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

  I shake my head and move on, heading out into the Tokyo streets. There are a few things I want from this visit. One, a deal with a gallery, to showcase my work. Two, to find Kaito, and make him realize that I’m not very good at being on the sidelines. Once I’m in, I’m all in.

  Adele

  I go with Ryan and Maya the next day, deciding a bit of company isn’t a bad thing. We jump on the subway and head for a place called Gokoku-ji. According to Maya, it’s a temple less frequented by tourists, and the only in Tokyo to survive being bombed in World War Two.

  Maya’s carrying a bag full of camera gear. Apparently, she’s a photographer and a freelance writer. She’s agreed to share a few of her shots with me; future inspiration for my art. They’ll add to the pictures I capture in my head. I’m lucky enough to have a good memory for images, colors and designs.

  I quietly observe the pair interacting as we near our destination. They share an easy familiarity that reminds me of siblings.

  I can’t hold in my curiosity any longer. “Uh, so you mentioned you guys are friends?” It’s an open-ended question.

  Maya and Ryan both laugh. “Yeah, seems weird, doesn’t it? We grew up together.” Maya gives Ryan a mock punch on the shoulder. “Ryan lived in the house across the street, but his parents weren’t around a whole lot, so he ended up spending more time at our house. It was almost like he lived there. He's like my brother from another mother. We're practically family.”

  “Family’s not always just about blood.” I think about Kaito, and the quiet loyalty he shows towards his organization, even though he hates what they sometimes make him do. Does he think of them as a family, even though he’s been on his own in LA for the past few years?

  Ryan nods in agreement. He has an easygoing manner and a perfect, infectious smile that I’m sure has melted a few hearts. “Maya’s like a sister to me, and I don’t give a fuck what other people say. Some of the shit I’ve seen on duty has taught me not to take anything for granted.”

  “You’re a soldier?” I scrutinize him further, noticing the tattoo on his forearm. It says semper fi. Always faithful.

  “Ex-marine,” Ryan replies. “Discharged after I was shot in the leg in the Korengal Valley. Six months of rehab and I’m finally walking without pain. This trip is like a little celebration for us.”

  “Good for you.” As the train slows to a smooth stop, I hear the name of our station announced over the speakers, in a detached female voice. The rest is a smattering of Japanese. “Looks like this is our stop.”

  We make our way out onto the street, which is strangely quiet. One thing I’ve noticed about Tokyo is that the streets are always busy, day and night, bustling with an endless stream of pedestrians, cars and bicycles.

  But the area round this station is eerily calm. It feels different, somehow.

  As we make our way down the sidewalk, an entourage of sleek, black BMW sedans passes us. The cars look out of place on the streets, so different to the compact, box-like vehicles I’ve seen driving around.

  “Is something happening today?” I ask, as we round a corner, passing a convenience store.

  “I’m not sure,” murmurs Maya, as we stop dead in our tracks. We've reached an intersection, beyond which is an elegant gate, painted red and covered by a curved, tiled roof. It’s serene and imposing at the same time, a remnant of a bygone era, crammed between modern concrete office buildings. But that’s not what catches our attention.

  I’m greeted by one of the strangest scenarios I’ve ever seen.

  There are cops lining one side of the street, dressed in riot gear.

  On the other side of the street, surrounding the temple gates, is a small army of men in black suits. They’re hard-faced men with solemn expressions, all wearing the same thing. Black suit, black tie.

  They look like they’re in mourning.

  Beyond the gates are more of them, moving forward in an orderly procession. A black car glides up to the entrance, and I watch in fascination as its passenger, a serious looking man with greying hair, gets out. A junior guy rushes over to open the door, and the men standing beside the car all bow in a show of respect.

  This doesn’t look like the right time for a bunch of American tourists to go visiting the temple. If these guys are what I think they are, and if this is what I think it is, then we should probably get the hell out of here. But despite the warning prickle of my instincts, I’m drawn to the scene playing out before us. I have a feeling this is a side of Japan ordinary tourists don’t ever get to see.

