Dead Sparrow

By Robert North

Jack is a man with nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. He is faced with the ultimate conflict between morality and doing what is necessary to protect his family.

When Jack Walls, an international tax accountant, unwittingly steps into a violent conflict between China’s secret criminal organization the ‘Council’ and Japan&

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Waldon
• Release date: Jul 23, 2019
• ISBN: 9781733352314

Robert North

The author encountered his first miracle at the age of five on a small country farm in Indiana. Since then he has traveled various countries and seen God work in some of the most incredible ways. Through prayer he has seen numerous miracles and supernatural interventions. To him the supernatural realm is real.

Book preview

Contents

Cast of Main Characters

PERSPECTIVE

The Battle of Thermopylae

Present Time

Book I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Book 2

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Dead Sparrow

Robert North

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. While certain fictional events occur in known landmarks, this should be construed as literary imagination with no suggestion of real occurrences at those locations.

Published 2019

Copyright © 2004 and 2019 by Robert North

Printed in the United States of America

Cover images compiled from 123RF

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

Thank you to my family and my friends.

Cast of Main Characters

Note from the author:

I recognize that reading a novel like Dead Sparrow sometimes can tax one’s memory bank while following not only a sophisticated plot with many moving pieces, but also individual character names, some of which are in a foreign language. Therefore, I have provided this brief description of the characters to assist the reader where necessary. Please also remember that by convention, many Pacific Rim countries such as Japan and China use surnames first, followed by the person’s given name (i.e. last name first). I have used that convention in the character list below. First name (given name) use is uncommon in these cultures outside of family and certain other very close relationships.

Let me reiterate that all the characters in this novel are fictional. Any resemblance to an actual person, company, or organization is unintentional and should be ignored.

American-based characters:

• Jack Walls is the main character of Dead Sparrow. He is an international tax accountant living in San Francisco with his wife Elizabeth, a lawyer. They have a daughter named Madison. Jack was in the military prior to finishing school and has very specialized training.

• Elizabeth Walls is Jack’s wife. She is a lawyer and mother, and is the daughter of a wealthy politician in the United States Congress.

• Madison Walls is Jack and Elizabeth Walls’ young daughter. 

• Michael Simmons is Jack’s partner at Simmons, Walls, and Taylor, and also is an international tax accountant.

• Ken Fujita is an associate who works for Jack and Michael at Simmons, Walls, and Taylor. He is half Japanese and speaks Japanese proficiently.

• Retired Master Sergeant John Carver is a retired US Army veteran and Jack’s closest friend from the Army. John served a long and illustrious career in the Army, rising to the position of Senior NCO for his Special Forces Battalion and was the veteran of many campaigns, including Iraq and Afghanistan.

The San Francisco Police Department includes:

• Al Haskins is a police lieutenant with the San Francisco Police Department (SFPD) currently serving as the lead homicide detective. He was prior head of the SFPD Gang Task Force (GTF). Al’s mother is Japanese and father is American. Lieutenant Haskins spent a number of years in Japan growing up and is fluent in Japanese. He is friends with Jack.

• Captain Murdock is Al Haskins boss at SFPD.

• Lieutenant Kim is the head of GTF (the SFPD Gang Task Force).

The Federal Bureau of Investigation includes:

• Special Agent Porter is a leading international organized crime investigator for the FBI. He is based in the FBI San Francisco Headquarters.

• Agent Henson is an FBI field officer based in San Francisco and assigned to Special Agent Porter.

Japanese-Based Characters and Names:

• Minamoto Masato is the Managing Director of Kamakura Ltd., a powerful Japanese conglomerate, including commercial shipping. He also is Kumicho (supreme leader) of the Yakuza and clan Oyabun (father), boasting a long ancestral lineage to the samurai.

• Minamoto Ichiro is Minamoto Masato’s only son who lives in San Francisco.

• Sato Hirohito is Saiko Komon (senior advisor) to Minamoto Masato, Kumicho.

• Yamaguchi Yasahiro is the Oyabun of the large Yamaguchi clan and serves Minamoto Masato directly.

• The Hoshi is the flagship freighter of Kamakura Ltd.’s shipping fleet. Its two prominent characters are:

• Captain Yamamoto, serving as captain of the Hoshi, who has had a long familial history at sea.

• Arato Hitoshi is a Yakuza observer onboard the Hoshi and unlisted in the ship manifest.

• Enoki Masahiro is a Kobun (child) within the Yakuza assigned to be senior field supervisor of poppy fields in Laos for the Yakuza.

• Hasamatsu Kiyoshi is the powerful So-Hanbucho (the head of operations) of the Yakuza, serving just below Minamoto Masato within the Yakuza family.

• Consul-General Hyata Kin is a Japanese-born Consul-General to the Japanese Consulate; however, he lives in Belvedere, California (outside of San Francisco) much of the time. He is politically connected in America and Japan, but he serves the Yakuza and is a sworn servant of Minamoto Masato.

• Tokuda Tareo is the Hanbucho (operational head) and chief enforcer of the Yakuza families based in San Francisco.

• Ito Akira is the Yakuza’s head of Information Technology/ Electronic Security for American operations and is currently stationed at Consul Hayata’s home in Belvedere while working for Tokuda.

• Akako Dubious is a half Japanese, half French beauty, who has a strong taste for violence. She works with Tokuda, i.e. the Yakuza, as a freelance service provider. Her specialties include blackmail and interrogation.

