“We find it unlikely that you are responsible for any attack against Japanese forces, or the loss of the men, women, and children under your purview. It appears you were caught up in events larger than yourself.”
“Totally,” said Jonah with a sigh of premature relief. He turned to Marissa. “Wasn’t I just saying that to you earlier today? Events larger than ourselves. Completely out of our hands.”
“Events much larger, yes,” continued the translator, “because he says you, Jonah Blackwell, are so small and insignificant. And puny.”
“And super annoying, too,” added Marissa. Jonah shot her a wounded look.
“Your lack of culpability aside, we have not yet reached a decision on what to do with you,” said the translator. “After all, our government would be highly appreciative if we turned you over to their custody.”
Jonah adopted his best intense stare, knowing full well that this would be the one and only chance he’d get to make his case. “But you’re not going to do that. You’re going to let us go.”
“Are we?”
“You are. And here’s why — because my crew found evidence that may well lead us to the men responsible for the vicious, unprovoked attacks against your country. I don’t know what this shadow organization has planned next, but my guess is it can’t be good for any of us. Know this — I fully intend to find these men, stop them, and, you know, bring them to justice or whatever.”
“And he sticks the landing,” whispered Marissa, rolling her eyes.
“Give us a chance to find out what happened,” pressed Jonah. “That’s all I’m asking for. And maybe a car. A fast one. I’ll bring it back in a couple hours. I totally promise.”
The translator cocked his head, skeptical.
Jonah stepped forward, arms open. The gangsters shifted uncomfortably, eyeing him with open mistrust. “Look — if we wanted to make a run for it, we’d be halfway around the world with your cash in tow,” said Jonah. “I wouldn’t be standing here asking to borrow a fucking Buick if it wasn’t important. Give me a chance to do what I do best — track down some assholes, wreck their shit, and fuck their day up.”
“So tell me, what will you do?” asked the translator.
“I’m going to kidnap a Fortune 500 CEO and beat some goddamn answers out of him. And then I’m going to leverage him as a hostage.”
Baffled, the translator relayed the message. A murmur went around the dozen collected gangsters, slowly metastasizing into stifled chuckles, and finally, genuine laughter.
“I think I’m losing the audience,” whispered Jonah.
“Don’t be so sure,” said Marissa, eyebrows raised. “A little bravado goes a long way in their circles.”
The short, muscled boss stepped forward and gregariously slapped Jonah on the shoulder before shouting one last order to his men.
“Are we good?” asked Jonah, turning to Marissa with concern in his eyes. “I kind of feel like I’m not being taken seriously. I told you we should have brought Dalmar.”
“He likes your plan,” said the translator. “He says it is the plan of a yakuza. He’ll have one of his men lend you a vehicle. He says to bring it back with a full tank of gasoline and no scratches. He’s joking — but I’d still do it if I were you.”
The yakuza boss pointed at one of his underlings, holding his finger outstretched until the subordinate gangster reluctantly threw Jonah the keys to his late-model American sedan. The assembled criminals began to retreat to the respective cars, starting them one by a one with a chorus of throaty eight-cylinder roars.
“Great!” Jonah said, turning to Marissa and rubbing his palms together. “Let’s go get the crew and hit the road. The sooner we reach SABC headquarters the better.” Marissa looked at him with far-away eyes. “You don’t understand—” she looked at the yakuza boss. Then she turned back, grasped Jonah’s hand, and kissed him on the cheek. “I’m not going back with you. They need collateral.”
“What the hell do you mean, collateral?”
“I’m going with them.” She pulled her hand away and started toward the line of cars. “So tell the crew goodbye for me.”
He grabbed her arm. “Goddamn it, Marissa, nobody asked you to promise this! You could have warned me. Don’t go with them.”
“You don’t have to worry about me. I’ve known these guys for a long time.” She pried his fingers from her arm. “Find the answers. I believe in you, Jonah. Go figure this thing out.”
CHAPTER 20
Freya floored the accelerator of the stolen hybrid, hurtling through the darkened intersections of glassy, rain-slicked central Tokyo. She gripped the wheel with both hands, pulse pounding in her ears, muscles twitching in primeval fight-or-flight overdrive as she easily overtook the few other cars on the road. Her wipers struggled against the deluge, turning her windshield into a kaleidoscope of headlights, darkness, and strobe-like lightning. Her wet skin scratched uncomfortably against the bare fabric seats, the soaked fabric of her hospital gown plastered against her chest and legs.
The GPS screen on the windshield continued to chirp merrily, guiding her through the downtown maze of streets. Passing seemingly endless rows of towering skyscrapers, it finally instructed her to turn. Almost there. She wrenched the wheel a moment later, sending the hybrid into a long, tooth-rattling slide over glistening asphalt, computerized traction systems struggling to keep the vehicle under control. The SABC headquarters ahead took up an entire city block, neon logo shining brightly from a tall perch nearly thirty stories up, tiered glass-and-steel façade extended to the street level like a futuristic ziggurat.
The hybrid howled pitifully as she pressed her bare foot on the plastic accelerator, pushing a few last watts out of the underpowered engine as she bore down on the building. The few lingering pedestrians on the sidewalk scattered at the last possible moment, throwing themselves out of the way as her two front tires hit the curb square on. The car launched cockeyed into the air. The airbags went off simultaneously, a hot blast between her forearms ripping her white-knuckled fingers from the steering wheel a microsecond before burying her face into a suffocating pillow of white. The hybrid slammed into the ground a second later, its blown-out rims digging a deep gouge in the pavement as the car slid into the revolving-door entrance. The hood hit first, shattered architectural glass pouring through the ruined windshield as the twisted metal hulk shrieked to a halt halfway inside the building. Sparkling glass and bent brass fixtures lay scattered, the crash site surrounded by shocked umbrella-toting onlookers in dark business suits.
Freya tried the driver’s side door, but it was wedged high against a metal beam, the window blocked as well. She slid over the center console, bracing herself against the seat as she planted her powerful legs against the passenger door and pushed. It wrenched open with a long, sad creak, and she stepped out onto the pavement strewn with broken glass. The car was suspended on two shredded wheels; the mechanical clicking of the cooling gasoline engine barely audible over the patter of rain on concrete.
The lobby was a classic example of corporate modernist architecture — towering windows and marble pillars, devoid of art or color. A long picket line of glass security turnstiles neatly divided the room in half, separating Freya from the twin escalators and elevator bank on the other side. Her dramatic entrance had achieved its intended effect — the half-dozen, grey-shirted security guards stood paralyzed, mouths hanging open as they watched her claw her way out of the ruined hybrid. She paused for a moment, bending down to pick up a long aluminum pipe from the debris-covered marble tile. Freya passed the pipe from hand to hand, gaining a sense of its weight and balance. Satisfied, she pointed to the largest of the guards, daring him to approach. Her vision narrowed, pulse once more joyously pounding in her ears.