Cajun Justice Read online

  “Wait—how did you know it was my scooter?”

  “Let’s just say it was my journalistic instinct. Though quite frankly, I was surprised to see you on a scooter at all. But anyway, I took it to give you more time to find Bonnie. Nobody else is searching for her—they’re all searching for you!”

  Cain’s heart sank. He felt the weight of guilt—his old familiar friend—once again. Oh, God. It’s not Champ. It’s me who has put Bonnie in more danger.

  Champ’s next words gave Cain a little encouragement.

  “The Japanese are afraid of the yakuza. They’ll never stand up against them, but you did! The more I publicize this in the news, the more of a hero you become.”

  Cain squeezed his temples to ease the pressure. “I’m not a hero. I’m just trying to find my sister. But surely with all this publicity, they’ll kill her—or worse, ship her off to be a sex slave for the rest of her life.”

  Chief Alvarez left the door and put his arm around Cain’s shoulders. “You can’t think like that. You’re her only chance right now. And you’re not alone. You have me to help you.”

  “Even if you never find your sister—”

  Chief Alvarez’s glare shot darts at Champ for his insensitive comment, but the reporter continued. “The very least you can do is punish those who kidnapped her in the first place. Not only for Bonnie, but for all the others we suspect that they’ve kidnapped.”

  “I don’t know where they’re hiding,” Cain replied. “Or I would.”

  Champ cleared his throat with a cough. “I know where you can find some more.”

  Cain looked up, hopeful that he still had a chance.

  “The man you killed last night—”

  “I didn’t kill him. He jumped out the window,” Cain interjected.

  “Regardless, he was no ordinary yakuza member. Hayabusa was the grandson of the yakuza leader.”

  Cain’s eyes widened.

  “His wake is tonight.” Champ seemed to get more excited every second he talked. “And I know where it’s at. Stars and Stripes’s leadership has tasked me with covering the story. After all, the yakuza in Yokosuka impacts the Seventh Fleet. The navy doesn’t want their sailors getting tangled up in this dark web of organized crime. We’re talking sex trafficking, blackmail, illegal gambling—”

  “Where’s it at?” Cain interrupted. “The wake?”

  “It’s in Kamakura. But security will be massive. They’re checking badges for everyone who attends. Let’s just say you stick out.”

  “Like a nail?” Cain said, remembering the popular Japanese phrase.

  “Oh, no,” Champ replied. “This is on a whole different level. The nail that sticks out”—he pointed to Cain—“gets sliced up in a thousand pieces and fed to the fish in Tokyo Bay.”

  “That’s why you’ve just volunteered to be my eyes on the inside, then.”

  “You make it sound like I don’t have a choice.”

  “You don’t. But if it makes you feel better, what would your grandfather choose to do?”

  Champ thought about it for a second and nodded in agreement. “He’d earn a Pulitzer.”

  Chapter 72

  The Great Buddha, as the Americans called it, towered over everything else in the historic village of Kamakura. This bronze statue was over forty-three feet high and weighed more than 267,000 pounds. The sacred temple was a popular tourist destination, but police had blocked off the roads and diverted tour buses for Hayabusa’s wake. Several hundred visitors had gathered to pay their respects to the fallen yakuza member. The men wore black suits and ties over white shirts, and the women wore traditional black kimonos or subdued dresses, a few with beautiful pearls around their necks. They carried envelopes wrapped in black and silver string, which contained yen to present to the family of the deceased.

  Champ adhered to the ritual of wearing a black suit to a funeral, but his was a three-piece with a pocket watch attached to a gold chain. As Champ walked toward the gate of the Kotoku-in temple, he saw a female competitor from the Japan Times.

  “Cat, I am surprised to see you here,” the Osaka native said.

  “You shouldn’t be. You know I go where the action is.”

  “They let you leave the military base? I thought the Stars and Stripes put a leash on you.”

  “Nobody puts this Cat on a leash.” Champ pointed to his chest. God, that woman gets under my skin. She wouldn’t be such a pain in the ass if she were from Tokyo. Champ had learned that sarcasm and edginess were much more common in Osaka than in Tokyo.

  “What’s your story here?” She continued her probe. “Doesn’t your jurisdiction end in Yokosuka?”

  He scowled. “I guess you didn’t see me on television this morning. Perhaps if they were paying you what I earn, you’d be able to afford cable.”

