Stealing the Dragon (13 page)
Instead he shook his head, trying for a moment to embrace the madness that had taken over his world. Cape tossed the bomb onto the body and closed the trunk, then walked around and got behind the wheel. As he pulled away from the curb he glanced in the rear view mirror, but the fog had grown so thick it was impossible to see more than a block away. He pulled his collar up and muttered to himself as he drove deeper into the fog, Freddie’s rasping taunt chasing him down the street.
“You alone now,
gwai loh
.”
Hong Kong, 11 years ago
“He is
yakuza
.”
Sally’s eyes never left the photograph. When she finally blinked, the picture distorted, and Sally realized she must have tears in her eyes.
Yakuza.
The word seemed to reach Sally from very far away, as if she were swimming under water and Xan was calling to her from the shore. Only when Xan repeated himself a third time did Sally tear her eyes away long enough to return his stare, giving him a look of pure defiance.
“He’s in the Japanese mob,” said Sally. “So?”
“So,” replied Xan patiently, “that is something you should know. This folder was not given to you lightly, little dragon.”
Sally gritted her teeth and nodded, forcing herself to breathe through her nose. She’d waited ten years for this opportunity; she could wait another ten minutes.
“I understand,” she said. “Please continue, Master Xan.”
“He is not very important,” replied Xan, “but his uncle is—that’s why we know who he is—and also why he didn’t go to jail after his truck collided with your parents’ car.”
The room started to spin and Sally closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on her breathing, ten years of training and discipline struggling against a lifetime of pain and longing.
“We have an understanding with the
yakuza,
” explained Xan. “Sometimes we do business together, and other times we compete for the same business.”
Sally opened her eyes and nodded, not saying anything.
“But we do not attack them directly.”
Sally felt her heart stop.
“Then why did you show me this folder?”
Xan looked almost paternal. “I said directly, little dragon,” he said. “That means your task is to watch this man for one week, take photographs of his meetings—we are interested in one meeting in particular. And then…”
“And then?” Sally held her breath.
“Then this man means nothing to us,” said Xan, “or to anyone else.” He paused, watching her carefully as he spoke. “Then you must make a choice, little dragon.”
Sally didn’t hesitate. “I already made that choice,” she replied, “when I stepped through the black gate.”
Xan nodded. “We always have choices, Sally. Remember that.”
Sally bowed her head, her thoughts rushing by too fast to register.
“There is one more thing.”
Sally looked up, worried by the change in Xan’s tone. “Yes?”
“You have mastered most of the fighting arts,” said Xan. “But many will not be at your disposal on this trip.”
Sally remained silent but looked puzzled.
“The bow, throwing darts, even poison.” Xan’s tone was one of warning. “These all leave a signature, Sally, for those who know the signs.”
“What are you saying?”
Xan leaned across the desk. “If you want to kill this man, little dragon, you will first have to get close to him. Closer than you would like.”
Sally swallowed hard and stared at Xan for a full minute before answering, her eyes now completely dry. When she spoke, her voice was hoarse, as if she had aged a hundred years since this meeting began.
“When can I leave?”
San Francisco, present day
“I’d like ten bags of ice, please.”
Cape had stopped at the Safeway in the Marina district, which was open twenty-four hours even though most people finished their grocery shopping by eight. At nearly eleven o’clock, Cape was one of five people in the store.
He smiled pleasantly at the young man behind the checkout aisle, who had been reading one of the tabloid newspapers they kept near the registers. Apparently Oprah had gained weight again.
The young man nodded at Cape, the beads woven into his hair jangling with the motion. His name tag said
Rex
.
“Havin’ a party?” he asked as he tapped the keys on the register.
“Something like that,” said Cape, glancing at his car through the glass front of the store.
“You want some beer?” asked Rex, his purple fingernails paused above the keys. “Maybe some chips? We got these sour cream ’n onion chips you wouldn’t believe, man, especially after you been partyin’ for a while.”
Cape turned back from the window, his smile evaporated. “They pay you on commission, Rex?”
Rex backed up a step, then snorted. “No, dude, just tryin’ to help you out.”
Cape nodded, grabbing a pack of gum from the rack beside him. “Just this,” he said, trying to keep an edge out of his voice. “And ten bags of ice.”
“Whatever,” said Rex, punching buttons. “You got a club card?”
Cape shook his head. “No, I’ll just pay cash.”
“It’s not a credit card,” replied Rex. “It’s a
club card
. You type in your phone number, and you get all sorts of free shit. Like, tonight, you might even get a discount on the ice.”