• Amber is the beautiful, American-born protégé of Ms. Dubious, assisting with her nefarious trades.

• Kato is a low-level Yakuza street warrior who provides information to the wrong people.

Note that the use of sama is an honorific suffix used in Japanese to designate someone in higher authority or in a venerable position (e.g. Minamoto-sama). I have used this honorific suffix in the novel sparingly, though this type of suffix use is common practice in Japan.

Chinese-based characters:

The Council is a secret organization of top military, industrial, political, and criminal figures within China operating in concert. Its members include:

• Shen Ju-long is the Managing Director of the multi-national corporation Willow Enterprises based in Hong Kong. He also serves as the Dragon Head of the Heavenly Earth Triad, or the Triad, a leading force in China’s organized crime. The Triad has control over a vast syndicate of smaller triads and local tongs engaged in organized crime throughout the world.

• General Wu Tzu-hsü is a three-star General of the People’s Liberation Army (PLA) and next in line to be Deputy Chairman of the Central Military Commission (CMC). He was a growing influence and protégé to China’s Jiang Zemin, President of the People’s Republic of China (PRC), and the General Secretary of the Chinese Communist Party. He is a prominent member of the Council.

• General Yuan is a ranking member of the Chinese PLA, and strong supporter of General Wu on the Council.

• General P’ang Chuan is a two-star general in the PLA and a direct subordinate of General Wu, working closely with him on the military’s Strategic Initiatives Committee. He also served on the Central Military Committee as Chief Communist Party Liaison officer.

• Sun Pin is a retired political leader serving on the Council. He is the great uncle of Kung, the head of the Red Flower Tong in San Francisco.


Other notable Chinese characters include:

• Kung is the crime boss who oversees the Red Flower Tong based in San Francisco. He is the great nephew of Sun Pin, who serves on the Council, and hence has heard rumors of its existence. The Red Flower Tong is a secret criminal Chinese organization tied to the Heavenly Earth Triad.

• Kau Xin was purchased by Kung from a snakehead selling young girls from China. Because of her exquisite beauty, Kung kept her as his own private consort.

• Li Yeh is the leader of the ‘hatchet men,’ or enforcers of the Red Flower Tong. He is very tough, extremely violent, but not very smart. He is known for enjoying hurting other people.

• Chen is Kung’s driver, originally from China.

• Fong Chang is a Chinese tong member currently located in San Francisco.

• Ye is from China and is a very mysterious person involved in Dead Sparrow, who is woven throughout its plot. Mr. Ye has very specialized talents, some of which were developed in the special forces of the Chinese military. Among others, he is an expert assassin.

• Wong is Ye’s biological brother. He has had a similar career path in the Chinese military’s Special Forces and is an expert assassin as well.

• Wang Sum is a local bookie in San Francisco who obtained information regarding the Yakuza.

• Choi is an assistant customs inspector in Hong Kong Harbor. Accepting bribes is his failing.

Note that the use of Lặo is an honorific prefix used in Chinese to designate someone in higher authority or in a venerable position similar to ‘sama’ in Japanese (e.g. Lặo Shen). I have used this honorific prefix in the novel sparingly, though this type of prefix use is common practice in China.


Notable Companies:

• Kamakura Ltd. is a powerful Japanese conglomerate, including commercial shipping. It has many subsidiaries operating around the world, including:

• Black River Corporation is an international trading company located in San Francisco and a subsidiary of Kamakura. Jack Walls’ firm has done some easy tax work for this corporation. Mr. Hira is the company’s senior executive dealing with tax matters.

• Island West is an off-shore shipping company that is a subsidiary of Kamakura and sister company of Black River.

PERSPECTIVE

(Written sometime in the 4th century B.C. by an unknown author)

This story is told in both China and Japan. In China, it is quoted by philosophers as a lesson regarding the cleverness of the sparrow. In Japan, it is quoted as a lesson based on the greed of the falcon.

General Wu Tzu-hsü of the People’s Liberation Army quotes this story as a means to victory against enemies.

The Story:

The young sparrow darted through the air, its wings fluttering in erratic rhythm with its frightened heart. He dared not look back. The shadow of the falcon followed closely behind his across the brilliantly painted field of purple lilacs below.

Leave me alone, the terrified little bird cried. Is it not enough that you have destroyed my home and eaten my parents, brothers, and sisters? Are you not full?

The falcon, gracefully soaring above him grinned wickedly. It is true that my stomach is satisfied, but I am never full. The falcon dove, narrowly missing his unhappy prey.

The sparrow, almost too tired to fly, twisted in the air, spying the lush brambles of the succulent blackberries lining the clearing. Flitting into the brambles, he heard the heavy crash of the falcon behind him. Turning he chirped, Do you not know the fox lives here? We both will be eaten if we linger.

Forcing his way deeper toward the hollow in the brambles where the sparrow huddled shaking, the falcon spoke with a broad grin. Even the fox fears the mighty falcon. I want to eat you and be done. Come here!

But the trembling sparrow hopped back further into the small cavity he occupied. You cannot come further, or you will be hopelessly trapped by this thicket. Let me live and you can fly away a mighty hunter.

The falcon scowled at the sparrow, now firmly standing his ground. I shall do both. Do not make me work harder or I will tear you apart slowly. With that, the falcon angrily made another great push, wedging his muscular body past the heavily thorned branches.

