A few years back, I got the chance to write in the world of one of my favorite authors, Mr. Barry Eisler, creator of the John Rain assassin series. The book, a short story titled A Cell in San Antonio, was published out on Amazon in their Kindle Worlds…but not for long. A mere few months after publication, Amazon made the decision to nix Kindle Worlds (not sure why), and I was left with a story I’d spent a great deal of time crafting and nowhere to use it. On a whim, I reached out to Mr. Eisler, introducing myself and explaining I was one of the many authors who’d written in his world, and asked if he planned on perhaps publishing out all these books under his own publishing company in the future, since there were so many. He replied back that he had no such plan, but also did not care if I wanted to publish it out myself, that he was okay with that. As an author myself, I didn’t feel right about monetizing his world if he wasn’t going to be compensated, so I thanked him and said I would only offer this short story free to my readers. I’ve kept that promise. It is offered free to my website newsletter subscribers and now I’m sharing it here, once again, free. I hope you enjoy this story, situated as it is between Eisler’s third and fourth John Rain novels. If you’re not already a fan, I encourage you to visit his website and read this series and his other books. He is incredible!
Special thanks to my friend and former schoolmate, Tonia Black, Dallas Police Officer, Retired, for her expert advice.
Summary: John Rain has 24 hours to repay a favor...the only way he knows how!
On the run from the Yakuza, Rain reluctantly takes a detour to the Alamo City to take out the son of the leader of an up and coming Mexican drug cartel. The Hands of Death have invaded yakuza territory, and their product is making a killing and endangering the unspoken understanding and often criminal alliance between the Yakuza and Japanese government officials.
Juan Narvaez Morales, Jr. is in federal custody. The FBI seek to flip him as an asset, but have only 72 hours in which to do so. On his last day in custody, Rain must successfully infiltrate the jail and terminate his target, all within 24 hours, and still make it out alive and undiscovered. This is a fast-paced thriller that will leave you on edge, and as always, cheering for John Rain.
It was hot and humid. The sun beat down on my head causing a trickle of sweat to make a beeline for my collar. I reached up to loosen the blue silk Ferragamo tie and pop the top button of my shirt. I’d already removed my dove gray Armani blazer, carrying it folded over one arm while I lugged my carry-on with my free hand. The Vuitton garment bag was packed with care containing my toiletries, a single change of clothing, and a spare black suit with a coordinating, dark gray and silver Hermes tie. A few essential electronic devices completed the list of necessaries in the fold-over suit bag. I didn’t plan to be in San Antonio for more than twenty-four hours. It was more like a layover enroute to Rio de Janeiro, one I’d only agreed to as a favor—a paid favor, of course.
I stepped out onto the breezeway for new arrivals. A black limousine was parked at the curb. Standing next to it was a tall, black man wearing the standard black suit and white shirt of a professional chauffer. He held a sign in his hands and seemed slightly uneasy as an SAPD traffic cop shouted at him to move the car along.
“This ain’t a parking zone, buddy. Move the car if you’re not picking up!” The short, Hispanic officer, in blue uniform with gold lettering, blew his whistle.
“I sure hope you’re Mr. Hattori,” said the driver as I approached.
I stopped in front of him. “I am,” I replied, acknowledging my alias.
The big man blew out a breath in relief. “Thank goodness.” He opened the back door on the passenger’s side, and then reached for my Vuitton. “I’ll take that, sir.”
“Thank you.” I slid into the back seat, and waited while he placed my bag in the trunk, and then came around the side of the car, bending his tall body to fit behind the wheel.
The cop blew his whistle again. “Keep it moving here, huh?” He made a quick hand motion indicating the lane was clear, and the driver should pull out.
Finally, the limo motored forward joining the stream of traffic exiting San Antonio International.
The air conditioning was on full blast cooling my skin. If it was this hot in April, I knew I wouldn’t want to be in this blazing heat in the flush of summer. It reminded me of the jungles of Vietnam, and I didn’t need any help recalling those days. They were deeply embedded into my memory, often waking me in the middle of the night when my guard was down, allowing old ghosts to disturb my rest.
“Our estimated time of arrival is forty minutes, sir.” The driver caught my eye in the rearview mirror.
“Exactly where are we going?”
“Fair Oaks Ranch. It’s next to the Dominion,” he said.
