“Come on up, it’s safe,” called down Jackson.
Three minutes later, they were all standing inside the garage. Mitchell moved to the closed front door and peered out. It looked safe. He opened the door slightly and carefully stepped outside with his rifle tight into his shoulder. Waving the others to follow, Mitchell led them back toward the beach. The rain had stopped, but a cool breeze whipped across the barren terrain, making the sweat-stained group shiver in the wind.
“Now what do we do? I dropped the satphone with my vest down in the tunnel,” said Jackson, rubbing his arms as he tried to warm himself up.
“Our boat is gone,” said Yuri. “But the people who attacked us have a helicopter. It’s our only way off this island.”
“Yeah, I guess it is,” said Mitchell. Turning to look at Atsuko, a plan quickly formed in his head.
Outside of the MI-8, the pilot, a blond-haired man with a wide face and bulbous nose dug into his jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Lighting one, he handed one to his co-pilot, a short, ugly man with a thick, black beard. He looked down at his watch and spat on the ground. It was getting late. Both he and his co-pilot were smugglers who flew black-market goods in and out of Russia to coastal islands of Japan for a mafia group that operated in the Far East. He had been hired for a twelve-hour job. If the people who had gone into the tunnels under the island weren’t back soon, he was going to leave them behind. He didn’t care what happened to them. He had been paid in advance. If they rotted here, it was none of his concern.
“Anatoly, look,” said the co-pilot excitedly.
The pilot raised his head and saw one of the women from the group staggering from side to side as she made her way across the open field. She looked as if she was in pain.
“Go see what is wrong with her,” ordered the pilot.
Tossing his cigarette to the ground, the co-pilot reached behind and grabbed his sub-machine gun from inside the helicopter. All of a sudden, the woman seemed to sway on unsteady feet and then collapse onto the wet grass. The co-pilot swore and began to jog over to Atsuko.
The pilot could tell that something had gone horribly wrong down in the tunnels. Not wanting to find out what had happened, he decided to get the helicopter ready to leave in a moment’s notice. When he turned about, he froze in place, his eyes widened when he found himself looking straight down the barrel of a 9mm automatic.
“I think you had best raise your arms,” said Yuri in Russian, with a wide grin on his face.
“Who the hell are you?” muttered the pilot as he slowly raised his arms in the air.
“I am the man who is going to borrow your helicopter from you,” replied Yuri. “Now tell your co-pilot to forget about the girl and to drop his weapon. If he does not, my friend, who is an excellent marksman, will put a bullet between his eyes.”
The pilot hurriedly did what he was told.
With a confused look on his face, the co-pilot dropped his weapon. A second later, Mitchell stood up from the tall grass and made his way over. He picked up the man’s discarded weapon. “Now, be a good man, turn around and slowly walk back to the helicopter.”
The mercenary did as he was told.
Jackson stayed hidden in the tall grass should either man try anything funny.
Mitchell called over Atsuko to come join him. Quickly tying both men back to back, with a pat on their heads, Mitchell left them sitting dejectedly in the cold, wet grass while Yuri made the MI-8 ready for takeoff.
At the tunnel entrance, the lone man heard the helicopter engines come to life. He popped his head up to see what was going on. The last thing he saw before tumbling back down into the tunnel unconscious was Jackson’s boot coming straight down onto his face.
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
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.