The Undertow (The Kuroda Yakuza Series Book 2) Read online

  The glass door creaks as I push it open, revealing a small, cluttered space. Faded magazines and tattered books are strewn across a tired old desk. The man sitting behind the desk almost falls off his chair as I pull up a seat and sit facing him.

  He slams his laptop shut. "You!" He recoils back, almost toppling his chair. "I thought you'd left the country."

  "Good to see you too, Banri-san."

  The man opposite me makes a half-hearted attempt to straighten his rumpled suit, trying to conceal the trembling of his hands.

  Banri Asao is a freelance journalist. Out of his small, inconspicuous office, he writes articles for local newspapers, online blogs and yakuza magazines.

  Yes, even the yakuza have their own press. The bosses are fond of glossy, monthly pubilcations that get delivered to the subordinates.

  If anyone can give me information on the Shibata-gumi's activities, it's this man. His knowledge of the Japanese underworld is labyrinthine. Even though he operates out of this piece-of-shit office and looks like a slob, Banri is cunning.

  Once or twice, he's been chased away from Kuroda-kai functions. The third time, they sent me to threaten him. I warned him that the fourth time, he'd be found dead in his apartment with his wrists slit, an apparent suicide.

  I was young back then. I didn't think twice about that kind of thing.

  A lonely journalist, taking his own life. They'd suspect, but they'd never be able to prove it.

  It's happened before, to those who got too close, those who weren't clever about the way they wrote.

  So it's no wonder he's reaching into the drawer of his desk right now, probably for a weapon of some sort.

  "I wouldn't, if I were you," I caution him, my voice low and soft.

  Banri freezes midway. "Have they sent you because of my piece about the funeral? I was only reporting what happened, man. I didn't write anything negative about Ishida-san."

  I hold up a hand. "Relax. I'm not here about that. I'm here because I need information. It's been a while since I've been home."

  The tension visibly spills out of Banri as he shudders in relief. His shoulders slump in defeat. "What do you want, then?"

  "Tell me what you know about Osamu Genda. You’ve interviewed him, after all."

  "Shibata-gumi's Kumicho?" Banri blinks. "What do you want with him?"

  "That's none of your concern."

  "I can't, just, I mean, not to you of all people. If something happens, and it gets back to them that I was involved, then-"

  "It won't get back to them," I assure him. "But if you don't tell me what I need to know, what do you think will happen to you, Banri?"

  He sits back, suddenly wary, his small eyes darting all over, taking in my appearance. There's nothing remarkable about me. I'm wearing a plain suit, and merely sitting in his worn out office chair. There's not a weapon in sight. I could be anyone.

  I don't have to act threatening towards this man. He already knows.

  Like a parasite, he feeds off our world, as a "special interest" reporter. He's written enough stories about drug dealing and extortion and murder to know that no-one is immune from being marked as a target.

  And we, shunned by ordinary society and disadvantaged by the law, will never hesitate to use fear to our advantage. We blackmail, threaten and use violence to get what we want.

  We take what we want, and I'm no exception.

  Banri knows that, very well. He lets out a deep sigh. "What do you want to know?"

  “Everything,” I reply.

  Kaito

  As I leave Banri's office and enter my car, I get on the phone to Erika.

  "Kaito-kun." She picks up on the first ring. "Do you have a target yet? You've certainly been busy these past few days."

  As I start the car, it picks up my phone's signal, sending it through the speakers.

  "You were right about Genda," I admit. "I don't have solid proof, but I think he's the one who ordered the hit on Ishida-san. Rumors are the Shibata-gumi are going to go after our people hard, while we're still leaderless. That they're planning to try and take over Kuroda's stranglehold on Shibuya and Shinjuku." I navigate out of the back streets, turning onto the freeway. I speed up, weaving in and out of traffic. "Being at the head has made that old man too ambitious. He needs to learn his place."

  "My sources are telling me the same things. Are you up to this, Kaito?"

  "What do you mean?" I'm back on the Shuto expressway, heading for my apartment in Ueno.