  Beside me, Maya is pulling out her SLR camera. There’s a long, expensive looking zoom lens attached to it.

  “What are you doing?” Feeling a bit paranoid, I motion for her to stand behind the partial cover of a tree.

  “This is amazing,” she replies, an expression of intense curiosity crossing her face. “This is exactly the kind of thing I’m looking for.”

  “Uh, I don’t think this is a normal funeral,” I glance around the street. The police and the guys in suits are too absorbed in each other to even notice us, but as tourists, we still stick out like a sore thumb.

  Ryan picks up on my nervousness. “Yeah, why are there cops all over the place? You think this is some kind of mob funeral?”

  “I’d say so.” I glance back down the way we came. A businessman crosses the street in a hurry, clutching a briefcase and heading in the opposite direction. He looks shaken. It seems as if ordinary Japanese are trying to avoid the area. “I don’t think we should stick around.”

  “Just give me a few minutes.” Maya starts snapping away, the shutter of her camera clicking in rapid succession. I glance across the street and notice a white car parked. Someone inside the car raises a lens and starts taking pictures.

  The event is clearly generating a lot of attention.

  Several of the guys in suits, who I now assume are yakuza, are now looking in our direction. Three of them peel off and start marching across the intersection, heading towards us. Across the street, a man steps out of the white car. He’s wearing sunglasses and a navy blue suit, but from the way he stands, the way he carries himself, I get the impression he’s a cop of some sort. He’s watching us.

  Suddenly, it feels as if everyone’s watching us.

  “Time to go, I think.” Ryan and I exchange a worried glance as Maya takes a few more shots. Now, she’s focused the lens on the guys heading towards us.

  “Maya,” I hiss. “These guys are bad news. Let’s go.”

  “I know.” She finally puts down the camera, stashing it in her bag. “Sorry. I just couldn’t pass this up. Let’s get out of here.”

  We turn and head back in the direction of the station, but the guys in suits have caught up to us.

  “Oi!” One of them yells at us. “You, American. No photo.” He then mutters something dark sounding to his colleagues in Japanese.

  Beside me, Ryan is tense, sensing the danger. “Let’s go, girls.”

  The three men are beside us now. The lead guy comes up beside Maya, who tries to quicken her pace. “Camera.” His dark hair is slicked back in true gangster style and I catch a glimpse of a tattoo snaking around his outstretched hand.

  “Hell no,” snaps Maya. “Leave me alone.”

  The other guys are crowding her, moving in front of her, causing Maya to slow to a halt. “Give camera. No photo.”

  Ryan moves in protectively beside her. He towers over the three Japanese men, but they don’t seem to be intimidated. “We didn’t mean to offend you guys. We’ll delete the photos, if that’s want you want.”

  The main guy stares at Ryan blankly, not comprehending. His English obviously doesn’t extend that far. “Camera.” His hand is still outstretched.

  “Give him the camera, Maya.” I size up the three guys, taking in the missing finger on one man’s hand, and the way they’re staring at us with open hostility. “Trust me, these guys don’t fuck around.” They remind me of the bodyguards I often saw watching from the sha
dows in the hostess bar I used to work at in LA. Their manager, Masahiro, was a nasty piece of work. These men give off the same menacing vibe.

  “This is a two thousand dollar lens. This is my livelihood.” Frustration seeps through Maya’s tone. She glares back at the yakuza guy, who makes a small “give me” gesture with his hand. Out of the corner of my eye, I see that the cops across the street have noticed our altercation. They’re advancing on us. “You can’t just take my equipment because of a few photos. Like Ryan said, I’ll delete them if it makes you happy.” She raises her voice. “But this is robbery. I’ll get the police involved.”

  “Uh, I don’t know if that’s going to help.” I glance around, searching for the entrance to the subway. The three gangsters are blocking our path, and from across the street, two police officers are heading in our direction.

  This sure escalated quickly.

  I remember Kaito’s warnings with a sinking feeling. These are dangerous people. Who would have thought that a peaceful sounding morning of sightseeing would turn into a showdown between yakuza thugs and cops?

