When The Sakura Blooms - The Game Changers

By James L Tucker

A U.S. team of quasi-former military special operators led by Christian Camarena, who team up to conduct government and non-government sanctioned mission throughout the world. Missions take them to Central Asia, South America and Asia. They are primarily a team whose job is to exfiltrate spies who have been compromised but sometimes are made to

• Language: English
• Publisher: Struggling Dreamer Publication
• Release date: Jan 8, 2024
• ISBN: 9798989092635

Book preview

Chapter One

The large-brimmed lace hat first caught her eye. Eurasian. Tall, slim, her physical features began the story of a delicate nature, but disguised within, her athleticism hid a secret ending.

Bellamy watched. The red, translucent V-neck cover-up Michelle wore over a black bikini provided context. Bellamy had contributed to stories like this herself. More often lately. But she had no way of knowing how this one was going to end. 

Bellamy had stolen glances as Michelle came and went for her Ayurveda massage and then soaked in the jacuzzi. In the relaxation of the bright aqua and pink lights, coupled with the view, Bellamy watched and waited for the right moment.

The Inuu, with its separate entrance area reserved for adults, gave visitors a bathrobe and slippers. It was infused with the scent of lemon peels and mint leaves. The Pamukkale, structure designed to mimic the Turkish model, was Bellamy’s favorite hunting ground.

Bellamy sought companionship in hotel moments, temporary respite becoming more frequent as Elaine grew more distant. The coldness she felt from Elaine, Bellamy could only guess, had something to do with the jacket and Elaine not being able to get past Jordan’s death. Bellamy was impatient to move on from the past. Elaine still grieved for her friend and family. Rejection did not take away the unrequited love Bellamy still had for Elaine.

There is no way Elaine can connect me with anything. I made sure everything was cleaned up, Bellamy reminded herself as she sat in the chaise lounge, waiting for the right time to approach. 

Bellamy gave Michelle ample time to order and sip her cocktail before finally getting up and walking over.

Hi, I’m Avery. Can I join you? Bellamy asked as she took a seat on the stool beside Michelle under the veranda.

Michelle, feigning surprise, smiled, Sure, Marci … Corday.

Marci, are you here on vacation? Bellamy asked, flipping her hand at the bartender and pointing at Michelle’s half-empty drink.

Bellamy had become a regular at Santorini’s. The bartender, without having to be told, understood to bring Michelle another and Bellamy a whiskey and coke.

Yes, it was supposed to be a special occasion. My girlfriend and I came here together, but we are leaving on different planes.

Ah, that sucks, Bellamy faked empathy. People can be such A-holes.

Yeah, Michelle nodded, tell me about it.

Bellamy watched Michelle’s delicate fingers corner the green paper umbrella in her drink. Her ruby red gloss highlighted against the tiny red straw as she sipped from it. Cat-eye-manicured fingernails, not overly long, just beyond the length of her fingertips, dark red. Sexy but utilitarian.

It sounds to me like you’re in need of friendship, Marci. Bellamy signaled for another round of drinks.

Perhaps momentarily distracted by a sound, Michelle looked away, giving Bellamy a chance to steal a long look at her.

A slight breeze disturbed the sheer slip Michelle wore over her bikini top and provided Bellamy a further glimpse into Marci’s story.

An athlete, definitely. Will she go along with it? Bellamy looked up from her fantasy to find Michelle looking back at her.

Caught in an embarrassing moment, the feeling quickly dissipated when Bellamy saw Marci did not move to cover herself.

Bellamy asked, Marci, how about we take a break from the crowd and go up to my room where it’s peaceful and quiet? I have a great view. 

She had no clue the trap was set and about to be sprung.

Avery, are you being naughty? Michelle asked, feigning inebriation.

Of course not. I just thought—

Michelle interrupted, Then why are we going to your room? 

Michelle’s sheepish smile disguised her real intentions and signaled to Bellamy that it was time.

When they reached the threshold of Bellamy’s hotel room door, she keyed it and walked in. She felt Michelle’s hand gently touch her shoulder. Bellamy smiled, misinterpreting the deception as a sign of affection.

Then she flinched. She felt it, a tiny sudden itch, almost like a mosquito bite. Bellamy reached and grasped the area where she felt the prick. She instinctively touched it, then turned, looking at her hand, then at Michelle. Her chest began to ache. She became dizzy and nauseated. Bellamy sat at the foot of the bed, breathing deeply, trying to process what was happening to her. Michelle was ready and caught Bellamy as she started to collapse to the floor.

Nope, easier to keep you on the bed. Michelle, surprisingly strong, hoisted Bellamy back onto the bed.

Bellamy gasped, comprehension eluding her, as she looked up. Marci … who? 

Michelle’s specialty was recovering personnel from combat zones and providing emergency medical services. She had come up through the Air Force as a pararescueman.

An expert at air, land, and sea tactics, she could be counted on to make sure an injured team member was treated, stabilized, and extracted. She knew how to manage pain, give it, or take it away.

Bellamy? Girl, can you hear me? Michelle, untouched, kept her voice down. My name is Michelle, not Marci. It’s not personal. I’m doing a favor for a friend. For him, it is personal.

Michelle gazed as if trying to catch a glimpse into Bellamy’s spirit. Not with a look of revenge or anger — emotions that required some feelings, of which she had none. More like a mama bear’s acceptance as she pondered her dying cub. She held Bellamy in her arms.

I’m here, baby. I won’t leave you. It’ll be over soon. Try not to panic. Just relax and give yourself over to it.