  Erika's low voice surrounds me in the quiet, insulated interior of the Mercedes. "When we form attachments, we change. This kind of work, it might be the case that it's becoming unsuitable for you. But I can't think of anyone else who's qualified to pull it off. Certainly there isn't anyone else I can trust with this."

  Attachment. It's crept up on me. Insidious. Powerful. All-consuming.

  Glorious.

  Opening up possibilities I never would have dreamt of. With her.

  But I'm a child of darkness, and I can never change that. Even if I turn towards the light, the shadows will always follow.

  Unless I deal with them first.

  "Onee-san," I say quietly. "Genda's people have been causing me trouble ever since I returned. For some reason, he's trying to provoke me. I can't let that kind of thing continue. With your approval, I’ll do what needs to be done.”

  There’s a reason Genda's fucking with me. It must have something to do with our shared past. There was a time when he'd come by the house, distracting me, the naive little boy, with thousand yen bills and bags of sweets.

  Of course, he'd take a hundred times that amount from my mother and give her a stamp bag of heroin to keep her quiet. Sometimes, he’d fuck her.

  The now Kumicho of the Shibata-gumi used to be nothing more than a lowlife pimp.

  He still thinks he can mess with me, as if I'm that ten year old fucking kid again.

  I can't tolerate that kind of disrespect.

  I can't tolerate the murder of my boss, the man who picked me up off the streets and saw potential in me, long before I ever figured it out.

  I can't tolerate anyone or anything that might threaten the woman I’ve come to love.

  Yeah, I said it.

  She’s mine.

  Erika knows about Adele’s family. Nothing escapes her kind. She even had the nerve to mention them in the most coded, most subtle, most sinister fashion.

  As if she were dropping a bomb. I know how it goes. Do her bidding or the ones you care about suffer. And if I leave the Kuroda-kai, death awaits.

  I’ve heard it all before, seen it, done it.

  Deserters always meet their end. There’s no such thing as an honorable pardon from the yakuza.

  How do I navigate all of this shit and survive? In terms of survivial, it’s better to get rid of one’s enemies and work for the devil you know.

  That devil, in this instance, just happens to be the former boss’s sister. I’ve always suspected Erika wields greater influence in the Kuroda-kai than many realise. It would be stupid to make an enemy of her.

  “Kaito.” The sound of her voice snaps me out of my thoughts. “I agree with your assessment of Genda. And I support your plan. Just be aware that we’re holding the election for Kumicho in three days. It would be good to have this issue finalised before then. And Kaito?”

  “Yes?”

  “Be careful. You’re more important to us than you think.”

  “In that case, can I ask another favor?”

  “What do you need?”

  “Apparently, Genda has a daughter. And she’s studying in the US." This is according to Banri, who seems to know everything. "Find out where she is. I might need her, for leverage.”

  “That’s interesting. I understand. You’re starting to think like a true yakuza, Kaito-kun. I’ll have my people look into it.”

  I don’t know whether that’s a compliment, or just Erika’s dry humor. Does she even have a sense of humor?

  But
she’s been in this business long enough to know exactly what I’m thinking. Finding Genda’s daughter would be an insurance policy, of sorts. Genda’s yakuza. He would take such a threat very seriously. He of all people knows how far we can go to further our interests. Kidnapping, blackmail, murder. It comes with the territory.

  He’s done it himself. Countless times.

  Normally, I wouldn’t have bothered. But in the old days, I would have had time to study my target. I would have been better prepared.

  Right now, I’m impatient, and that makes the whole situation dangerous.

  So I need an angle, to make sure the odds are weighted in my favor. Just in case I fail.

  Because a certain someone would kill me if I died. She told me so herself.

  Adele

  I flop down on the sleek, white leather couch beside Ryuji, who is staring at the TV with a blank face. He’s been very quiet since we left Kaito’s house, avoiding eye contact with Kaito in particular.

  “Hey Ryuji,” I begin. He looks up, offering a half-smile.

  “Hello, Adele-san.”