The sparrow glared at his family’s killer. Falcon, you have locked yourself among the thorns. Surely the fox will come and eat you.

The falcon thrashed to no avail in his prison. I will work myself free and eat you this very day. I do not fear the fox. My mighty beak will rend his flesh the moment I see him!

The sparrow, knowing this to be true, quickly hopped upon the falcon’s head. Then you must not see the fox. He will have a good meal, and I shall live. With that, the sparrow began pecking at the falcon’s eyes. The falcon, so tangled, could not stop him. Shortly, the sparrow had blinded the predator. I shall leave you now, falcon. You are a stupid bird. You ate my family and could have lived, but now you shall die. The sparrow flew from the tightly woven branches, leaving his enemy.

The falcon screamed as he heard the clever little bird take flight. You have not beaten me, yet I am to die! I shall fall to never rise based on your tricks and deceit. Treachery has undone me! The falcon stopped screaming. Could it be the fox he heard moving through the brambles?

For most people, this story raises a more fundamental question: Who is the predator and who is the prey?

The Battle of Thermopylae

Three hundred Spartan soldiers, leading seven thousand Greek soldiers, stood against the entire Persian army numbering almost two million strong by historical accounts in 480 B.C. Only these Spartans, sworn to fight to death, and a narrow, rocky mountain pass stood between the Persians and the enslavement of Greece. The Spartan King Leonidas spoke to his men on the eve of battle:

"When a man seats before his eyes the bronze face of his helmet and steps off from the line of departure, he divides himself, as he divides his ‘ticket,’ in two parts. One part he leaves behind. That part which takes delight in his children, which lifts his voice in the chorus, which clasps his wife to him in the sweet darkness of their bed.

That half of him, the best part, a man sets aside and leaves behind. He banishes from his heart all feelings of tenderness and mercy, all compassion and kindness, all thought or concept of the enemy as a man, a human being like himself. He marches into battle bearing only the second portion of himself, the baser measure, that half which knows slaughter and butchery and turns the blind eye to quarter. He could not fight at all if he did not do this."

Gates of Fire
By Steven Pressfield

Required reading of the US Marine Officer Training School.

Present Time

San Francisco Saturday 1:15 AM PST

Jack Walls moved quietly through the hospital corridors. Under the revealing illumination of the hospital’s bright florescent lights, he quickly would be identified as an imposter. By now the entire hospital staff was bound to have heard the bizarre stories surrounding his apprehension and arrest, as well as the accompanying death and carnage. He would be feared and reviled by anyone who recognized him.

Jack had no illusions as to his fate if he was identified. He was an armed escapee wearing a stolen policeman’s uniform with blood soaking through the fabric of the left sleeve. He was already suspected of being a cold-blooded killer. Now the authorities might even assume he had killed a cop. The fact that he had been an upstanding businessman in the community for years meant nothing. Nobody was interested in hearing the truth, as if Jack could even begin to describe the truth without sounding like a lunatic.

But he couldn’t be caught; he couldn’t be killed. It was not his life he was worried about. Jack Walls, accountant, was the last hope for his wife and daughter. Unless he acted, showed up with the required information on time, they would be killed. That was something he could not let happen—no matter what he had to do or the consequences he would have to bear.

It was late at night, so the hospital corridors were nearly deserted. He only had one close call when two orderlies approached him from an adjoining hallway. He had been lucky and found a small linen closet to duck into while they passed. When Jack emerged from the closet, he retraced the orderlies’ steps back through what appeared to be the main corridor. Just as he had hoped, at the midpoint of the corridor was a service elevator. He pressed the down button, hoping it did not require a key. He held his breath until the doors slid open, revealing an empty interior. Better still, a close examination of the elevator panel buttons showed that he could reach the employee parking garage. Moments later he emerged in a nearly empty parking level. Sticking to the shadows, Jack moved carefully through the subterranean garage, following the EXIT signs. In just a few minutes, he found himself moving cautiously into the cool San Francisco night air while hugging the corner of the hospital building.

His heart was pounding uncontrollably, and his chest was constricted by tension as if tight bands were strapped around his torso, making it difficult for him to breathe. He took a moment to calm down and regain a modicum of control. He was near the Mission District and had a long way to go to reach safety. Jack would have to travel on foot, avoiding densely populated areas. After a final two deep breaths, he began his late-night journey.

Book I

Chapter 1

Four Days Earlier

Northern Mountains of Laos—Houakhong Province Tuesday, 7:00 AM Local Time (Monday, 4:00 PM PST)

As the early morning sun rose and spread its rays over the ridges of Mount Sing in the Houakhong Province of Laos, the surrounding fields of luxuriant dew-covered white, pink, and reddish-purple poppy blooms were shimmering with brilliant rainbows of light. Many of the beautiful plants were now matured and heavily laden with their numerous plump golden pods ready for harvesting. The rugged mountains of Laos, Thailand, and Burma had many similar fields of papaver somniferum, or ‘poppies that induce sleep.’ Collectively, these sparsely populated, difficult mountain terrains were more commonly known as the Golden Triangle, where much of the world’s current supply of opiates was produced.