I blinked. I had no idea what the Dominion was or why he thought I would know. He noticed my lack of recognition.
“Sorry, sir. They’re gated communities off of I10.” He returned his eyes to the road ahead of him.
“I see.” I pulled out my cell phone. After firing off a quick text to Harry, my go-to for all things information related, I settled in looking out the window as we made our way through dense morning traffic. It seemed that people were still on their way to work although it was already 8:43 a.m. local time. What I found truly depressing was the fact that if I was this hot this early in the morning, I was going to be roasting by the afternoon. Maybe I should have brought along an extra change of clothing, something more appropriate for hot weather, because it looked like I was going to need it.
My mind drifted back to the message I received yesterday as I was about to board my flight to Rio. The online chat board where I usually received special requests contained a short note from my old contact, Ishikura Tatsuhiko, the former department head of the Keisatsucho – the Japanese FBI. Tatsu simply left a number, a secure line, which he expected me to call.
“Rain-san.” His familiar voice sounded tired.
“How did you know it was me?”
“Because this line exists only for you.” The gruff tone conveyed Tatsu’s dry humor.
The corner of my lip twitched—the only response I gave to his words as I waited for him to continue.
“We have a problem.”
“We, or you?”
“What difference does it make?” he asked quietly before pressing forward. “There is a problem. Tokyo has seen a sharp rise in black market cocaine and heroin flooding the streets.”
I leaned onto the wall inside the Air France VIP passenger lounge listening to Tatsu while surveying the room. Two Japanese businessmen sat with their drinks before them on the small coffee table, their faces buried in their computer tablets. Sarariman, typical ‘salary men’ in my chosen home country. They wasted no moment, diligently working even as they waited on their flight. They seemed oblivious to the plush, sapphire blue lounge chairs they sat in or even the soft jazz piped into the room from overhead, recessed speakers. I couldn’t blame them for not noticing. It wasn’t very good jazz, but rather, what Americans referred to as ‘elevator’ music.
A white male dressed semi-casually in Khaki slacks and a red, pin-striped, button down held down the seat at the end of the bar that ran along the wall to my right. He looked to be about mid-forties with a receding hairline, and a beak for a nose. He sipped a bottled beer bearing a German label as he read a newspaper. The lounge had two entry points, one near the bar where the white man sat, and the other almost directly across from where the two Japanese businessmen perched on the edges of their chairs, tablets on their knees. That one was closer to where I was standing, but the pathway was cluttered with more of those plush blue chairs. The exit near the bar had a clearer path, but was further out. Habitual behavior had me mentally mapping out the area in case of emergency, even as Tatsu continued to speak.
“Why should the Yakuza’s drug trade concern me?” I asked.
“Because it is not coming from the Yakuza,” Tatsu replied.
I blinked at that. “Then who?”
“A Mexican drug cartel, Las Manos de la Muerte out of Mexico City.”
“The hands of death?” My eyebrows shot up. The name sounded more like an amateur street gang than any of the cartel names for which I was familiar.
“Don’t scoff,” Tatsu reprimanded me. “While they are relatively new, they have managed to rise among the established cartels through pure viciousness, more so than the older organizations have previously displayed. According to my sources, they have carved out a niche for themselves, surviving the local turf wars. I wouldn’t care except that they have extended into Japan, which, as you know, is already dealing with the Yakuza.”
“Since when has the Yakuza needed help dealing with encroachers on their territory?”
“They don’t. This is not so much their problem as it is our government’s problem. This cartel is an unknown, and we have enough problems keeping known drug dealers in check. The product the Mexican’s have brought in has killed ten teenage kids in just this last week alone. It contains impurities lethal to users. The autopsy on the third victim showed arsenic. That’s when we knew we weren’t dealing with simple overdoses. After that, our investigation focused on testing the first two, and each one after. All have died from toxic levels of arsenic, and I can tell you, their deaths were painful. They were just kids, Rain-san.”
I heard the pain in Tatsu’s voice. For him to get anywhere near choked up about the deaths of some addicts earned my full attention.
“So, what it is you want from me?”
“We’re under pressure to clean this up as quickly and quietly as possible. I have a lead on the point of entry into the country, but higher ups want to deliver a message to the cartel that their business is not welcome in Japan.”
There was some shuffling around in the background, and I knew my old friend was not comfortable with what he was about to say next.
