Travis Justice (5 page)

DEA chief Rhodes nodded as he listened, confirming their facts. “I've been trying to tell everyone this for over a year, but our resources were mostly deployed near the border.”

John Travis scowled as he glared at Abby's final screen shot: the figure in black. “Isn't there enough evidence to at least bring this Kai in for questioning?”

Before Abby could answer, Rhodes elaborated: “The few informants we've arrested with ties to the Edo Shihans are going to prison rather than talk. We're not sure if it's from loyalty or terror of the consequences.” He looked to Abby to continue.

Abigail nodded. “Probably a bit of both. The Yakuza has survived as one of the oldest criminal organizations on the planet partly because of its strict code. And from the evidence I've reviewed thus far, Kai has blended that structure he learned from his father with the samurai mystique and ninja terror tactics. He's suspected to offer a generous bonus system that rewards loyalty, yet his retribution tactics rival the Zetas cartel . . . ritual sacrifice.”

“Yeah, we've never linked him personally to any of the distribution channels,” Rhodes added. “Whatever else he's involved in, he's one smart son of a bitch. Plus, we have no idea where his base of operations is except that it seems to be in the area.”

“Do we know where the shipment is coming into the state?” asked Chief Porter.

Abby shook her head. “Nothing is surfacing on any of our tracking mechanisms.” She looked inquiringly at Rhodes. He also grimly shook his head.

The room was silent for a moment.

Zach had listened carefully to the presentation. He looked around, but when no one else voiced his concern he spoke up. “Did you show these pictures to the forensics lab that analyzed the remains of the Taylors to see if there's a possible weapons match?” Zach asked.

They all eyed the full-length picture of Kai, appraising the swords he carried. Abby responded, “Yes. Inconclusive, though the head of the lab agreed these swords, as far as cutting angles and splatter pattern, could match the gashes on all four victims.”

Zach absorbed that. So far, they had no proof linking the Japanese girl to the Buckhorn murders other than the hood that was found. It was identical to the hood he'd ripped off her head the night she broke into their house, the one they used to match her DNA and identify her. But it had been clean of any DNA, as if it had never been worn. A plant, perhaps? But Zach couldn't voice that gut feeling because he had no proof. Besides, what motivation would the real killers have to try to implicate the Japanese girl?

All latent DNA residue they'd tested from the murder scene had been male and had not hit any of their many databases, including the one the Japanese authorities had on Yakuza activity in Japan, which they'd been good enough to cross-check. However, the single hair sample recovered showed a strong correlation to Japanese DNA markers around Okinawa. Kai was from Okinawa. The girl had been born in the U.S. Thus, there was only one apparent link between Kai and the girl, and it was literally staring them in the face.

The katana.

With a look at his dad, who nodded, Zach stood and walked to the screen, using his pen as a pointer. “I was stationed in Okinawa for a year. The Japanese value swords, especially family samurai swords, beyond anything we can claim as Americans. The oldest ones are tied to their national identity and the clans who hold them. Whoever is strong enough to acquire one revered from the Edo period, has an advantage in any power struggle. Since there's only one link between the girl who broke into our house and this Kai, other than the obvious fact they're both Japanese . . .” He traced the outline of the katana blade with his pen. “Follow the sword. I'd bet my Harley they both want the Masamune blade. Let's use it as bait.”

* * *

The next night, Hana was back perched on the Tarrytown fence, once more garbed in black so she could scope out the Travis mansion. She and Ernie had formulated an action plan for the following night, when the sword would arrive in Austin. But just in case, she wanted to investigate the Travis mansion so she'd have a backup plan to snatch the sword if for some reason they failed at the warehouse. She used the expensive night-vision binoculars Kai had supplied her with when they'd made their devil's bargain, along with a sword and various other weaponry, which so far she'd refused to carry.

Sparring with swords had always been her favorite part of her training in the ring. She normally trained with
bokken
, the wooden sword, and was only allowed to use a real katana when Ernie deemed her ready. She'd never used any blade to render harm, and she wouldn't start now. She only wished Kai had the same compunction but knew he didn't. That was another reason she didn't want to leave him with the sword. If there was any other way to get Takeo back, she'd find it.