It was late February, and the poppies had passed their peak visual splendor just two weeks ago. The delicate, four-petaled flowers that would have added an exotic flair to any floral arrangement had begun to fall, leaving the plant stalks bent with heavy, bulbous pods that were now being carefully harvested daily for the remaining weeks of the season. Harvesting was a delicate process. Each pod’s skin had to be scored every evening just before sunset by specially made four-bladed knives that would cut multiple, precise vertical grooves no more than one millimeter in depth. These incisions would penetrate the pod’s outer skin and the first of three walls surrounding the pod’s inner seed sack called the ovary. During the night following the incisions, raw opium gum from the pod’s ovary would ooze from the ruptures in the pod’s skin via a network of tubes and vessels connecting the pod’s layers and dry on its delicate outer skin. The following morning, the peasant workers would use their crescent shaped blades to scrape the gum from the tapped bulbs, collecting the potent narcotic for further processing. First, the raw opiate gum would be cooked and converted to morphine on site in small shacks built and operated by the peasant workers. Later, the purified morphine would be transported and further refined at specialized hidden laboratories to the incredibly powerful and valuable heroin known as China White.

Enoki Masahiro stood at the opposite side of the field from the narrow dirt track that had brought the trucks filled with workers from Laos and a few from neighboring Burma. Men, women, and older children, all hired based on their experienced harvesting skills developed over a lifetime. With almost four hectares (eight acres) of poppies under cultivation on this mountainside alone, this field represented his organization’s flagship crop this year. The street value of the heroin produced by these high-yield opium-producing plants in a growing season could be in excess of six million dollars. And this field was just one of ten such fields that the Yakuza had developed in Laos this year in an attempt to vertically integrate its profitable heroin business.

Enoki Masahiro had been given a once in a lifetime opportunity to move up within the Yakuza organization. Together, these fields would source almost half of the heroin needs of their distribution pipeline over the next twelve months. Next year he would make sure there were more fields, adding Burma to their list of locations. Enoki would target supplying more than 80% of their total uncut heroin demand. When he returned to Tokyo, he would be greatly elevated among his peers, perhaps even become a kyodai (brother) with control over his own subfamily of shatei (younger brothers) and their wakashu (children) within his clan. His Oyabun (father), Yamaguchi Yasahiro, was the head of the Yamaguchi clan and was a powerful leader within the Yakuza. He would be pleased with Enoki’s success here and his demonstrated ability to lead. Such fortune would give his wife and children new access to the good life, and he would be feared and respected within the Yamaguchi’s kyodai. Who knew, one day he might even be elevated to a lesser regional boss holding the title of shatei-gashira. Then all the kyodai would honor him with absolute loyalty and obedience.

Enoki squatted to take his morning shit, keeping an eye on his small cadre of men organizing the native workers. There would be no loafing today. The poppy pods were fat with their magical drug and were glistening from the prior night’s scores. The tapped pods were ready to have the dried opium gum collected. It had to be done right so as not to damage the valuable pods, and quickly before the heat of the sun set the gum too firmly to the skin. After the morning’s harvest, the entire field would have to be inspected for new pods that would be ready for this evening’s tapping, and today’s harvest would have to be cooked. The field hands would be worked nonstop until the job was done. Then they would be inspected to make sure they were not hiding any of the valuable opium or purified morphine as they often tried to do. He wanted this job site moving quickly so that he could travel to supervise the other smaller fields, as they too were being harvested.

As Enoki began to rise from his morning constitutional, he noticed some movement in the brush on the opposite side of the field. Probably one of those lazy workers crapping on my time. He would watch carefully to determine which one it was. That worker would deserve at least one backhand across the face as an example to the others. He had begun pulling up his pants when he saw something unusual that caused him to freeze. Was there more movement to the left of the original disturbance in the brush that he had just noticed? He buttoned his pants, picked up his AK-47, and watched keenly for anything else out of the ordinary. Yes, there was definitely more movement in the tall, dense brush surrounding the field to the left of his original sighting. In his peripheral vision, he once again saw something in the edge of the brush, maybe even a glint of metal.

One of his men supervising the laborers also turned his attention to that area of the jungle. Good, his worker had seen the movements too. Enoki began to step out of the brush on his side of the field, when the whole panorama changed in an instant. A contingent of men, maybe 20 of them, stepped through the fringe of the brush at the same time. They were all dressed in tan uniforms and armed with rifles. Enoki ducked down again. His mind was whirling. We’ve paid off the local military. What are they doing here? Who do they think they are? They couldn’t be here to actually shake down the Yakuza for more money.

Enoki was attempting to discern the significance of what he was witnessing as the soldiers rounded up his five men—who had been caught completely off-guard—and the fifteen or so workers. The two groups were organized into two semi-straight lines. Then he noticed more movement in the brush behind the newly emerged soldiers. More soldiers? This whole situation wasn’t making sense and was rapidly getting out of hand. More men came from the brush, but these men were not dressed like the others. They appeared to be in civilian clothing, and appeared to be northern Asian, most likely Chinese. Whoever they were, the apparent leader of the soldiers had disarmed Enoki’s men without a single shot being fired. Enoki Masahiro thought his men had responded wisely. They would have been needlessly slaughtered, and a shooting incident with Laotian soldiers could have jeopardized the Yakuza’s entire operation in this country.

As Enoki watched, it appeared that a senior ranking Laotian soldier was talking to the Chinese civilians and had reached an agreement on a course of action. The soldier turned toward his men, barking the unmistakable order in any language: Fire. The AK-47s in the Laotian soldiers’ hands leapt to life, spitting bursts of flame from their barrels like miniature flame-throwers. The rat-tat-tat of the individual automatic weapons merged into one loud roar, resembling the sound of the turbine on a jet engine. Enoki looked on in horror as he saw his men, then the workers, crumble to the ground as if their bones had been suddenly extracted from their bodies by some fiendish torture device.