Cape stared at him, wondering if he should go back to his car and get the gun from his glove compartment. Rex stared back, confident in the flawless logic of his suggestion.
“Thanks, anyway,” said Cape evenly. “Just the ice.”
“You still want the gum?” asked Rex. “’Cause I already rang it up. I could void it, but then I’d have to call my manager, and—”
Cape held up his hands. “I want the gum,” he said emphatically, picking it up off the conveyor and handing Rex a twenty before he could say anything else. “Thanks for reminding me.”
Rex smiled and shrugged, pleased at his catch. “No sweat,” he said, handing Cape his change. “You need help out to your car?”
“No,” replied Cape—a little too quickly, he thought. “I’ll manage.”
“Peace,” said Rex, turning back to his tabloid.
Cape used a cart to move the ice to his car, then did a quick scan of the parking lot before opening the trunk.
The expression on the dead bodyguard had not changed. He looked just as surprised that Cape had bought ice as he had looked when Cape first found him. The bags almost filled the trunk, and Cape figured they’d keep things under control for at least a few hours.
Getting behind the wheel again, he fished his cell phone from his jacket and made a short call, then turned out of the parking lot and headed toward Golden Gate Park.
Tokyo, 11 years ago
It was raining hard by the time Hideyoshi Kano left the nightclub.
Lighting a cigarette as he stepped under the awning, his face was lit by the blazing neon sign across the street. Fifty feet of blue neon twisted to form two giant characters in kanji above a red neon sign in English, which read “Happy Donuts.”
The donut shop occupied the ground floor of an office building, unremarkable except for the European style of the architecture. While most buildings in Tokyo were glass and steel, this was only ten stories tall and built almost entirely of stone, complete with gargoyles lining the edge of the roof. Kano had never paid much attention, and tonight was no exception. He always had a few drinks before he took off, since this club was the last stop on his collection run.
Kano liked making the rounds, squeezing the local businesses for protection money, then taking a piss on their floors after having free drinks in their bars. He got off on the looks of hatred and fear when they saw him coming—they knew who his uncle was, and they knew they couldn’t do shit. Some nights he’d slap someone around just to make a point, then watch them shit their pants when he pulled out a gun.
It made him hard just thinking about it.
Kano adjusted himself and turned his collar up, stepping off the curb into the waiting town car. Since he never looked up, Kano never noticed that one of the gargoyles was moving.
Sally shook the rain from her eyes as she crouched on the roof, a single step between her and ten stories down. Dressed entirely in black with a hood obscuring her face she was a silhouette against a murky night sky.
She stared at the empty street where the town car had been moments ago, her knuckles white as she gripped the edge of the roof in silent fury. Slowly she rocked back and forth as if she were about to jump, counting out the minutes. She watched as the bartender locked the place up and turned east to walk home.
It was raining even harder now, the sounds of traffic and sirens from a few blocks away drowned by the staccato thunder of the storm. When she was sure the car was out of earshot and the street was again empty, Sally stood and bellowed in rage—her voice a guttural cry of agony that echoed off the surrounding buildings. Had someone been watching, it would have looked as if a gargoyle had come to life—a demon from the underworld come to take its revenge.
Sally tore off her hood and let the rain wash over her, stepping back from the edge of the roof. Every night she fantasized about soaring across the night sky and tearing his heart out, and every night she forced herself to remain perched on the roof. Then she looked into the chasm and thought about jumping, thinking that would be easier than enduring the agony of waiting.
She had been in Tokyo for almost three weeks. The day she arrived, a young man not much older than Sally met her at the harbor, giving her some yen, keys, and an address printed on a slip of paper. Then he turned and ran away, as if terribly late for another appointment.
It had never occurred to Sally that he might be afraid of her.
At the apartment there were three fake IDs and a closet full of clothes suitable for any occasion. On a small desk she found more photographs and a map, along with a list of known haunts and addresses that Kano frequented.
Kano. Even saying his name made Sally want to retch. She was fluent enough in Japanese to know that the name meant masculine power.
We’ll see, she thought, clenching and unclenching her fists.
Kano was a thug, plain and simple. Sally had followed him as he visited local businesses and bars, sometimes stopping at a tall glass building that Sally soon identified as a drop-off point for
yakuza
muscle. Although the busy office building was filled with smartly dressed men and women, Sally also noticed rough-looking men like Kano coming and going. Most did a poor job hiding full-body tattoos under ill-fitting suits.
Sally was certain when she saw Kano stop outside and light a cigarette. As he cupped his left hand to shelter the flame, Sally saw that he was missing his little finger. Over the next few days she noticed several men with maimed hands running four fingers through their hair, holding a briefcase, or opening the door.