Immediately, even without the binoculars, she saw the new security: hired guards in uniform leading dogs around. Not just any dogs, but Belgian
Malanois
—the favored breed of the armed forces and large police departments because of its intelligence, protective instincts, and loyalty to its trainers. They were much more alert and well trained than the family Rottweilers. She also noted that the upstairs windows were all closed. New motion detectors blinked from all quarters as they moved from side to side.

Yikes! One arc of movement almost included her position. She vaulted down, she hoped, in time. She ran to her car, her mind moving even faster than her feet. Hana had her answer as to potential backup: none.

It was the warehouse or nothing.

The Travises wouldn't be fooled twice.

The warehouse had digital-dependent security, according to her contacts. The valuable items the transit service handled were seldom there more than a few hours and they counted on their high-tech security and safe more than costly security guards. She trusted Ernie to get past that. Her own skills in breaking digital security usually ended with snipping a few wires, but Ernie was a true Renaissance man. She turned a corner and stopped abruptly, certain she heard pounding feet. She listened: Background noise of a busy city.

She hurried on. She was panting slightly when she finally reached her car. Unlocking and opening it, this time she was certain . . . someone was following her. She spun in time to meet a large shadow in the dim streetlamps.

A very solid shadow. The minute the long, lithe body crashed into hers, forcing her body weight flat against the car and slamming the door, she knew who it was despite not being able to make out the face. No one else she'd ever met had made her nerve endings tingle head to toe like he did.

Hana tilted her head back to allow the dim streetlight to illuminate her face. “Zachary Travis. Somehow I knew I'd see you again.” She gave him a sweeping glance. “But I liked the way you were dressed better the other way.”

He reared back slightly, as if insulted, and even in the dim light she saw his cheeks flush. “Ditto. I figured you'd be back at some point. Scoping out our new security.”

“So you were watching?”

“Always. It's my new job as head of security for DPS and Ranger execs.” He settled against her so she could feel the holster at his shoulder.

She tried to squirm free, but he held her arms at her sides and let her struggle, his cold smile widening. She stopped and used a better weapon—her tongue. “Go ahead then, take me in. But a charge of trespassing won't keep me locked up very long, and I also have powerful friends with ties at major media outlets.”

He lockstepped her out of the shade of the tree directly beneath a streetlamp so he could see her face more clearly. “Oh, we know a lot about you now, Ms. Nakatomi. Enough that we'd much rather catch you red-handed with evidence that will stick than bring you in on a misdemeanor. Go on with your malfeasance.”

She was tempted to reach for his weapon, but then she saw the feral gleam in his blue eyes and thought better of it. He wanted her to go for his gun. No doubt that would have some serious penalties attached now that he was an officer of the law.

She tilted her head back and thrust out her pointed chin, as she did when she was cornered. “I had nothing to do with the murders.”

His grip went lax, but then he caught her, more tightly. “At least you get straight to the point. But why would I believe you?”

“Uh, a little thing like
motive
. I had no reason to kill two people I've never met.”

“Yes, well, that's why you should come in for questioning. Only you can clear your name.”

She made a scornful sound. “Like you don't know anything about me, huh? You'll believe me despite my priors?”

That feral gleam softened a bit. “It's obviously not my call, but I can tell you we'll all listen to your side of the story. Good enough? Do us both a favor and come quietly.” He moved back half a step, preparing to shove her in front of him. “I'm decent this time.”

Hana smiled up at him, long and luxuriously. “Pity, that.”

When his gaze caressed her lips, she struck, stamping her booted foot down on his toe. His grip loosened enough for her to get one arm free. In one fluid movement, she twisted sideways and brought her elbow up sharply into his jaw. He staggered slightly, but still had presence of mind enough to keep her other wrist manacled, so she was pulled with him. With a growl of anger, he brought his other hand up to latch it around her hair.

She saw it coming. Rather than pull back against gravity as most people would, she used the fall as her friend and followed the curve, pushing with her toes to overbalance them both, hard. He fell backward into the street with her on top. Then she heard his teeth snap together and the grip on her hair went lax. She'd landed on top as she'd devised. She felt a twinge of guilt as she saw blood gush from his lip, now realizing Zach bit his lip when he fell.

No time for recriminations or apologies . . . she was up and running. He scrambled up a split-second later, and then he was in hot pursuit, blood dripping down on his white shirt.