Before sanity could prevail, Enoki found himself screaming and running straight toward the Laotian soldiers who were murdering his men. Enoki’s own AK-47 spewed its deadly payload in short bursts as he advanced on his enemies. Moving forward, Enoki concentrated on leveling his weapon. Keep it horizontal, he thought as he closed the now eighty-meter gap between himself and the killers. An unnatural jubilation set in as he saw that he had gotten lucky hitting at least two of those treacherous soldier dogs with the 7.62 mm short rounds from his weapon. But the momentary surprise advantage he had gained soon evaporated as the experienced soldiers, who had all been fired upon before, turned their weapons on their unexpected assailant.

Enoki saw that the soldiers had directed their fire toward him, and immediately began to hear the whistle of bullets passing by as the soldiers honed in on the crazy man who was now their target. Enoki Masahiro, realizing that he would soon be killed in his bull rush charge, slowed and dropped to one knee. In one last concentrated firing burst, he laid down the remainder of his thirty-shot magazine, targeting the civilians. They had obviously been calling the shots, so they had to die. At this range he could see them quite clearly and was sure that they were Chinese. As he squeezed off his last round, he was satisfied to see that at least some of his bullets had found their mark. One of the Chinamen literally lost his head as the full metal jacket round tore through his face and blew off the back of his skull. Enoki saw the scatter that had once been the man’s brain propelled behind him by the force of the shot. The Chinaman fell backward as stiff as a board, dead before he hit the ground. A second Chinaman spun around, falling to the ground holding his arm; Enoki had seriously wounded him, but not fatally. Maybe he will bleed to death!

Enoki’s victory was short-lived. The action on his AK-47 slammed shut as he expended the last of his thirty cartridges. Before he had time to react and take cover, he too was hit by rifle fire and was knocked to his back, a white-hot searing pain boring through his left shoulder. He had been seriously wounded. As he lay there briefly considering his options, he applied pressure to the gaping hole left by the bullet that also had shattered his clavicle and torn important ligaments. He understood that his chances of survival were diminishing rapidly, and at this point were already extremely low. He also realized that he had made a big mistake. His duty was to escape, warn his fellow Yakuza at other sites, and get this critical information back to his superiors. Now he would most likely fail, disgraced because he had stupidly thrown away the opportunity to do his duty.

Still, he knew he had to try and recover his honor. He rolled over in the lush, meter-high poppies, their poignant fragrance overpowering his senses as he crushed the ripened pods. Bullets whizzed above his head, but it was obvious that they were only firing on his last known location and had lost sight of him among the tall poppy plants. The poppies gave him excellent concealment at this distance, and the soldiers were hesitant to advance because they fortunately didn’t know that he was out of ammunition. Their hesitation would not last long. Enoki had to make it back to the brush on the opposite side of the field from the soldiers—some thirty meters away. First, he would crawl through the poppies to give him some distance from his last known location, but then he would have to stand to make a dash to reach the deep cover of the bordering foliage.

It took fifteen agonizing seconds to crawl ten meters away from ground zero, where the fusillade of bullets intended for him continued to spray the poppy plants in increasingly wide swaths. As an afterthought, he gathered several poppy pods that were flattened under him and stuck them in his pocket. He would need their narcotic, anesthetizing effects for his shoulder wound. A quick prayer to his ancestors and he sprang to his feet, beginning his sprint toward the cover of the thick brush. He gave up a small amount of speed in exchange for maintaining a low body position. He ran in a zigzag pattern, attempting to keep his would-be executioners from getting an easy fix on him. Focusing his eyes on the brush ahead, he kept running despite the intensifying staccato of automatic weapons fire that was beginning to focus on and blanket the area surrounding him. A quick backward glance confirmed that as they fired, they were running after him. Their pursuit was probably the only reason their aim had not been true enough to deliver a fatal shot. After what seemed like an eternity, the sanctuary of the brush loomed directly in front of him. Perhaps there was a small chance after all. Once inside, he would immediately start making evasive turns, confusing the soldiers’ aim and forcing them to scatter their fire into wider patterns. Five meters left … two meters …. A euphoria born of escaping death began to seize Enoki when the second bullet ripped through his left arm, just inches down from the first wound.

His arm had been hit hard, tearing through the triceps and smashing the underlying bone into fragments. The overwhelming pain made his final two strides into the brush acts of shear will beyond determination alone. He dove headlong into the dense vegetation and rolled several times to the right before stopping and moving to a squatting position. Looking at the new injury of what used to be his upper arm almost made him pass out. Most of his flesh had been ripped away, leaving the jagged, broken bone exposed.

Enoki removed his belt and applied a makeshift tourniquet just beyond the shoulder joint to staunch the arterial bleeding before beginning to move forward in his crouched position into the deepest vegetation. The heavy plants slashed at his face and body as he moved. The pain in his left arm and shoulder was unbearable. He understood without further examination that his arm was severely damaged and would be lost if he were to survive this experience, which was still quite doubtful. With unnatural calm born of shock, he realized that he would probably bleed to death anyway, or be caught and executed by his pursuers. Part of him was hoping to be caught quickly and have this whole affair end here and now, but he was bound by honor to keep moving and try to escape. As he ran, he took one of the bulbous poppy pods from his pocket, placed it in his mouth, and began sucking. Maybe it would have some analgesic affect. In the meantime, he would have to endure the pain as he lost his pursuers. Then he would circle southeast, back to his contact in the village to tell him what he had witnessed. He would have to rely on himself to warn the others.