  Ryan pulls Maya out of the way, guiding her towards the subway entrance. “Come on, Maya, Adele. Let’s go.”

  One of the gangsters lunges towards Maya, snatching the strap of her camera. She tugs back. “Get off me, you asshole!”

  As I move beside Maya, standing between her and the men in suits, I hear a car pull up behind me. I glance over my shoulder as the driver steps out, slamming the door behind him.

  My eyes go wide and my pulse hammers. I'm frozen on the spot.

  Who do I see?

  Of course, it had to be him.

  The person I want to see most and least in the world right now.

  My confusing, infuriating, lover. The man who’s no good for me and yet so good to me.

  Kaito.

  He’s going to kill me.

  Adele

  Kaito stops dead in his tracks as he catches sight of me. He’s wearing the same black suit and tie as the other guys. Apparently, this is the mourning uniform of the yakuza. His eyes are hidden behind black wayfarer style sunglasses, but I can feel the force of his stare. The hard line of his jaw tells me that he’s pissed.

  I raise my eyebrows in a mock-innocent expression. After a small shake of his head, Kaito stalks around to place himself between us and the three yakuza guys.

  He says something guttural to them in Japanese, motioning towards the cops, who have caught up to us.

  The main guy glares back, about to challenge Kaito, but backs down when Kaito snaps at him. I have no idea what Kaito just said to the man, but the three guys somehow shrug their shoulders and turn around, leaving us alone.

  Maya turns to the two policemen, who are decked out in full riot gear, with helmets and shields. “Thank you for coming, officers. Those guys tried to take my camera.”

  “Ah,” the policemen shake their heads. “You go now. This not place for tourist.” Their English is slow and halting. I suspect we’re going to have a hard time getting our story across.

  “Cops are just going to let these guys walk away?” Ryan murmurs in disbelief.

  “They’re letting us walk away too,” I say slowly, as Kaito turns to Maya. She steps back a fraction, wary of him.

  “Give me the camera,” he sighs, holding out his hand. “Sorry, but you just took photos at the wrong time and place.

  Maya hesitates, seemingly surprised by Kaito’s fluent English. “And who the hell are you?”

  Kaito stares back at her, and I can tell by the slight narrowing of his eyes that he's close to losing patience. He holds up a hand. “Hold on a second.” Before Maya can protest, he turns to face the cops. There’s a bit of back and forth between Kaito and the policemen in rapid Japanese, and some of it doesn’t sound exactly civil, especially coming from Kaito. After a tense exchange, the cops eventually nod and turn away.

  It’s as if they’ve come to some kind of understanding.

  “We’ll delete the photos.” Ryan moves between Kaito and Maya. There’s tension in his voice. “But you can’t take the camera, man.”

  “Give me the camera.” Kaito’s voice is hard. “What you don’t understand is that I’m saving your life right now. They’re watching us. If you don’t give me the camera, I can guarantee you’ll be followed. And those people will take it from you, one way or another.”

  Maya frowns, but Kaito’s cold logic and the threat of further violence sinks in. After a moment of hesitation, she reluctantly removes the camera strap from her shoulder and hands her precious equipment to Kaito.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” Maya snaps, wearing a disgruntled expression. It turns to surprise as Kaito stalks over to my side.

  “What the hell are you doing here, Adele?” His voice is low and quiet, but I can hear tightly reined tension. He’s angry. “I told you to stay away.”

  I let my gaze roam over him, taking in his appearance. He looks good in the suit, which emphasizes the broad outline of his shoulders. But I can’t read his eyes behind those damn dark glasses.

  His expression is inscrutable.

  “I couldn’t just stay away and let you have all the fun,” I murmur. “You didn’t tell me what an interesting place your hometown is.”

  “We'll talk about this later,” he grates. “Right now, I need to go and pay my respects. Of all the places you could have visited in Tokyo, Adele, why did you have to turn up at a fucking yakuza funeral?” Even though I can’t see his eyes, I feel his anger burning into me. I’m half nervous, but not afraid of him.