  There’s not much we can say to one another. From what I’ve gathered, he only knows a few words of English.

  Ryuji flicks the channel, coming up with some kind of Japanese drama show. I can’t understand a word of it.

  It looks like a crime series. I watch with interest as the male lead enters what looks like a forensic laboratory. He passes cold, sterile tiled walls, making his way into a room illuminated by bluish light.

  He’s handsome enough, in a pretty-boy way.

  He’s no Kaito, though.

  Some suspenseful music plays, then, the shot changes. Enter the female protagonist. Or love interest, or whatever she is. They play it up for dramatic effect, starting with a view of a pair of nine inch black heels, the camera panning up two slender, perfectly stockinged legs, before reaching the hem of a lab coat.

  So this woman must be the forensic pathologist.

  Slowly, we see that the lab coat covers a slim pencil skirt and white blouse, and that this person has long, straight black hair.

  Her hair’s out; that’s not practical for someone in a mortuary now, is it?

  Ryuji nudges me as her face comes into view, a trace of a smile curving his mouth.

  Something’s cheered him up.

  I suddenly see why. My jaw drops.

  The forensic pathologist is the spitting image of someone I know.

  “Holy shit,” I exclaim. “She looks like-”

  Ryuji nods sagely.

  “Madoka?” I ask.

  “Madoka-san,” he confirms.

  It’s actually her, right? He’s not just fucking with me. She’s not a twin, or a doppelganger. No, it has to be her. In TV land, she wears the same haughty, stuck-up expression that she pulls off in real life.

  I know it’s all an act though, even in reality.

  She’s hiding a brittle soul.

  “That’s really her?” I ask Ryuji again, not really sure he gets what I’m saying.

  “She is Madoka-san,” he nods enthusiastically.

  “I guess it is.” I shake my head in amazement. “She’s an actress. Who would have thought it?”

  On screen, Madoka is icily beautiful, her makeup immaculate, her features flawless, as if her face were made from porcelain.

  She enters a terse exchange with the male character, who appears to be a cop or detective of some sort.

  I can’t understand what the hell they’re talking about, but both Ryuji and I are engrossed. I don’t even notice at first, as a hand reaches down between where we sit and grabs the remote control.

  Suddenly, the screen goes blank.

  “Oi,” snarls Ryuji in irritation, as we both turn.

  “Turn that crap off.” Madoka’s standing behind us, dressed in a loose sweater and gym pants, her hair bound in a messy ponytail. She speaks in English, for my benefit. “I can’t stand to see myself with that asshole.”

  “It’s really you?” I stare up at her as if she’s an illusion. “Kaito’s little sister is some big time actress in Japan?”

  Madoka rolls her eyes. “I got lucky. But in this country, even getting lucky can mean you’ve got to deal with your own personal little hell.”

  She pulls something from her pocket; a cigarette. Before I can stop her, she’s lighting up. It’s a decidedly unladylike gesture, so at odds with her on-screen appearance.

  “Hey, hey,” I protest. “You can’t smoke inside. What is it with you and your brother and the cancer sticks?”

  I’ve only recently convinced Kaito to give up smoking. Now I have to persuade the sister, too?

  A bitter laugh escapes Madoka as she falls into the couch beside Ryuji. He stiffens as she sprawls out, as if afraid to touch her. “Wonderful family, aren’t we? The yakuza and the crazy actress. Sounds like the title of a crappy book.”

  She takes a drag of her cigarette, ignoring my request.

  Oh hell, no. Just because she’s some big-time star doesn’t mean I’m going to let her get away with the attitude. I lean around Ryuji and pluck the cigarette out of her mouth. “I hate passive smoking,” I snap. “I told Kaito the same thing.”

  Ryuji looks back and forth between us like he’s caught in the middle of some crazy cat fight.

  “That was my last one!” Madoka tries to grab the smoke back, but I tear it in half. She glares at me for a moment, disbelieving, before reaching into her pocket. She pulls out a crisp new bill and hands it to Ryuji, saying something to him in Japanese.