Chapter 2

San Francisco—North Beach Monday, 8:07 PM PST

As usual, the North Beach district in San Francisco was packed with vibrant crowds moving from place to place as they jockeyed for seats in the latest trendy hot spots. Laughter spilled from the doors of these establishments as friends and acquaintances met and searched for the perfect atmosphere to match their moods for the evening. The Green Lagoon, famous for its green-tinted apple martinis and California cuisine, was particularly crowded that evening with successful yuppies, along with some hip, older couples enjoying the undercurrent of energy resonating throughout the restaurant and bar. Everyone in the popular nightspot was eager to put the day’s drudgeries behind them and relax over drinks and dinner.

At the Green Lagoon’s coveted window table sat a group of young, Japanese men dressed in the latest GQ fashions, no expense spared on their wardrobes. They were attired in the latest Hugo Boss and Versace suits with open-collared, Louis Vuitton shirts. Their clothes proclaimed money and success. Minamoto Ichiro, their leader, was particularly adorned with the manifestations of wealth and prestige. His French-cuffed silk sleeves extended just far enough from his black Versace three buttoned suit jacket to display his emerald encrusted cufflinks from Harry Winston’s. With nonchalance born of power and entitlement, he glanced at his twenty-two thousand-dollar, twenty-four karat gold Bedat watch, noting that it was time for their special dinner companions to arrive. Tonight, Ichiro would be rewarding his men. He was buying them the best the restaurant and city had to offer; his surprise guests would be the icing on the cake.

Minamoto Ichiro and his Yakuza soldiers seated around the table had reason to celebrate. They had left their lucrative criminal enterprises in Tokyo to come to San Francisco on a special assignment. Ichiro had succeeded where many of his predecessors had failed. With help from the local Yakuza So-Hanbucho (headquarters chief) and his kyodai brothers, he had penetrated the San Francisco heroin market, wresting control from the annoying Chinese rabble that had claimed the city and state as their own for so long. The competition was nothing short of ruthless, but now his clan was gaining real ground, selling no less than eighteen kilos of heroin last month alone, almost one million American dollars in profits! Thanks to his efforts, it was only a matter of time before the Yakuza would control this territory altogether. Next, his clan would set its sights higher, first concentrating on the remainder of the lucrative California urban markets, then other American cities where their Yakuza organizations were now weak or nonexistent. The Yakuza was finally establishing a real toehold in the United States, thanks to Minamoto Ichiro.

This mission’s success was especially important to Ichiro. He was the son of the Minamoto Masato, the great Kumicho leader of the Yakuza and head of the Minamoto clan. Ichiro needed to prove himself worthy of advancement to his samurai father and to his Yakuza brothers, who might have perceived his early advancement as nepotism. Ichiro’s father would be pleased when he called to report on his progress. He relished the thought of that conversation. Ichiro would be humble while discussing his victories, but his father, one of the most powerful men in Japan, would understand the greatness of his accomplishments and be filled with pride. Of course, he would share credit where credit was due. His kyodai brothers in San Francisco had not only assisted in laying out a successful distribution strategy, but their So-Hanbucho, Tokuda Tareo, had made sure the operations were always well protected from their enemies. Too bad some of those brothers could not join tonight’s celebration. Their boss, a political prick from the Japanese Consulate, had taken it upon himself to exercise his pointless authority and had refused to allow their participation simply because he personally would not attend. What a prima donna that politician had turned out to be. Perhaps Ichiro would say something negative about him when he discussed business with his father.

The waitstaff began delivering complementary appetizers to the well-dressed Japanese men seated at their prized table. The staff knew that they were big spenders and would be ordering the best the restaurant had to offer. Already the ‘special wine list’ had been delivered to the table, containing the finest reserve wines and champagnes. This group had been to the Green Lagoon before and had always run up extraordinary tabs, as if they were proudly proclaiming their total disdain for American money. Their tips were even more outrageously extravagant. These diners would get nothing but the highest-quality service from the entire staff.

Tonight, the Green Lagoon’s rich guests were acting particularly exuberant. Expensive champagne was already flowing, along with the restaurant’s best chilled vodka shots. Marty, the Green Lagoon’s manager, was keeping a watchful eye on this table and would continue to periodically send special ‘gifts’ from the kitchen. Marty had already received his two-hundred-dollar bribe simply by seating them at the prestigious window table that was held in reserve for his most important patrons. He had heard the rumors; these particular guests were not your typical young Japanese businessmen. They were somehow ‘connected’ in Japan. Marty checked with the waiter. They had already blown through more than eight hundred dollars on champagne and exotic liquor shots alone. Dinner and wine had yet to be ordered.

As Marty watched his special guests from a respectful distance, he was happily surprised to see two sultry women strut through the Green Lagoon’s door. Both women were dressed over-the-top, wearing tight, form-fitting mini-dresses under sexy, revealing wraps. Each woman boasted a glamorous mane of blonde hair flowing wildly over her shoulders. The women wore high platform heels, accentuating long, curvaceous legs, which caused exaggerated seductive swings to their hips as they strutted to the window table. Marty figured these women had to be pros. As the two women reached the Japanese diners, a third redheaded woman, equally attractive, strode through the front door, catching up from behind. The new woman was even more provocative than the first two, wearing a pair of skin-tight red leather pants that matched her flame-red hair. She wore a tight black tee that caused her ample breasts to immodestly protrude under her open, bolero-style black leather jacket. As the redhead reached her two friends at the table, all three glided over to the young man at the head of the table, Mr. Minamoto, to pay him homage.