  “I’m too busy writing the news to be in the news,” she quipped.

  “We Americans have a little saying,” Champ replied. “Have your cake and eat it, too. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Bon appétit.” She smiled.

  A line of yakuza members serving as security guards blocked the entrance. They were checking everyone’s invitations.

  “No American press,” a yakuza member said.

  “Good, because I’m Canadian,” Champ lied, but he was used to thinking on his feet.

  “Canada. United States. It is all the same.”

  Champ reached into his inner jacket pocket and retrieved an ornately decorated piece of hard-stock paper the size of a postcard. “Here is my formal invitation.” He presented the document with both hands. “I am honored to be here to show my respect.” Nobody needs to know how I got this, he thought. Let’s just be thankful bribes work with the right people in Japan.

  The yakuza members conversed in dialect, which was quite different from typical Japanese. It was spoken in a harsher tone, and slang was used much more frequently. Regardless, Champ was able to pick up about 80 percent of what they were saying.

  “You may enter,” the guard said, and paused. “But you have to be escorted.”

  “This is a wake, not a middle school dance.” Champ’s humor was lost on the hardened criminal.

  “You must be searched also,” the guard ordered, and pointed to the messenger bag slung across Champ’s shoulder.

  “It’s just my camera,” Champ replied. “A good reporter always has a pen, a pad of paper, and a reliable camera.”

  The yakuza member gruffly pulled Champ’s bag off his shoulder and began inspecting the contents.

  “Easy,” Champ cautioned. “That camera cost thousands of dollars. That’s why I keep it protected in American buffalo skin.”

  The Japan Times reporter snickered as she passed easily through security. “Maybe I’ll see you on the other side. If not, I’ll send you a copy of my story.”

  Champ mumbled under his breath before he was allowed access. Flanked by one of the stout yakuza members, he approached the several-hundred-year-old temple. He was in awe of the religious grounds. Perfectly manicured bonsai trees surrounded the compound, and a forest on a hill provided the backdrop. Where there were no tiles to walk on, loose gravel coated the ground. There were also several wells for water to pour over one’s hands to cleanse oneself.

  The wake was attended predominantly by Japanese society, but a handful of prominent Western business owners were there. Champ, escorted by his chaperone, walked around trying to eavesdrop on the various conversations taking place among the guests. He overheard some of the yakuza members mention that the gang was going to an izakaya called Matchbox afterward to drink sake and celebrate Hayabusa’s life.

  Armed with that vital information, Champ walked toward the bathroom. He looked rearward at his chaperone, who was still following close behind. “Are you going to wipe my ass, too?”

  The gangster’s face turned red. He stopped at the bathroom doorway and ran his fingers through his slick hair. “Hurry up.”

  Champ entered the stall and latched the doo
r. He fumbled for his phone. When he found it, he sat on the toilet and texted Cain.

  OYABUN IS HERE.

  WHO? Cain texted back.

  THE HEAD BOSS OF THE YAMAMOTO-GUMI. THEY ARE GOING TO MATCHBOX BAR AFTER. WALKING DISTANCE FROM TRAIN STATION. STAKE IT OUT NOW BEFORE EVERYONE STARTS ARRIVING.

  Chapter 73

  Cain walked the backstreets for about ten minutes to avoid detection by any yakuza members not at the wake. When it seemed safe, he hopped a city bus going to the Kamakura train station. After a few stops, he arrived at the heart of Kamakura. Trains were arriving and departing, buses were zipping in and out, and taxis lined the parking lot for travelers who were in a hurry and didn’t want to take public transportation.

  Cain saw the izakaya and walked toward it. As he got closer, he saw a sign in the window that was in both Japanese and English: CLOSED FOR PRIVATE EVENT. MEMBERS ONLY. The curtains were drawn, and he couldn’t see through the window.

  Cain walked around the back of the building. Along the narrow alley he noticed a window cracked open. He peered through the opening and saw a lone sink and stall. He looked around to make sure nobody saw him, and he raised the window. He threw the backpack in, put both hands on the windowsill, and pulled himself up and through the frame. He closed the window behind him and then approached the closed bathroom door. He got down on one knee and peered through the latch hole.