The
yakuza
believed mistakes should have consequences, and most members made at least one mistake on their way up. The offending clan member was required to sever his own finger, wrap it in a white cloth, and present it to his master. Always portrayed as a stoic ritual in books and movies, Sally had heard that many cried and screamed in agony, sometimes being held while their
yakuza
brothers did the cutting.
Sally smiled grimly as she thought of the ceremony, taking solace in the thought that Kano had already suffered once during his miserable life.
But I bet he knew his parents.
Each day in Tokyo peeled a layer of doubt from her heart.
On the sixth day, she followed Kano to a park, a small patch of green bordered by cherry trees with a stream running through it. A small wooden bridge arched over the water, allowing visitors to admire the koi swimming back and forth in their outdoor aquarium. It was a glimpse of nature, squeezed into a square plot of land and landscaped for observation, placed carefully in the heart of the financial district.
There were maybe a dozen people scattered around the park, including a few sitting on benches and several young professionals striding purposefully across the park on their way to their next appointment. Kano walked directly to the footbridge to stand alongside another man his age, at which point both men deliberately faced the water and assumed postures of men idly watching fish. Sally knew that Tokyo was just like Hong Kong, where no one did anything idly.
Straightening the pleats of her Japanese schoolgirl skirt, Sally casually removed the camera from her purse and started taking pictures of the park.
The other man looked Chinese. He had longish hair and hunched shoulders that jerked up and down while he talked. The two men clearly knew each other by sight, but their postures were slightly confrontational. Sally couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she had been trained to study body language since she was ten.
He belongs to a Triad.
The thought struck Sally as if it had always been there and just came to light. Why else would Master Xan know or care about someone meeting with a
yakuza?
The man moved aggressively, his gestures abrupt and impatient, so like the mannerisms of men Sally had followed before. She knew, just looking at him, what he did for a living.
He’s a gangster.
Sally walked lazily through the park, a young girl more interested in her new camera than getting to school on time. By the time the men finished their meeting, she had several pictures of the fish and the trees, and almost half a roll of the bridge and the men standing on it.
That night Sally started frequenting the club that was Kano’s last stop. In a short black dress with her hair down, she looked almost as old as her forged ID said she was. The bouncer didn’t care—a few choice words convinced him Sally was an underage prostitute working the neighborhood, willing to give him a cut of any tricks she picked up in the bar.
The world beyond the soundproofed doors was an assault on her senses. Neon and strobe lights sliced through air heavy with sweat and smoke. Sally felt like she was underwater, and it took a few minutes to adjust her breathing. A square bar ringed with blue neon sat along the inside wall, a tiny island of calm in the vast club, but even there the bass from the speakers rattled glasses and pounded against Sally’s chest like a sledgehammer. That first night she sat in a dark corner of the bar and listened while men and women shouted for drinks until they were hoarse.
Sally knew how she looked in her dress. She could feel the eyes of the men boldly crawl across her body as she turned her back, then dart away in cowardice as soon as she turned to face them. It took all her will to keep her features soft and her smile warm.
Kano usually arrived maybe an hour before closing time and then hung around until the club was empty. Her first night in the club, Sally left before he arrived—flirting a little with the bartender before saying goodnight. When she had walked a block north, turned right, and then doubled back to the building across the street, she changed her dress for the black cotton pants, shirt, and hood she had squeezed into her purse.
The next night she stayed in the shadows, watching.
It was well after midnight when Kano strode across the club like he owned it, heading straight for the bar. The bartender looked nervous as Kano slid next to a well-dressed young man and his date, nonchalantly putting his hand on the woman’s ass. Before the man could react, Kano shoved him backward over the barstool. The woman yelled something, but the pounding music drowned her out. Nearby patrons barely glanced over, either not hearing the commotion and thinking some drunk just fell off his stool or not wanting to get involved.
Kano grabbed the woman’s wrist as she threw her drink in his face, realizing too late that the hand clutching her only had four fingers. Her eyes went wide with fear as Kano punched her full in the nose, then strode away, laughing, toward the men’s room.
The whole incident had lasted maybe ten seconds.
The couple had fled by the time Kano returned to smile at the bartender as if nothing had happened. Pulling up a stool, he threw back a shot, slamming the empty glass onto the bar and gesturing for another.
Submerged in the darkness at the back of the club, Sally watched, uncertain if the deafening roar came from the pounding bass or the blood rushing through her ears. Her eyes were red from smoke and staring, and her hands were cold as the grave.
But as the white noise of music and rage devoured her, Sally devised a plan.