  Never afraid. And despite the grimness of the situation, his intensity is turning me on. A thrill courses down my spine, and warmth floods my body. He never fails to elicit that response from me.

  Damn the man.

  “Wrong place, wrong time,” I shrug. “But I’m glad I came. Aren’t you?”

  Kaito doesn't rise to my bait. His expression is ominous, his voice low and tightly controlled. “Take your friends and get out of here.”

  I can't see his eyes behind the dark glasses, but it's almost as if I can feel the hot intesnity of his stare. Oh, he's glad to see me.

  “See you soon,” I reply, my voice silky smooth. Maybe it’s just my imagination, but I suddenly feel as if all eyes are on me.

  Kaito turns and walks away from us, a lone, black clad figure, heading for the temple gates. And I realize, as he nears that intimidating group of men in dark suits, that he blends in perfectly amongst them.

  Kaito

  I walk slowly up the steps leading to Gokoku-ji, behind a sombre procession of mourners, with the American girl’s camera slung over my shoulder. I try to suppress the anger that smolders in me. It’s anger at Hajime Ishida’s killer. He was shot in his home. The audacity of it has sent shockwaves throughout the entire organization.

  In this day and age, how the fuck does something like this happen?

  I’m angry at Adele, too. She didn’t listen to me. But I should have expected that, knowing her. It’s part of the reason I’m drawn to her. She’s her own woman, and in normal circumstances, she can take care of herself.

  But she’s never known the savage mess of the Tokyo underworld, and I intend to keep it that way.

  I push the distracting thoughts away as I reach the top of the steps. Hundreds of Kuroda members stand before me, dressed in identical black. They bow each time a visitor passes, a sign of respect and appreciation.

  I’ve been to yakuza funerals before, but this tops them all. It’s the funeral of the Kumicho; the supreme boss, the head of the entire Kuroda-kai.

  Hajime Ishida was larger than life. He was a diplomat who preferred to resolve things through negotiation. But if things didn’t go to his liking, he could be ruthless.

  That’s when he would call me. He liked the fact that I got the job done; no fuck ups, no questions asked.

  I was his killer on-demand. After a while, he wouldn’t call for anyone else.

  And why did I stay loya
l to him? Because the man saved my life. I was a punk ass kid with no future, with a background that meant I wasn’t accepted by ordinary society.

  He recognized something in me. He saw the darkness I struggled to control and reined it in, shaping me into something he could use.

  That’s what a man like Hajime Ishida does. For twenty years, the Kuroda-kai have been untouchable in Tokyo under his rule. Now, that security has been shattered.

  This could turn into a bloodbath, especially if we don’t find his killer soon. Either way, someone’s going to die.

  I enter the temple proper, breathing in the familiar scent of burning incense. It’s cool and dark inside, and a priest is chanting a sutra. I reach the shrine, where a framed photograph of Ishida in his prime is placed amongst elaborate wreaths of white flowers.

  It’s a closed casket funeral. Such a fucking disgrace. But it couldn’t be helped. Erika told me he was shot in the face.

  There’s not an embalmer in the country who’s talented enough to fix that kind of damage.

  I’ve seen it before. I’ve done it to people before.

  Coming back to this city is like surrounding myself with death, all over again. Adele shouldn’t be here with me.

  Ishida’s lined face seems to stare through me from the framed portrait, his eyes black and piercing, even in death.

  I take incense and offer it to the deceased, saying a prayer under my breath. I’m not religious by any stretch, so I ask the Christian Jesus and the Amida Buddha and Izanami, the Shinto goddess of death, to have mercy on Ishida’s soul, and mine.

  If there’s an afterlife, then we’re going to need the mercy of all the fucking deities between here and heaven and hell.

  Adele

  As the train pulls away from the platform, Ryan and Maya give me a long, curious look. We’re seated facing each other in the half empty carriage. Beside me is a teenaged boy, leaning against the window, asleep.

  “Uh, Adele,” Maya can’t hold back her burning question any longer. “Sorry if I’m being nosy, but who the hell was that guy?”