A Cell in San Antonio

A John Rain Fan Fiction, Episode 5, Part 1

Get out of town fast!

“Sign for your belongings here and here.” An officer pointed at two areas of the paperwork before me highlighted in yellow. I signed Jin’Ichi Hattori in both sections. The balding man passed a packet to me containing my passport, airline ticket, wallet, and keyring.

“We’ve called a taxi for you, Mr. Hattori.” Sergeant Anthony stood by the door, appearing tired.

“Thank you,” I replied, bowing to her.

“You can thank me by getting on your flight. Come on, now. It’s been a long night and I want to go home.” She turned, indicating I should follow.

As we walked through the corridor, I noticed Agent Brady and his sidekick exiting another doorway, Morales, cuffed at the wrists and ankles, between them. He was stumbling, but to most watching, it was no more than would be expected of someone hobbled by shackles.

“I’m disappointed in your choice, but it’s your funeral, Juanito.”

“I can’t hear you! Fucking pendejo!” Morales shouted, slurring his words.

“Can’t we get the judge to extend his hold?” Horn-rimmed glasses looked frustrated. Both agents were clearly missing what was happening before their eyes.

“No, goddammit, we can’t. Get this waste of human skin onto his plane. Let his father deal with him.” The pointed look Brady threw at Morales Jr. was his parting shot, the expression on his face broadcasting his intent to follow through on his threat. It was all the older agent had in his arsenal now to render the son impotent. He knew that given the circumstance, Juanito would run, creating speculation and suspicion within his own family that would lead to his demise. At least, it would have had I not thrown a monkey wrench into the works.

Morales’ eyes were slightly unfocused. To the agents, he appeared belligerent, defiant. Somehow, they had missed the small trickle of blood coming from Juanito’s ear.

“Sorry you had to see that,” Sergeant Anthony said. She tossed a final look at Agent Brady’s back and rolled her eyes.

A buzzer sounded as she slid her security card through the slot next to the door at the end of the hall. It opened, and we passed through a series of halls to a less secure corridor. I could see a large desk ahead, and a lobby beyond.

“It is not a problem. My own fault for misbehaving. You have been most kind.” I offered a humble reply.

We skirted the desk and came to a stop in the lobby.

“Your taxi should be out front. You’re Tokyo’s problem now. At least you’ll be home, but try and stay out of trouble, ya hear?” She waved me off, yawning.

I walked out, found the yellow cab, and slid into the backseat. It was dark outside in the predawn hours, but already, I felt the heat and humidity.

“Where to?” The driver turned, looking over his shoulder.

“The airport, please.” I knew I would be losing two good suits by leaving my belongings behind at Kenji Nakamura’s house, but it couldn’t be helped.

The cab took off, making its way to the highway, towards the airport. He dropped me at the international flights’ terminal. I paid him, exiting the taxi, and stepping onto the sidewalk. I was exhausted, hungry, and in need of a shower. All of that would have to wait. I made my way to the Air Canada counter and stopped in my tracks halfway there. Leaning against a column and pinning me with an amused stare was Misao. She approached, sauntering like a cat in her skinny jeans and stilettos as she carried what appeared to be my Vuitton fold-over suit bag.

“How long have you been here?” My words filled the shrinking distance between us.

She stopped, standing three feet in front of me, at the edge of my personal space, and smiled. “Not long. I have a friend who keeps me informed.”

“A cop?” I asked, worried someone would discover my identity and link me to Morales’ death.

“The taxi driver,” she grinned. “The jail and surrounding area are his route. I asked him to page me if he happened to pick up any unusual passengers heading to the airport. In my town, you rate as unusual.”

“I see,” I said, reaching out to take my carry-on from her hands. Our fingers touched, sliding gently. Hers were warm, soft, and they lingered a moment. The edge of my lips lifted slightly. Her light caress reminded me of that which my life lacked, more often than not. Intimacy. Connection.

“You didn’t call me,” she stated, watching me closely.

“No, I didn’t. I work alone, Misao.” I stated this reminder gently.

“Maybe that’s because you suck at teamwork?” She raised a thin eyebrow.

“Because what I do is dangerous and is no place for one as lovely as you.” I tempered my words with a compliment. It was, at least, sincere. She seemed mollified.

“I thought you might like to have your things. I personally packed your belongings.”

The scent of jasmine tickled my senses, a vast improvement from a urine-drenched cell and the back of an old cab.

“Thank you, Misao.” I held her gaze, appreciating the curve of her cheek, the smoothness of her skin, and the fullness of her lips. She was a beautiful young woman. I did not want to see her get hurt by associating with me. My track record of late had not been good where beautiful young women were concerned. Backing up, I offered a nod of my head, beginning our goodbye. She was having none of it, and stepped in, lifting her chin, and pressing her lips to mine. Her kiss was a surprise, one that I dared not refuse. I admit I didn’t want to. I slid my arm around her waist, pulling her all the way in, locking our lips in a firm, passionate, but brief exchange. When I broke contact, she appeared bemused, then scowled playfully.

“I supposed you’re going to feed me some line now about how you must go, that it’s not me, but you?”

A smile grew on my face before I once again gathered my composure. “Yes. I’m sorry, but I do have to go. It’s not you, it’s me.” I stared into her eyes, charmed by her boldness.

She placed her small hand on my chest, playing with the button on my shirt. “It would have been good.”

“I know.” I covered her hand with mine, rubbing the soft skin of her wrist with my thumb before gently prying her slender fingers away. “Take care.”

“Goodbye, Jin’Ichi Hattori, if that’s your real name.” She cocked her head, allowing her silken hair to fall over one shoulder, and turned away, sauntering toward the doorway.

I found myself standing there watching her go until she disappeared from my line of sight. Misao was an enchanting woman. I hoped she would find a new line of work, then I remembered I planned to speak to Tatsu about that specifically. I made a second mental note, then proceeded to the Air Canada counter where I handed the ticket agent my passport and waited as she pulled up my prepaid reservation to Santos Dumont airport in Rio de Janeiro. Once I was checked in for my 5:15 a.m. flight, and cleared security, I found the nearest men’s room for a quick refresher and change of clothing.

I had a long flight ahead of me.

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