  This’ll be a good place to keep an eye on ’em, he thought. But what’s my plan when I see them? I have no idea. Cain, he told himself, you better figure this out now, because you ain’t getting a second chance. You’ve broken your own cardinal rule: you’ve given yourself only one way out—through a tight window.

  His concentration was broken by the vibration of his phone in his pocket. He saw that it was Tanaka. He sent the call to voicemail. Not now, Tanaka.

  The phone vibrated again. This time it was a text message from Tanaka: SUSPICIOUS PACKAGE ARRIVED OVERNIGHT FOR YOU.

  Suspicious, Cain thought. Oh, God. Is it a ransom note? One of Bonnie’s fingers as proof of life? Then his Secret Service training for how to recognize mail bombs took over. IS IT TICKING? Cain texted back.

  WHAT? Tanaka asked.

  PUT YOUR EAR TO IT—THE ONE YOU DON’T MIND GETTING BLOWN OFF. HEAR ANYTHING?

  IT’S QUIET.

  DOES IT HAVE MORE POSTAGE STAMPS THAN NECESSARY? Cain’s fingers were tiring from the texting. He preferred talking on the phone, but he couldn’t risk being heard talking in the bathroom—right in the den of the yakuza’s clubhouse.

  I DON’T KNOW. NO POSTAGE STAMPS. ONLY SHIPPING LABEL. WAS SHIPPED OVERNIGHT—INTERNATIONALLY.

  WHAT’S THE RETURN ADDRESS?

  THAT IS SUSPICIOUS PART. HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS.

  Cain exhaled with a huge sense of relief and grinned wide. The King risked his career. He had a change of heart and did the right thing after all.

  ?? Tanaka waited for a response.

  IT’S OK. I KNOW HIM. NEED PACKAGE ASAP!

  WANT ME TO GIVE TO UMIKO-SAN? Tanaka asked.

  SHE’S OUT OF TOWN.

  NO. SHE’S AT WORK.

  WHAT? Cain wasn’t sure whether to feel worried or angry that Umiko hadn’t listened to him about leaving town.

  CLOSED-DOOR MEETING WITH SATO-SAN FOR 1 HOUR.

  Why would she be at work—in a private meeting with Sato? She knows the danger she’s in. She promised me she’d go straightaway to her parents in Osaka.

  OPEN THE PACKAGE.

  OK. About thirty seconds later Tanaka texted Cain back. LOTS OF ENGLISH DOCUMENTS.

  IT’S IMPORTANT INFORMATION. LOOKING FOR CLUES TO HELP FIND BONNIE. NAMES OF BOATS, EXPORT COMPANIES, OR SHIPPING CONTAINERS.

  OK. I WILL DO MY BEST.

  I BELIEVE BONNIE WILL BE SHIPPED TO MIDDLE EAST AS SEX SLAVE.

  Chapter 74

  Champ Albright left the immaculate bathroom and walked to the temple. He sat on the tatami mat when the ceremony officially began. The Buddhist monk who was presiding over the wake kneeled in front of the coffin to chant a sutra. The coffin was open, and Hayabusa lay in eternal rest. The deceased yakuza member was dressed in a white kimono. His coffin was filled with flowers, and on top of his chest rested a shiny tanto—to protect him from evil spirits in the afterlife.

  Damn! Champ thought. They should have chosen a closed casket. This dude had the shit beat out of him.

  The immediate family, which was about twenty individuals, including several high-ranking yakuza members, approached the coffin one by one to honor their fallen brother. The head boss of the Yamamoto-gumi was a physically fit businessman in his sixties who controlled some of Tokyo’s most expensive real estate. He’d also invested heavily in Japan’s automotive industry as a way to expand his influence in other countries.

  From his research, Champ knew that Yamamoto, Hayabusa’s grandfather, had been orphaned as a child when his parents and sister died in the blast from Little Boy, dropped from the Enola Gay on August 6, 1945. Their bodies were never found. Growing up in a poor orphanage in Hiroshima, young Yamamoto was recruited into the yakuza and became known as one of the most vengeful. For instance, when he learned that a real estate agent had cheated him out of 1 percent on a business deal, Yamamoto had killed him with a katana. Yamamoto served six years in prison, and when he was released, he climbed his way to the top and eventually took over the yakuza clan in Tokyo and Yokohama.