  I can’t understand a word of it, but I can guess it translates to something like: “go and buy me more cigarettes.”

  I put a hand on Ryuji’s arm and he turns to look at me, his eyes wide. “Don’t even think about it,” I growl. I pluck the money from his grasp.

  He turns to Madoka, then looks at me again, then back to Madoka. Then, he slowly peels himself from the couch, muttering something under his breath, leaving the two of us to fight it out.

  Madoka turns her sharp glare on me. “What kind of hold do you have on my brother, anyway? He acts differently around you. Almost like he’s normal.”

  I turn the question on her, not wasting time. “Why do you dislike each other so much, Madoka?”

  She hesitates, shifting uncomfortably on the pristine leather couch. “He chose a dishonorable life,” she says eventually. “And he has never, ever taken me seriously.”

  “You wouldn’t be here if he didn’t care about you.”

  Madoka laughs, and it comes out bitter. “He’s only keeping me around because his boss lady told him to. Keeping an eye on me until I'm more 'stable'. But he doesn’t give a shit about me.”

  “Boss lady?”

  “Don’t you know, Adele-san? In this country, the yakuza own half the entertainment industry. Me included.” A shadow crosses her face. “And you wouldn’t believe half the things they make us do.”

  That same, haunted look from earlier is back. I get the feeling Madoka’s on the edge; that she could implode at any time. An uneasy feeling passes through me.

  And as my imagination gets the better of me, wondering what Madoka must have gone through to achieve her fame, the door to the apartment swings open.

  I jump to my feet, thinking to head for the bedroom, where I’ve hidden the gun. But I pause at the sight of the door guards bowing deferently.

  What am I missing here?

  A woman walks in, the sound of her heels echoing hollowly in the huge space. She’s wearing a slim, tailored white pantsuit and her hair is pulled up into an immaculate updo. At the entrance, she slips off her shoes. I guess everyone in Japan has to obey the customs, no matter who they are. One of the door guards appears beside her with a pair of slippers.

  I stare at the woman, unable to take my eyes off her. She’s acting like she owns the place. She's tiny, reaching only to my chin, but she exudes a regal, almost manly self-confidence.

  She’s kind of scary.

  Two men
in suits, obviously gangster types, wait by the door, stony faced and not saying a word.

  The woman’s red lips curve into the coldest smile I’ve ever seen. “Adele Sullivan. Madoka Hijikata. I was in the neighborhood. So I thought I might introduce myself.” She stops in front of us, holding out a slender hand. “My name is Erika Goto. I’m sure you’ve never heard of me.” That last bit comes out in a cynical way.

  “Goto-san.” I take her cool hand into mine, suddenly wary. Kaito never talks about his work, or who’s behind the orders he receives. But meeting this woman face-to-face, I can hazard a guess.

  I have no doubt this Erika Goto is dangerous. So what the hell does she want with us?

  Kaito

  I enter my small apartment in Ueno and find it spotless. Erika has been as good as her word and sent her people to get rid of the bodies.

  The Kuroda-kai are the very model of efficiency when it comes to that sort of thing.

  In my cramped bedroom, I find the loose panel in the floorboards, lifting it out to reveal a stash of weapons.

  Along with another gun, I select a short knife and a wire garrotte.

  The garrotte is an old-fashioned, theatrical weapon, but it’s effective in close quarters.

  They’re all small weapons, easily hidden on a body, with no trace or outline visible to the naked eye under a suit jacket.

  I equip myself with the guns in their holsters and the knife in its sheath. My favorite tanto is secured at the small of my back. For some reason, the traditional Japanese dagger has been a very effective weapon for me.

  Armed to the teeth, I stand facing the blank wall, trying to empty my head, searching for that familiar, comfortable void.

  It’s a frame of mind where nothing else matters but the target.

  Even my own life becomes insignificant.

  But no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to center myself.

  Erika’s right. This work is becoming unsuitable for me. Or at least, I’m becoming unsuitable.

  What happens when a killer, empty and without hope, evolves into something more?