She was half his weight, and faster, so at first veering through cars and leaping over shrubs allowed her to pull ahead, but she'd already exerted herself and her breath soon was labored. She dared a look over her shoulder and wished she hadn't.

Even in the moonlight she saw the blood on his shirt and that familiar gleam in his eyes, much brighter now. He wasn't even breathing hard. She realized she might be faster, but he was fitter and stronger.

She ran harder, knocking over a trash can as she went, but he only leaped over it and kept coming. Could she make it back to her car? She veered around a block in the right direction but her legs were tiring. She refused to heed them, pumping harder. She had to get away—Jiji only had a few more days. He was in and out of consciousness now. The sword was coming in tomorrow night.

Everything was set up with Ernie. She had to get away, or Jiji would die while she was in prison. And Takeo . . . despite the stress of the moment, tears filled her eyes at the mere thought of Kai raising her son.

Then she heard sirens approaching.

H
ana's breath was wheezing now in her chest, and as hard as she tried to keep ahead of Zach, she knew he was closing the gap. Even as she ran she was reviewing potential escapes in her head because she'd scoped out all the streets surrounding his house before she made her first home invasion.

A culvert was coming up on her right, she recalled. It had a large drainage pipe, big enough for her to crouch inside and hope he missed her. But if he did find her, she'd be trapped. And she wasn't certain whether he was close enough to see her or if he was still rounding the other block. It would slow her too much to turn and look.

She turned another corner and there, to her shock, was Ernie's van. He was leaning against it, as if waiting for her. Without a word he slid open the side-panel door and she leaped inside, so out of breath she managed only a garbled, “Thank God.” He didn't bother to ask for direction; he just got in the driver's seat, fired up the engine, and drove away sedately.

“I thought you might need a backup getaway vehicle,” Ernie said as he turned his blinker on and turned a corner as if he hadn't a care in the world: A boring citizen who'd never missed paying a parking ticket.

Hana was lying flat on the floorboards in the rear and she stayed there. “Do you see him?”

Ernie turned his head toward the sidewalk and slowed a bit as he looked in that direction, but he sped up immediately, taking the corner. “Yep. He's staring straight at us.”

“Oh God, Ernie, he'll take your plate number.”

“You know me better than that, baby girl. This isn't my van.”

Hana closed her eyes in relief and did what did not come naturally: She was happy, for once, to put her fate in the hands of a man.

* * *

Outside the van, Zach was indeed memorizing the plates. He'd turned the corner too late to see how Hana had disappeared into thin air, but the van was logical as her escape route. He'd heard it fire up right before he took the corner, and the driver had turned to peer at him curiously. Zach couldn't see his face that well in the darkness, but the red, ancient Volkswagen van was a relic from the 1970s, so it was distinctive enough. Just in case, he used his cell phone to snap a shot of it as it drove down the block and disappeared.

He started walking home, not happy that he'd have to tell both his dad and the police he'd summoned on his cell phone that he'd lost the girl . . . for the second time.

* * *

Once they reached the freeway, Hana sat up. “I can't thank you enough, Ernie.”

“What about your car?”

She sighed. “I'm sure it will be impounded and thoroughly searched. I parked it farther away but it's registered in my name.”

“Did you sweep it clean?”

“I think so. They won't find anything incriminating or that would link me to you.”

“Did you find more security at the Travis house than last time?”

“It's a fortress. New motion detectors, armed guards with Belgian
Malinois
. . . I won't be able to get near it again without my own little army.”

“OK, kiddo, time to hunker down and plan our little adventure for tomorrow. With no plan B, plan A has to be flawless.”

Hana climbed into the seat beside him. “Ernie, I have a bad feeling about this. Zachary Travis was obviously expecting me. How do I know they won't be guarding the warehouse too?”

“You don't. But maybe we can do our own little reconnaissance first.”

Hana eyed him, not liking the little smile flickering at his lips. In her experience with him, it usually accompanied reckless behavior. Ernie's biggest flaw, other than his petty larcenies, was his feeling that he was invulnerable to the downfalls of most mortal men, criminals in particular.

“Ernie . . .” she said in a warning tone.

He only winked at her and drove the old VW as fast as it would go. Doing what he did best—pushing limits.