  Champ watched Yamamoto open the incense bowl and grab a piece of incense. He put it in the burning bowl, placed his hands together at chest level, and bowed at a forty-five-degree angle. Each of the family members repeated this process until they had all performed this sacred ritual.

  Before the other guests were afforded the opportunity to pay their respects to Hayabusa, Yamamoto turned toward the crowd and addressed them in Japanese.

  “Hayabusa was my own flesh and blood. I raised my grandson as my own son. He learned the yakuza way, and he brought us great honor. He was destined to take over and carry on my legacy. His death will be avenged.”

  Yamamoto looked toward a group of four teenage yakuza members, each holding a birdcage.

  “Hai!” Yamamoto yelled with a quick head bow.

  The yakuza opened the cages, and four falcons flapped their wings and took flight into the evening sky.

  “We pay homage to Hayabusa’s spirit. He will be our eyes in the sky.”

  Although four was an unlucky number in Japanese culture, Champ thought this made sense in a strange way. The number four, shi, also meant “death.” The yakuza would not forget the death of the oyabun’s grandson.

  The ceremony concluded, and as Champ reached for his phone, the female reporter he’d run into earlier asked, “What’s your angle going to be on this one?”

  Champ ignored her. He texted Cain, YAMAMOTO IS SAYING HIS GOOD-BYES.

  “Cat got your tongue?” the reporter asked Champ. “I’ve never seen you this nervous before.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” he replied without looking up from his phone. He finished the message. HEAD BOSS HEADING YOUR WAY SOON.

  COPY, Cain replied. I’M IN POSITION.

  Chapter 75

  Cain squinted through the keyhole. He saw the solemn yakuza members filing into the restaurant. Sake was waiting for them at the bar in traditional small wooden boxes. They reached for the drinks and downed the room-temperature sake. They unbuttoned their shirts and let them fall off their backs, showcasing their full-body tattoos. Some gathered around a table and began playing a card game. Cain didn’t recognize the game, only that the deck of cards looked smaller than American playing cards.

  Cain felt a jolt of excitement as he saw one of the members limping across the room. It was the same punk he’d fought at the Angel Cloud. He had thrust his boot against the man’s kneecap, permanently injuring the yakuza member. Cain continued scanning the room from the limited viewing angle provided by the keyhole. Where is Yamamoto? He’ll know where Bonnie is.

  Cain�
��s phone vibrated. He looked down and saw the low-battery indicator flashing. Murphy’s Law! He didn’t have a charger on him. The phone vibrated again. “Stop vibrating,” he muttered to his phone. But this time it was a text from Champ.

  YAMAMOTO IS GETTING INTO HIS MERCEDES.

  FOLLOW HIM, Cain instructed.

  WHY? HE’S GOING TO THE IZAKAYA, Champ replied.

  BATTERY IS DYING. NO TIME FOR BACK AND FORTH. FOLLOW HIM!

  Suddenly the bathroom doorknob turned. Cain had been so preoccupied with his phone that he hadn’t been looking through the peephole. A surge of adrenaline shot through his body. He stood quickly and made himself as slim as possible against the wall as the door slowly opened.

  What is taking so long?

  Then it was clear. The man entering the bathroom had an injured knee and was walking with great difficulty.

  Cain smiled. Perfect, he thought. We meet again, shithead.

  When the yakuza cleared the threshold of the bathroom, Cain closed the door and locked it. The sound of the bolt sliding into place caught the yakuza member’s attention, and he turned rearward. Cain glided across the clean floor and used his hand to cup the gangster’s mouth to prevent him from screaming out for his associates. As Cain’s momentum drove forward, the thug stumbled backward and banged his head on the tile wall. Fresh blood splattered against the white tile. Cain swept his leg powerfully against the yakuza’s calf and sent him crashing to the floor. Cain quickly squatted on top of the dazed and disoriented kidnapper in judo’s popular mount position.

  “Where is Bonnie? Bonnie wa doko desuka?” Cain removed his hand from the thug’s mouth so the man could speak.

  “Tasukete!” he screamed, hoping to summon help.

  Cain quickly threw an elbow strike to the gangster’s face. “Where is she? Tell me or I’ll kill you like Hayabusa.”

  “She is dead,” he gurgled through blood and broken teeth.

  “Bullshit!” Cain could sense that his sister was still alive, but he did not have enough time to get any information out of this yakuza member.