, listening, and cul-

tivating informants.

It’s cop work that is equal parts brain and muscle. Geeks