* * *

The next morning, the mood was somber as two simple caskets sat draped by the Lone Star flag at the Texas State Cemetery. On their final passage to eternity, the Taylor couple would rest after death as they had in life: side by side. It was unusual for a wife who was not a state employee to be interred next to her husband but the state facilities director had bent the rules to allow it. The graveside service was crowded with high-ranking Texas Ranger and Department of Public Safety officials. The Taylor family sat under an awning, adult children and grandchildren openly in tears.

As he watched the ceremony, Zach was uneasy. Two hours before the event, he'd reconnoitered the site himself. All the muckety-mucks gathered here would make a prime target for anyone who wanted to eliminate top state law-enforcement officials. Several police officers, astride their motorcycles, monitored the perimeter, but Zach was still on edge.

While he knew he wasn't the only bodyguard sprinkled around at the ceremony, he kept to his father's side, continually scanning the surrounding trees and gravestones, looking for anyone who might be skulking around, as the minister quietly gave his eulogy. After the eulogy, several older men wearing typical cowboy garb of chaps, boots, and vests, lifted old Colt revolvers to the sky and gave their version of the twenty-one-gun salute, a ceremony unique to Texas Rangers, Zach knew, having attended such services before.

The crowd slowly dispersed, but John Travis stayed rooted by Sam Taylor's casket, which was slowly lowering into the ground on hydraulic lifts. Zach was moved when his father knelt and picked up a clump of dirt to drop gently down on the casket. “Rest, old friend,” he said quietly, turning away.

But not fast enough. Zach saw the tears in his eyes. He could only clasp his father's shoulder in sympathy, but as usual, John Travis recovered quickly. He patted his son's hand and then went to talk to several reporters who'd asked for an interview.

Zach half listened as he continued to scan his surroundings. His eyes narrowed as he thought he saw a blur of movement near a huge, shady oak, but when he moved sideways to get a better look, he saw nothing but leaves restless in the wind. Still, the hairs rose on the back of his neck and he instinctively moved a bit closer to his father.

Meanwhile, John forestalled a battery of questions about the killing with a raised hand. “I'm sorry but you know I can't give details of an ongoing investigation. Suffice it to say that every law-enforcement agency in central Texas is working on solving this crime—”

An aggressive reporter with the
Austin American Statesman
interrupted. “But the DPS is obviously worried this isn't a single instance. They've hastily created this new position of Personal Security Director and hired someone named—” he looked down at his notes “—Zachary Travis. Is he any relation to you and if so, isn't this a bit unusual? Is this appointment a direct response because the threat is greater than anyone lets on?”

John replied curtly, “That's all for now.” He stalked back to his car. Zach skirted the group of reporters, ignoring their requests for a brief word, and joined his dad. As they sped off, driven by a DPS trooper trained in escape maneuvers, Zach said quietly, “Maybe this wasn't a good idea. The last thing you need is more political heat—”

“Zachary, we already had this conversation. You're the most qualified. Period. They can deal with it until the next hot story distracts them.” John leaned back, his face still drawn as he stared into the distance.

Zach left him to his memories. Now that they were safely in the armored vehicle, he could give in to his own preoccupations. He mentally listed all the steps he'd taken to prepare for the coming confrontation at the warehouse tonight. A smile lifted his lips as he visualized Hana's expression when she saw him. This time, she wouldn't escape. They safely rounded the drive, turning on to a major street, and for the first time since he awoke that day, Zach relaxed.

* * *

Outside, a stocky male figure in green camo waited, legs crossed, perched in the lowest branch of a huge oak. Like the ninja he revered, he wore the stillness of his ancestors as easily as the camo. At any distance beyond a few feet, he was virtually indistinguishable from the tree. He held a powerful Nikon digital camera and used its zoom to snap close-ups of John Travis and his guard as they got in the armored limo. Calmly, his breathing very even, he waited for all the cops to disperse before he sought his own Kawasaki motorcycle hidden in the thick shrubbery. He replaced the camera in its case and drove away.

* * *

That night at precisely 2:00 a.m., Hana and Ernie, lithe figures in black, clung to the side of the three-story warehouse on Dessau in east Austin. Hana had received a curt text from her contact that would be gibberish to anyone but her. It stated the blade had arrived on a late shipment and was due to be delivered to the Travis household tomorrow morning. She and Ernie had followed their prearranged plan.