“The head of this particular snake is Juan Narvaez Morales. We want you to take out his son and heir, Juanito Jr.”
“No kids,” I stated immediately. It was one of my three firm rules. No women or children, no other team assigned the hit but myself, and only the principal players, no supporting characters in the dramas.
“He’s no child, Rain-san. Juanito Jr. is a grown man who is every bit as involved in the family business as his father. He was just picked up by local authorities in San Antonio, Texas on an expired VISA, but with the American’s joke of a war on drugs, we both know that was just a technicality. The U.S. Feds will try to acquire him as an asset, use him to manipulate his father.”
“How long will he be in custody?”
“No more than seventy-two hours, that’s as long as they can keep him on the charge. After that, they must deport him back to Mexico City.”
My flight would be boarding in less than an hour. I looked at my watch. It was a Swiss-made, Baume & Mercier Capeland series with stainless steel casing and an alligator band. It was a luxury buy, something I did not normally do, but the simple lines of the watch appealed to me, and the old-fashioned, aviation look of the tachymeter and telemeter dials pushed me into the purchase. It was nearly eight-thousand U.S. dollars, but if anyone ever decided to ask, I knew I would tell them it was a cheap impulse buy of no more than fifty bucks. No need to either brag or tempt would-be thieves. Its minimalist appearance would fool fashion novices as it lacked any bling at all, but the elite who dwelled among the wealthy and powerful would recognize its worth right away. This was an advantage for me in my public persona as a homogenous businessman. Consultants were, after all, expected to present well.
“I’m about to depart—”
“Rain-san, I would consider this a personal favor.” Tatsu let that hang. He knew I would be unable to say no now. Although I did not want to acknowledge it at the time, Tatsu had saved the life of a woman I cared for – Midori Kawamura. The daughter of a man I was hired to kill managed to get under my skin, made me feel things I did not think were possible. They were feelings for which I did not consider myself worthy, and yet I could not walk away from her. Had I remained in her life, eventually, she would have discovered my part in her father’s death, confirming suspicions she, no doubt, harbored. There were only two ways the relationship could have ended—either with her hating me or worse, with her dead, for surely one of the ghosts from my past, namely Yamaoto Toshi, would have killed her for no other reason than to get to me. At the conclusion of that assignment, Tatsu stepped in. He told Midori that I’d been killed, and then, for her own safety, sent her to the United States. All of this he did without telling me until it was too late to protest. Too late to apologize or say goodbye. It was for the better, I knew, but the sting of losing her remained buried like a thorn left forgotten in my heart. The only thing that made the pain bearable was knowing she was far removed from Toshi’s reach, and free to live her life creating the beautiful music that attracted me to her in the first place.
I glanced around knowing already that my plans had just changed.
“I’ll change my flight. I can be there by tonight.”
“Good. I’ll arrange for you to be picked up. I have a contact for you in the city,” Tatsu informed me.
“I work alone, Tatsu.” I felt the need to remind him, but he stayed firm.
“Not this time. My contact will help orient you. A plan has already been put into motion. You’ll receive more intelligence once you land. Call me back with your flight number and time of arrival. I’ll pass that along.”
I felt annoyance rise within me and I took in a steadying breath. This most definitely was not one of my usual jobs, but rather, repayment of a favor. Still, I did not like veering away from the discipline I followed as a rule. Somehow, Tatsu sensed my inner turmoil.
“I can hear your wheels spinning, Rain-san. Rest assured that you maintain autonomy in how you handle this. My contact is only going to help you find your way in. After that, it is, as always, your show.”
I felt somewhat mollified. “I’ll call you with the flight information.” And then I hung up.
After departing the VIP lounge, I made a quick, circuitous route to the ticket agent’s counter. In short order, I exchanged my ticket to Rio for one bound for San Antonio, Texas. The plane was leaving in less than thirty minutes. I glanced down at my small suitcase. It would be too much baggage to carry along with my garment bag. I walked to the men’s room where I pulled out the necessities for an overnight stay, and then marched to the UPS counter.
“How much to mail this bag to Rio?” I asked.
The young clerk, who appeared no more than twenty-two years old flipped her long hair out of her eyes and stared at me. She was short, petite, and wearing Goth clothing that consisted of a black top with a black pencil skirt worn over short, black leather ankle boots. Her makeup was heavy, but could not hide her Asian ancestry, which appeared to be Korean. Her nametag said she was Sang-mi.