As the women fawned over their evening’s benefactor, Minamoto’s three men looked on with hungry, wolfish eyes. Minamoto rearranged the seating to provide each man with a sexy dinner companion. Ichiro enjoyed rewarding his men, but he was no martyr. He had reserved the two best women the exclusive escort agency had to offer for his private consumption at his apartment later that night. For now, he would satisfy his lust vicariously, enjoying the adept handling of his men by the hookers.

These women impressed Marty. He decided money truly could buy the best booze, the best food, and the most expensive women. While the three high-priced call girls had drawn unwanted attention from other women patrons of his restaurant, Marty didn’t care. He could see the rate of spending at the window table accelerating by the moment. Besides, he had to admit to himself that he loved stealing lascivious glances at the women and was experiencing more than a tinge of lust and jealousy. He would have to ‘check on the table’ to get a better close-up look at these babes.

As he made his way to his wealthy Japanese guests, Marty noted a sleek black BMW pulling along the curb in front of his restaurant—probably more rich, young businessmen with money to burn in his bar and restaurant. Marty had learned to attract the best crowds, ready to pay the restaurant’s unreasonable prices for the privilege of being wined, dined, and seen at the Green Lagoon. The owners would have to recognize his value when they doled out bonuses this year, or he’d make another restaurant famous and put it at the top of the ‘Zagat Restaurant Survey’ in San Francisco. Jealous competitors already had approached him looking for new ideas and facelifts for their own passé restaurants.

Marty paused for a moment on his way to the table to check on the new potential patrons who were getting out curbside from the Beemer. By now, he could recognize many of his regulars at a glance. The windows to the car were tinted, so he couldn’t see inside under the iridescent streetlights. It wasn’t until all four doors opened simultaneously and the occupants stepped out that he had cause for alarm. Four Asian men wearing dark glasses were moving in unison toward the restaurant’s front as if they were synchronized swimmers. Each of the men was holding an odd black object that almost looked like a pistol with a long, dark, protrusion sticking from its bottom. Were those protrusions magazines on guns?

The four men on the sidewalk already had chambered the first round in their Heckler & Koch MP5-SD1 machine pistols as they advanced on their targets. These weapons were 9mm, sound suppressed versions of the HKMP5-A2, but the butt-stocks had been replaced with receiver caps, making them hardly longer than a standard pistol. Each weapon carried a thirty-shot magazine, and all the machine pistols were set on fully automatic fire. Without any sign of rush or panic, the armed men formed a semicircle around the plate glass window of the Green Lagoon and their intended targets, the Japanese men on the other side. Marty the manager froze, unable to process the scene unfolding in front of him.

The first dinner guest to see the armed men outside was one of the blonde escorts. She had been glancing out the window to see if passers-by were noticing her surreptitiously stroking her client’s cock under the table. She sprang from her seat when she saw the guns but hadn’t fully raised her arm to point when the window barrier shattered into a million deadly shards of glass projectiles. The blonde hooker never managed a sound as two 9mm rounds penetrated her chest, exploding her left breast implant and the pericardial sack surrounding her heart. The lethal bullets exited the blonde’s back and continued their journey across the restaurant—one bullet embedding itself into the far wall, the other bullet ripping a whole through Marty’s upper abdomen and pancreas, assuring his eventual death. The mortally wounded blonde plunged headlong into the complementary assortment of appetizers, a look of horrified surprise forever etched onto her face.

Three of the four Japanese men sitting at the table never reacted to their attackers, frozen in a moment of time…. The incredible fusillade of bullets from the machine pistols blanketed the entire table, striking their intended targets from numerous angles and points of entry in an instant, ripping them to pieces. Only Minamoto had the presence of mind to reach for his Glock 9mm in his shoulder holster when he saw the leggy blonde’s chest explode. But his hand never pulled the weapon clear of his jacket. The assassin who had shot the blonde in the chest had already adjusted his aim downward and to the left, causing the laser-like strafe of bullets to strike Minamoto Ichiro in the side of his head, killing him instantly. In less than three seconds, the HKMP5s, having a firing rate of eight hundred rounds per minute, had emptied their magazines in a few well-controlled bursts. The suppressed roar of the weapons ended with the light tinkling sounds of spent cartridges landing on the sidewalk and street surrounding the killers.

While the gunmen were shredding their Japanese targets and female companions, the spray of one hundred twenty bullets indiscriminately found other occupants of the restaurant unfortunate enough to fall within the wide cone of death and destruction. A second errant bullet struck the already dying Marty in the neck, just a moment after he realized he had been shot in his stomach. This bullet tore through the center of his windpipe and larynx, squelching his horrible scream. He fell to the floor as the bullet shattered his cervical spine, wondering why he was going to die just when he was becoming such a success. Some assassin bullets passing through and around the intended Yakuza targets found a number of the Green Lagoon’s other unlucky patrons. Six lay in various stages of dying anguish, some wondering what had just happened as they drew their last breaths.

