“It very weak!” shouted Vitaly, waving his arms in anger. “If Russian pier, no problem! Russian pier very strong! How Vitaly know Japanese pier are shit?”
“Your piers have to be strong,” snarled Jonah. “Because every single one of your pilots is a goddamn drunk. When will you figure out that we are not in Russia?”
Marissa rubbed her temples with the palms of both hands, teeth clenched in frustration. “Both of you. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.”
The entrance to the sagging warehouse began to open, effectively ending the argument. Two well-dressed men struggled against the sliding doors, forcing tracked wheels over decades of accumulated corrosion. A half dozen low-slung American sedans were inside, forming a semicircle of illuminated headlights. Several cigarette cherries hovered within, appearing and disappearing into the darkness with each drag.
“Should I do my princess wave?” Alexis asked. Nobody laughed.
Two of the yakuza gangsters emerged from the warehouse with a warped wooden gangplank slung between them. They dragged it partway up the aging pier, careful to stay well clear of the collapsed section. Jonah watched as they approached, their expensive suits soaked through to the skin, tattoos slick with rain. The men propped one end of the gangplank up against the pier, letting the other end fall and slap against the deck of the Scorpion. Then they turned and shuffled back to the warehouse without so much as a glance in Jonah’s direction.
“You think they’re pissed?” asked Alexis. “About the refugees and everything? I’d be pissed if I were them.”
“No,” whispered Jonah. “I doubt they’ll show it, but I’d guess they’re just as scared as us. There are big things happening, and even criminals care about the future of their country. Marissa — are you certain we can’t bring Dalmar? I wouldn’t mind a little backup in there.”
“They specifically told me not to bring the ‘big black one with all the guns.’ His etiquette was… well, let’s just say he doesn’t have any as far as they’re concerned.”
“How about Hassan? They seemed to get along with him well enough last time.”
She shook her head. “Just you and me. It’s their call. I can’t have you break terms before we even start talking— you have no idea what I had to promise to even get us this meeting.”
Jonah swung a leg over the side of the conning tower, his foot finding the top rung of the exterior ladder. He began to slowly descend, Marissa following from above. “You never told me how you originally hooked up with these guys.”
“You sure you still want to know?”
“Call me curious.”
“Well, the short version is that Dad’s ships sometimes mobilized for deep-sea operations out of Japanese ports. I made sure they arrived with a few extra crates of Sudafed, Vicks inhalers, Maxiflu, Dayquil, stuff like that. I had some friends who were always after over-the-counter cold and flu meds to re-sell on the black market.”
“Illegal? Or just tax evasion?”
“Illegal. Their government banned codeine and pseudoephedrine decades ago. But everybody still gets colds in Japan and they like the good stuff. I had more volume than my friends could handle, so they passed me up the chain to some gangland players. It was mutually beneficial arrangement for a while, and I even managed to bank some trust, most of which you’ve flushed away at this point. So thanks for that.”
Jonah paused at the foot of the gangplank before crossing to the pier, brow furrowed. He turned back to Marissa. “That doesn’t track. You went straight from smurfing contraband flu medicine — basically the jaywalking of drug dealing — to human trafficking? I think the short version of your story glosses over a step or two.”
Marissa defensively crossed her arms and cleared her throat. “There may have been a couple of… interim arrangements.”
Jonah couldn’t help but chuckle as he stepped onto the pier. “I won’t ask for details; I just have one last question. Does your bean-counter fiancé know he’s marrying Lady Scarface?”
“He’s not a — forget it,” Marissa huffed and ignored him for the rest of the short walk to the warehouse. Steeling himself, Jonah stepped into the darkness, his eyes meeting the short, bulky form of the yakuza boss standing silhouetted in the headlights before them. The boss stared unflinchingly towards Jonah and Marissa as they approached. The heavily tattooed gangsters on either side stood at the ready, the pistols in their tailored suits bulging and obvious. Jonah shook the rain off his collar as Marissa slipped the plastic bag from her head and stuffed it in a pocket, freeing her frizzy hair.
“Should I bow again?” asked Jonah.
“We’re a little past bowing at this point,” whispered Marissa. “But I hope you’re ready to kiss some serious ass.”
The boss spread his arms as he watched Jonah adjust his coat once more. “American fuckup Jonah Blackwell,” he said in broken English, barking the words through bared teeth. The details of his face revealed themselves once more, his deep, sunken eyes, his twin scars. Jonah glanced down, catching a glimpse of the now-familiar, nicotine-stained fingertips and missing pinky finger.
Not waiting for a response, the boss leaned over and spoke to his young translator, a man Jonah recognized from the Fukushima city park. The translator nodded and spoke. “He says we should have gone with our initial plan to skin you.”
“Probably would have saved us both some serious headache,” said Jonah. He helped lift the black duffel bag off Marissa’s shoulder, opened the flap, and slid it across the concrete towards the yakuza.
The gangster boss scowled, aiming one brief, disgusted glance at the bag’s contents before snapping a response in Japanese. “Why have you brought this?” asked the translator.
“Well,” began Jonah with a drawl. “A wise, merciful, forgiving, and all around tremendous guy — one of my favorite people in the world, really—”
“You’re rambling,” whispered Marissa, shooting him her get-on-with-it-already look.
“As I was saying,” continued Jonah. “This all-around fabulous person once told me that the world is too small to steal from the yakuza. As you can see, we came back sans cargo, due to a confluence of tragic and unforeseeable events outside our control. However, we did bring back your money. It’s all there, down to the last dime. So, I’d just like to take a moment and respectfully emphasize the fact that we are not stealing anything from you.”
The translator eyeballed his boss for a moment before stepping forward and responding unprompted. “We had a source aboard our navy’s missing helicopter carrier,” said the young man. “She reported you made an impressive attempt to slip away before—” There was an almost imperceptible pause in his speech. “Your guile was noteworthy. It may even have been convincing had they not previously established the identity of your submarine via satellite. We… regret… that we didn’t learn of our navy’s intentions in the area in time to call off your operation.”
A twinge of shared sadness flashed across Jonah’s face. “Did your friend make it?”
The translator lowered his head — Jonah could tell he didn’t know. The boss folded his arms without speaking.
“Perhaps yours is a strange question,” said the translator. “Given that you and your crew are believed responsible for the destruction of her ship.”
“If there was anything we could have done differently—” began Marissa. The yakuza boss lifted a single hand, cutting her off before she could utter another word. Jonah saw something in the man beneath the scars, beneath the tattoos — grief. The boss leaned over to the translator once more, giving the younger man a long, detailed message to relay.