They'd circled the entire building, looking for any telltale signs of a stakeout, but the warehouse district looked deserted except for trucks in the transit company lot, all marked with their logo. They felt the hoods . . . good. None of them were warm. No new arrivals.

Ernie then disabled the external security system that controlled the motion detectors and window sensors while Hana rigged up their gear. The climbing gear, complete with wall anchors, would allow them to climb the slick brick exterior and then rappel down. They knew the vault holding the most valuable transit items was on the third floor, and only one window was dimly lit. They also had monitored the building several times, enough to know that only two men were on guard: First, at the entrance; second, outside the vault. Easy pickings for two martial arts experts.

They'd briefly debated as to whether it was too easy, but the Travises would have no way of knowing she had contacts familiar with the building security. They probably thought a supposedly impregnable vault and two armed guards were protection enough for the brief twelve-hour period during which the blade would be stored there until the planned delivery in the morning.

They didn't know Ernie had studied the same model vault several times. Her contact had given her the model number and Ernie had a friend out in Spicewood on his own land who was a former welder at a safe manufacturer. His hobby was collecting safes—or at least that's what he told the authorities on the rare occasion he was questioned.

This model was a couple of years old and like many of the newer digital safes, seemed impregnable. It was designed to lock down after two abortive passwords and not open again without a special security code known only to the owner of the company.

Ernie didn't intend to use a password.

Hovering on the side of the building, Hana held her breath as Ernie soundlessly raised the windowsill. She sighed in relief when no alarm blared, then followed him inside. Carefully, they appraised every corner, using the night-vision goggles inserted in their hoods to appraise the room. Sure enough, a man in a security uniform sat in a desk chair in front of a massive vault door. However, he leaned against the wall with his cap tilted down over his head, looking half asleep. He held a shotgun, but it had fallen down into his lap. The only light in the room was a lamp on a desk on the far wall, too far away to burn their lenses.

Easy-peasy . . . the guard barely startled awake as they pulled a gag around his mouth. He began to struggle to lift his gun, but Hana snatched it away and stuck it against the opposite wall, racking out the shells, while Ernie tied the man up with zip ties.

“Sorry, pal,” Ernie muttered. “We'll never tell anyone you were asleep.”

The guard was very quiet. Very calm. He didn't even struggle. Hana was taken aback by his reaction. She'd been uneasy from the moment they'd arrived and the guard's nonchalance raised her apprehension a notch. This was going far too smoothly.

Ernie took off his backpack, pulling out a reciprocating saw to begin cutting a hole, not in the huge, thick steel-plated door, but into the reinforced Sheetrock it was embedded in. Hana still appraised the room. But she bit her tongue on the concern she wanted to voice to Ernie, not wanting to interrupt or distract. The sooner they got out of here, the better.

Just in case, she went to the desk phone and checked the dial tone: none. It was dead. She put it back in its cradle, a bit reassured. The security-system cut had worked.

Ernie had a huge, neat rectangular hole cut in the Sheetrock quickly enough. Next, he cut through the wall stud to get deeper into the cavity. Over the soft
whir
made by the muffled drill, he said, “Relax, it's not a support beam.”

She wasn't surprised that he'd picked up on her unease, even as busy as he was.

“I'll watch out the window . . . hurry, please,” she responded. Walking to the window, she kept to the side so her shadow wasn't visible outside and looked down at the street.

A car passed slowly, but it was a sports car that looked nothing like a security or police vehicle. It soon disappeared around a curve.

Finally, she heard the sound she was waiting for: the bite of a very powerful and fine diamond bit into steel. The door of the vault, as Ernie had explained to her, had a thick layer of glass. The minute it was penetrated, its shattering triggered the secondary locking system that slammed a second lever into place over the door and required the special security code to open.

So Ernie didn't go through the front; he bypassed it to the side of the vault. From there, after measuring carefully, he made an angled cut that left a wide hole: wide enough for him to slip inside a flexible tube with a tiny video camera and light at the end. Ernie eyed the small-view screen attached to the tube, tweaking it into the premeasured position he'd practiced on the other safe.