Masamoto’s mouth hung open. He shook his head. Though more stoutly built than the older man, he was at least six inches shorter — and, to Watanabe, looked to be growing smaller.
“Earthquakes,” the white-haired man snapped, halfway across the room now. “Thunderbolts.” He cocked his head to one side, letting his words sink in. It seemed to Watanabe that he glided across the floor. “Fire.” The man stopped in front of Masamoto, chest to chest, towering above him. “And perhaps the most fearsome of all…” His eyes narrowed. The pen twirled. “Old men.”
Watanabe knew something bad was about to happen before he saw it. His hand dropped to his waistband to draw his gun, but a sudden crushing pain to his windpipe sent a shower of exploding lights through his head. The girl in the gray business suit struck like a viper, slamming a hammer-fist into his throat. She moved in close, her face just inches from his as she snatched away his pistol. The odor of peppermint on her breath hit him full in the face. She wagged a manicured forefinger back and forth as one might do to warn a small child to stop some bad behavior.
Watanabe collapsed to the floor, his back sliding against the wall. He watched helplessly as the white-haired man smiled and then, with the slightest flick of his fingers, drove the fountain pen deep into Masamoto’s left eye.
Screaming, the stubby yakuza dropped to his knees. He tried to draw his pistol, but the white-haired man swatted it out of his hand and sent it skittering across the floor. Blood poured down his cheek, splattering his shirt.
“You will pay!” Masamoto screamed, his voice shattered from the excruciating pain.
The white-haired man nodded at the girl in the business suit. She bowed slightly, eyes going wild as if she’d just been unleashed. Using both hands, she hiked up the gray skirt. The colorful flash of a black and green tattoo covered the taut skin on both her hips above black knee-high stockings. Drawing back, she kicked Masamoto in the face, driving the pen into his brain.
“There,” the white-haired man said, bending low to look Watanabe in the eye where he’d still sat helpless, collapsed against the wall. “Please inform Tanaka-san that Yanagi Pharmaceuticals has nothing to fear. There is a new man at the head of the table.” He slapped Watanabe’s cheek, bringing the taste of blood to his lips. “Did you understand that?”
Watanabe nodded, feeling stupid for being so frightened of an old man. Of course, this particular old man had just stabbed his partner in the eye.
“I understand.”
“Good,” the white-haired man said. “Tell Tanaka he owes me a new pen.” He took his seat at the head of the table, nodding at Masamoto’s still twitching body. “He may send his men to pick up the pieces later this evening. I will have him prepared for easier disposal. It is the least I can do.”
“I understand.” Watanabe’s head bobbed quickly. “I will tell him.”
The young yakuza stumbled out of the boardroom, leaving behind the body of his dead sempai. Perhaps, he thought, being in charge was not as good as he had believed.
CHAPTER 24
Quinn left Emiko Miyagi’s home feeling honored that she would confide so many personal details to him and, at the same time, weighed down by the knowledge she had given him. Trying to find a killer was an entirely different thing if that killer happened to be the daughter of a dear friend.
Two miles later he ran into a traffic accident that completely blocked the George Washington Parkway. Gassing the Boxer engine, he leaned the lanky GS into a quick U-turn and backtracked to cut through a neighborhood so he could take Fort Hunt Road into the city. The Bluetooth speaker buzzed inside his helmet shortly after he’d turned onto the quiet two-lane.
“Quinn,” he said, half annoyed at the interruption to the solitude of his ride. Were it not for his job, he’d never sully a journey on the back of a motorcycle by connecting himself to any form of electronic communication.
It turned out to be Ronnie Garcia, an ever-welcome distraction. “Hey,” she said. “You okay?”
“I am.” Quinn slowed a hair, keeping a wary eye for traffic that might pull out in front of him on the side streets while he talked. “You?”
“On a break from pursuit driving class,” she said. “It’s fun and all, but nothing like the real thing. I think working with you has ruined me.”
You and me both, Quinn thought, but he didn’t say it.
“Listen,” Garcia continued, “I feel like I should tell you, Palmer is really pissed. He called to ask me if I thought you were cracking up under pressure…”
“And what did you tell him?”
“I told him you were the most stable crazy person I knew.” She laughed.
“Really?”
“Of course not,” she said, sounding hurt. “I know psychs are nothing to screw around with. I said you were fine. He is worried that you’re going to go gunning for every Asian female that you think looks out of place.”
“Thanks,” Quinn said, watching the side mirror as a Fairfax County blue-and-white fell in behind him. “… I appreciate it.”
The cruiser followed for half a block before the top lights came on.
“Listen, Ronnie,” Quinn said, “I’m gonna have to call you back. There’s an Asian female police officer about to pull me over…”
“Shut up.” She laughed.
“Seriously,” Quinn said. “But not to worry. She looks harmless. Gotta go.”
Used to last-minute interruptions from a man like Quinn, Garcia said good-bye and ended the call.
Quinn pulled the BMW to the curve under a stand of white-barked sycamore along the quiet Fort Hunt neighborhood.
The driver was a slender woman of what Quinn guessed to be Chinese heritage. His conversation with Ronnie Garcia notwithstanding, and considering recent events, he kept a wary eye on everyone, Asian, female, or otherwise.
This one approached in the lead while her partner, a burly blond man, followed a few steps to the rear.
Though he’d never worked traffic, Quinn knew it was one of the more dangerous aspects of patrol. He put the sidestand down but remained on the BMW to ease the approaching officers’ nerves. He had his helmet and gloves off by the time they reached him.
“Good afternoon, sir,” the female officer said. She had high cheekbones and what his mother would have called laughing eyes. Her name was Officer Chin. “Looks like you have a taillamp out.”
“Sorry about that.” Quinn held out his driver’s license and insurance card.
The big Swede, whose nameplate said he was Larsson, took a half step forward. “You armed?” he said, giving a sideways glare at Chin for not asking.
“Pardon?” This was a first.
“Simple question,” Larsson said. “Are you carrying a gun?”
“I’m a federal agent with Air Force OSI,” Quinn said. “My creds are in my inside left pocket.”
“I don’t care who you work for. This is northern Virginia.” Larsson smirked. “We got a dozen federal cops per acre. That wasn’t my question.”
Some federal agent must have run away with this guy’s wife or something. “Yes.” Quinn lifted the corner of his Transit jacket to reveal the butt of the Kimber.
Larsson gave a low whistle. “Shit, that is a nice pistol. I thought you Air Force boys carried Sigs.”
“Most do,” Quinn said without further explanation.
“I’ll need to take a look at it for a minute,” Larsson said.
Both Quinn and Officer Chin looked up in surprise.
“Right here on the side of the road?” Quinn asked.