She popped the wad of gum she was chewing before answering. “It depends on the weight, but I would say it will be quite expensive.”
I felt my eyebrow rise. Apparently, she was not well-versed in answering customer questions. “I’ll need a box,” I looked past her at the packing materials along the wall, “and some of that bubble wrap to put around it.”
She turned to grab the roll and a box. I detected a slight shake of her head. It was obvious she thought mailing my suitcase was crazy. It couldn’t be helped.
She handed over the large box. I put the suitcase inside, and then took the bubble wrap, unrolling sheets to tuck around it. In minutes, I had it fairly secured from bouncing around inside the container. “Tape?” I looked at Sang-mi.
She continued chewing her gum as she reached down to grab some packing tape. She reminded me of a cow chewing cud, especially with her long, fake eyelashes batting in between each rotation of her jaw.
I made quick work of taping the box shut. I didn’t have to ask this time before she handed over a black marker. With the address of my hotel added, we finished the transaction. It was, indeed, expensive, but worth it. It would be there when I arrived in two days. My concierge would make sure of it.
I left UPS and made it in time to board my flight to the Alamo city. I’d never been to Texas, never wanted to visit, but now, I would get to see, if only briefly, the Lone Star state, land of cowboys, Indians, missions, and epic battles for independence from Mexico; also known as stealing land from the Mexicans. But wasn’t that how most countries were born, through conquest?
As soon as I was seated in business class, I called Tatsu, and relayed my flight number and time of arrival. The hostess came around reminding me we would be taking off, and all electronics needed to be put away. I smiled politely, nodded, and turned off my mobile. I knew that once we were in the air, I would be pulling up all information on Juan Narvaez Morales and his son, and then mapping out the jail where Junior was being held. There was very little time to surveil, and I needed to decide on what method would work best in this situation. Eliminating a man behind bars, and making it appear natural was not going to be easy. It only needed to appear as such to the authorities which meant it had to be beyond a shadow of a doubt, and undetectable by a physician. But the authorities would know it was a hit, and so would Morales’s father. That was all that mattered. And when it was done, my debt to Tatsu would be fulfilled.
All of this, however, came at a very bad time since I was getting out of Japan rather urgently. After the Murakami affair, the last thing I wanted was to take on another job. It was only because Tatsu asked, and because my suddenly traveling to a place like Texas would throw off those who might try to follow. It was a good thing I purchased my tickets under an assumed name, one masterfully invented with a full, traceable history by Harry. I was Jin’ichi Hattori, an accountant specializing in forensic accounting. Had Harry not done so, I would have been unable to fly into the United States without triggering Homeland Security. The Japanese mob was not the only organization from which I was fleeing. I intended to stay below the radar of the FBI as well. I was finished with them. For now, at least.
The flight was long, but that gave me time to do my research. I had no idea who I was meeting at the airport once I landed. Tatsu mentioned only that his contact would have a car waiting. He was true to his word, and now I was sitting in the backseat of a limousine watching as we passed a massive mall on my right, and what appeared to be a theme park on the left in the distance. The road sign said it was Six Flags Over Texas. I thought about the fact that the driver, and, I assume, Tatsu’s contact, both knew my name although I’d traveled under an alias. I would have preferred to keep that information secret, but as it turned out, my old friend had already been plotting even before he’d messaged me. It would be imperative from here on out to make sure the name John Rain was not repeated. This meant my association with this contact needed to be brief. After this meeting, of which I was still uninformed as to the context in which it would benefit me, I would need to strike out on my own. These were the thoughts that ran through my head as the car traveled further west on Interstate 10. As we continued, the businesses thinned out, and it began to look much more like what I expected from Texas—wide open spaces.
Finally, we reached our turnoff, and rolled toward a guarded gate outside of an elegant entry with a stone wall that read ‘Fair Oaks Ranch’ in gold letters. As the chauffer presented his credentials, we drove through, and thus began the parade of excess Americans called homes. The size of these houses screamed “Look at me, I’m rich!” Compared to the micro-living in Japan, these were mansions many times over. I tried to imagine how many Japanese families could live inside just one of them. The grandiosity on display, and the greed it represented sickened me, but then I had to remember that I was also half American. I checked my opinions, if only out of respect for my mother.
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