Quinn’s only chance of finding the woman who shot Kim appeared to be a heart-to-heart with Tanaka. Aborting this meeting was out of the question. It might get tricky, but he could move the location to make it more likely they would survive.
A flock of gulls fought over trash among a flotilla of boats to Quinn’s right as the red sport bike thumped along the heavy timber pier and onto the frontage road that led along the water’s edge. The smell of salted fish, diesel, and a hint of soy from some galley blew in on a stiff sea breeze. It was the smell of the Orient, and Quinn imagined that on some days it would be possible to smell Korea on that wind — or even China.
Ayako gave him a nervous squeeze when they neared a boxy metal warehouse bearing Tanaka’s name and his lotus leaf insignia. Quinn felt her squirm behind him, as if she had to go to the bathroom. Two Toyota Crown sedans, glossy black against the gray mist, sat outside the yawning bay doors of the huge building.
Ayako’s grip grew tighter. Quinn flinched, gritting his teeth as she squeezed his ribs and kidneys. Thankfully, the nausea ebbed quickly. He imagined broken blood vessels leaking inside his body in tiny spurts each time he breathed or took a step. He needed to see a doctor, but calling in sick wasn’t really an option at the moment — so he rode on.
Ten of Tanaka’s men lined the short driveway in front of the Toyota Crowns. Five on either side, they stood shoulder to shoulder, roughly three feet apart, in a modified parade rest. Their hands were clasped in front of dark business suits. Watanabe stood far back, nearest to the warehouse doors. He had apparently delivered the message just as Quinn had directed. Tanaka had put his heavy hitters out front to set the tone. Every man was fit and thickly built, like tree trunks and boulders in neckties. Pistols bulged under their coats. All wore dark glasses, despite the overcast sky.
Quinn passed the yakuza soldier nearest the road at the mouth of the driveway, then leaned the Blackbird into a quick U-turn — so he ended up facing the way he’d come. He toed the transmission into first gear on the way down, planting both feet on the rain-slick pavement. He flipped up the visor on his helmet. Ayako carried the H&K, and he could feel the gun’s comforting imprint where she held it sideways between them against his spine, tucked out of sight.
“You have Tanaka-san’s property?” the nearest man barked. He looked to be a cardboard cutout of what a yakuza gangster was supposed to be. Short hair, stern, slender with an impeccable dark suit. Raindrops spattered his sunglasses. His face hardly moved as he spoke.
“Of course not,” Quinn answered in the same, rough Japanese. “I am not foolish.”
The yakuza grunted as if he’d thought as much, then motioned toward the open twin doors of the warehouse, beyond the gauntlet of toughs.
“Tanaka-san is expecting you.”
Quinn reached over his shoulder with his right hand to grab the remaining pink shopping bag from Ayako.
“Give him this.” Quinn extended his hand.
The yakuza soldier took a half step back, then caught himself. All the men along the drive perked up at the unknown contents of the bag. Hand grenade attacks among warring families were not unheard of in this part of Japan.
“Relax,” Quinn said. “I want to talk to him, not kill him. But I don’t want him to kill us, either, so I’m not meeting him here.”
“What then?” The man gave a worried frown. It would be his fault if something happened to mess up the meeting at his post.
“Have him meet me at the shrine two miles up this road,” Quinn said. “He has five minutes to get there or I’m gone.”
“Tanaka-san does not take orders!”
“Consider it an invitation, then.” Quinn shrugged.
“Tell him he can bring two of you with him for protection if he wants.”
“Ha!” The gangster scoffed. “Protection from who?” Stifled laughter went up and down the lines of suited men.
“Me.” Quinn dumped Sato’s severed head out of the pink bag. It hit the wet asphalt, thudding like a green melon. The nearest yakuza soldier retched as the awful thing rolled across his shoe, wrinkled mouth open in a dead man’s yawn.
“He has five minutes.” Quinn snapped his visor shut and revved the throttle.
Before any of Tanaka’s men could react, he poured on the gas. One hundred and forty horses spun the Blackbird’s rear tire on the pavement, sending up a plume of white smoke. He leaned forward to keep the bike from rising into a wheelie as it shot down the road like a low-flying jet.
She was surely aware of the danger, but Ayako snuggled in tight behind him, squealing in his ear like a child on a carnival ride.
CHAPTER 50
Deputy Bowen woke up to the scream of landing gear on the tarmac and a three-year-old Vietnamese boy kicking the back of his seat like he was trying to stomp a snake.
Bowen rubbed the sleep from his eyes and moved his neck from side to side in a vain attempt to work out the inevitable kinks brought on by the fourteen-hour flight between Dulles and Tokyo. He was still astounded that he’d been allowed to even make the trip. Normal protocol was to send a written lead to investigators in the country where a fugitive was suspected to be. But evidently, Director Carroll realized someone like Jericho Quinn required measures beyond normal protocol if they intended to capture him.
Bowen opened the sketch pad in the seat pocket and looked it over while the plane taxied to the gate. There was a pencil study of Quinn, boxing, the way Bowen remembered him. A quick figure study of Ronnie Garcia — he couldn’t help that — and a faceless sniper hiding in some weeds. Drawing helped him work through things — and the good Lord knew he had plenty to work through.
Bowen grabbed his tan BLACKHAWK! daypack — his only luggage — from the overhead compartment and shuffled off the plane with the other passengers.
A willow-thin Delta attendant he’d chatted with during the flight met him at the door. She’d ducked into the bathroom just before landing to straighten her hair and apply a fresh coat of lipstick that matched a bright red uniform dress. Extending her hand, she passed him a cocktail napkin with her cell number, thanking him sweetly as she did all the passengers when they walked by.
She’d invited him over to try his hand at drawing her, but she was far too needy to be his type. He smiled though, knowing the chances of her being on the return flight were good enough that he didn’t want to make her mad.
He had plenty of other things to worry about without getting tangled up with some flight attendant first rattle out of the box — like navigating his way in a country that didn’t use the alphabet.
Thankfully, all the signs leading him through the arrival process were in English as well as the unintelligible chicken scratches that were Japanese. With all the fearmongering in the news lately about plagues and zombie viruses, the medical screening queue was the first obstacle for entry.
What looked like a large tripod-mounted camera faced newcomers as they passed through a small turnstile just outside the jetway. A sign above advised that authorities were checking the temperature of all arrivals and apologized for the intrusion.
Immigration was next, where a fatigued-looking but overly polite woman with a Buster Brown haircut checked Bowen’s passport and inserted an entry visa stamp. She took a photo and he had both index fingers printed before the lady dismissed him to move on toward baggage claim.
Since all he had was a carry-on, Bowen made it to the Customs counter quickly. He gave the most innocent smile he could muster and handed over the declaration form he’d filled out on the plane, promising he wasn’t a drug mule or an international money launderer.