When the gunmen had exhausted their HKMP5s, the two men nearest the restaurant handed off their expended weapons to their accomplices and drew their pistols from under their jackets. Armed with fresh weapons, they stepped through the broken glass window frame that separated them from their prey and advanced on the table of dead and dying men and women. The assassins’ new weapons of choice were .40 caliber H&Ks, loaded with Eagle Talon daisy-cutter bullets. At point blank range, the killers’ shot each of the Japanese men—who just moments ago had been celebrating their successes in life—several more times in the head and chest until their bodies had ceased any convulsive reflexes and there could be no chance of a miraculous paramedic revival. Only then did the gunmen retreat to the BMW and speed off into the night, leaving the scene of the bloodiest massacre in San Francisco’s recent history.

Chapter 3

San Francisco—North Beach Monday, 10:20 PM PST Crime Scene Investigation—SFPD

Lieutenant Al Takamura Haskins, SFPD Homicide, could not believe the carnage. Fourteen people dead, five others seriously wounded, not to mention the numerous injuries caused by shrapnel of glass and the ensuing pandemonium. The restaurant looked like a war zone. Bodies were strewn everywhere, the walls and tables covered with blood and bits of flesh. The window table, the obvious objective of the killers, was littered with human carnage, including most of the brain matter of the executed males. Behind the table, the restaurant manager was stretched out lengthwise on the floor.

Al couldn’t help but make comparisons between this scene and the infamous Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre. At least the Chicago gangsters had arranged to kill their victims in a secluded garage. These assassins were completely unconcerned with collateral damage and the negative exposure of a public execution. The inconceivable brutality, indiscriminate killing and lack of regard for witnesses suggested maniacal or drug-crazed killers … or perhaps someone wishing to make a very pointed statement. His men had already retrieved more than ninety shell casings that littered the street and sidewalk, and were still looking.

He had cordoned off the whole block, but the press was relentless. The larger television stations had sent their news choppers overhead despite warnings to clear the area, making conversation on the ground difficult at best. One of the dead Japanese men had already been identified. He was the son of a wealthy Japanese industrialist. He had recently arrived here to work for an international trading company called Black River Corporation based in San Francisco. The girls at the table also had been identified as extremely expensive local escorts, translating to high-class hookers. Among the other dead restaurant patrons were two college students from Berkley, a respected businessman and his wife, two young San Francisco investment bankers, and the manager of the restaurant. The other three dead Japanese men were going to be more difficult to identify—no wallets, no faces for photo ID, just fingerprints. Their identities would be run through immigration, Interpol, and the Japanese Consulate.

In his twenty years on the SFPD, Al had never seen this kind of open and notorious gangland slaying. Each of the men at the table had been ‘targets.’ Their bodies were not only riddled with 9mm entry and exit wounds, but each body also had several large bore wounds from heavier caliber weapons. Al was guessing either .45 or .40 caliber daisy-cutter rounds. They’d know when they recovered the shell casings from the gore surrounding the bodies after the crime-scene was photographed. Whoever shot these men wanted to make sure that they were dead before leaving the scene. The hookers simply had the bad luck to be with the wrong ‘John’ at the wrong place and at the wrong time.

An on-site examination of the Japanese men’s bodies had turned up some all too familiar tattoo markings on three of them. The tattoos extended from their forearms to their backs, which were virtually covered in elaborate and colorful tracings. They were characteristic markings of Yakuza, a term often used to identify the well-organized Japanese mafia.

Whereas the United States’ rapid immigration policies over the last century had resulted in extremely fragmented organized crime families, the origin of the Yakuza dated back to a much earlier time in Japan’s history. The United States’ particularly violent turf wars dating from the early 1920’s through the 1950’s had never occurred with such violence in Japan. Therefore, the Yakuza had remained more socially tolerated and politically connected, leading to a much more cohesive and larger network of clans with members numbering more than one hundred twenty thousand in Japan alone. Al understood these things, being half Japanese and spending much of his formative years in Japan with his mother’s family. Seeing four likely members of the Yakuza gunned down, execution style, in San Francisco was serious business. Things could go downhill in a hurry from here. Al would have to notify the FBI within the hour, since this case would almost assuredly cross their jurisdictional lines and involve other international agencies.

The head San Francisco coroner was already personally on the scene assisting with the CSI investigating team. A veteran of more gore and death than any ten men should ever see, he was one of the best. The bodies would be photographed and examined on site. Only then would the bodies be moved and the remaining evidence gathered. The crime scene would tell its tale in CSI. For now, it was time to focus on good old flatfoot police work—witness interviews and tracking leads. The first step had been to put out an APB on the BMW identified as the killers’ vehicle. Next would be gathering descriptions of the gunmen, and then pulling together the details of exactly what happened. It would be a late night.

Prior to heading up homicide, Al worked a tour with the SFPD heading up its Gang Task Force, or GTF. He would also bring them in for advice soon enough. In the end, homicides were all about motive, and the Task Force might be helpful with some current information on gangs operating within the city. Once he knew why Asian gunmen wanted these Japanese men dead, he might have a chance at finding the killers, and the people who ordered the hits. Hopefully he could get some answers quickly. Al couldn’t help but think that this massacre was only the first card played in a high-stakes poker game.

Chapter 4

Hong Kong, China Tuesday, 11:00 PM Local Time Executive Suite—Willow Enterprises, Ltd.

Shen Ju-Long, the Managing