A certain duality exists. Amateurs celebrate the death of their enemy, while the professional honors it. Like the way a hunter respects the killing of an elk and thanks it for giving its life.

Michelle rocked her like a small child until she stopped breathing, then quickly yet carefully went through Bellamy’s belongings.

Found it, Michelle said, almost singing the words, as she retrieved the worry stone from Bellamy’s pocket.

Christian’s hunch was right. Jordan always had it with him. If it wasn’t on Jordan’s body when the coroner took inventory, then Bellamy must have taken it.

When I get back, Michelle thought, I have to ask Christian what the story is on this little stone.

Michelle stood and retrieved her cellphone. She one-button tapped the prerecorded message. It was the last five words in the conclusion of Dione Warwick’s song, That’s What Friends Are For. 

Having changed clothes, she glanced around the hotel room. She hadn’t touched anything, so no need to wipe down. Bellamy was now neatly tucked in bed, as though she were asleep.

Michelle, in a summer dress and wide-brimmed lace summer hat, closed the door behind her. She held the tissue over her mouth, dabbing at the excess lip gloss. Not necessary, but a precaution. Security was probably not paying much attention to a young female coming out of Bellamy’s room. It happened so frequently, it was no longer a thing. Taking the elevator down, she stuffed the tissue into her purse and walked out of the hotel.

Chapter Two

Just off 4th Street and Broadway in Santa Ana was Chapter One. The décor — assorted whiskies, a flat screen — spoke to him, made sense. But the books on the bookshelf, not so much.

Waiting for Lindsey, he thought, Books in a bar. Only those who, deep down, crave attention — but act like they don’t — read while in a bar.

An attractive server approached his table. She caught Christian contemplating the collection of literature.

The owner, he’s a re-reader, likes keeping them so he can read them again. In my humble opinion, he collects them because he wants people to think he’s knowledgeable. What’s in your head is knowledge, not what’s on a shelf. Wouldn’t you agree?

She wore a white blouse and a nametag — not where nametags were usually worn but clipped to the belt loop of her black pants.

Christian guessed twenty-seven.

You need a menu, or are you only hydrating this evening?

Christian returned Karina’s friendly smile. A blend of light-hearted exuberance and presumptuousness — useful variables to morph him into the right frame of mind. He could use the lift to his spirit, knowing that what he was going to bounce off Lindsey was not going to be a fun thing.

Christian said, Yes on the menu, and I’ll have a stout.

We have a few…

How about the most popular?

I’m the most popular, she said.

I can see why.

Really? Now why is that? Having hooked him, Karina was in no hurry to catch and release.

Christian, more comfortable as a wingman in civilian life, was stuck floundering, not sure what to say next.

Karina tossed the menu she’d been holding on the table. I thought so. All talk. She turned and walked away, smiling. A real tough guy, she said, making sure Christian heard her.

In customer relationships, Karina cloaked her vulnerabilities in pretentiousness, though reticent in her personal ones. Perhaps her humble upbringing and need to be more had something to do with it.

Outwardly, she possessed movie star qualities, imperceptible in the mirror hanging in her hallway closet from which she viewed herself.

Christian sensed it, overcompensated bravado yet minimalist in the way she wore make-up. Equally apparent in her manner of dress, which could only be described as subdued avoidance.

He’d seen the behavior before in adversaries, bullies who pushed smaller people around, but when pushed back, caved. An annoyance, but for Karina, it was about survival. Christian found it endearing. She was that tiny little mouse gingerly moving through an open meadow, making her way while avoiding harriers and falcons soaring above. 

A few moments later, Karina returned with a tall glass, set a napkin on the table, and placed the stout she’d selected for him on top of the napkin.

Don’t let me see you crying.

About?

The beer I picked for you. I based it on you.

I’m sure you’re going to tell me about it.

Of course, if you ask nicely.

Okay, I give up. Please? Christian held his palm up. You have the floor.

Not too bubbly, yet infused with a lot of beer gas.

Wow, you are good, Christian said sarcastically. 

It came from the heart.

He smirked. I see that.

Karina was an on-again, off-again college student. Not because she struggled with the rigor — she couldn’t afford tuition. Proud, she refused to ask for aid, student or parental.

Endeavoring to keep up with apartment rents in Orange County, Karina worked two jobs — lunches at a local restaurant and evenings at Chapter One. 

Hispanic maybe? Christian thought. 

Duck fat fries or lumpia if you’re not too hungry. The Swim Shady salmon or ribeye steak if you are.

Is it made with love? Christian said, trying to win some points.

Of course. Everything here is. 

Which is your favorite?

You are kidding, right? I can’t afford to eat here.

Then how do you know what’s good?

I go by what the locals order mostly, Karina said. Speaking of locals, have I seen you here before? You’re not from around here, are you?

No, Midwest. I’m here to meet a friend.

Girlfriend? Karina responded to Christian’s answer the same way an interrogator would a dishonest suspect.

No, just a friend. You? said Christian.

Born and raised right down the street. Santa Ana High. Go Saints. Karina provided her family ethnicity without being asked. Hispanic. People never guess right. They think I’m Asian or Russian.

Because of your green eyes?

Yeah, how’d you guess?

Vadim Vadimovich. Christian’s Russian pronunciation flawless.

Karina moved close and offered her hand. Christian took it. As he caught his breath, he felt her vulnerability and detected the faint whiff of the perfume she wore. 

Karina Carevalo, she said, spinning the pendant on the gold chain she was wearing between her fingers. It’s a pleasure to meet you too. You speak Russian? 

As a child, his mother spoke to him in Russian and Korean — mostly to maintain the languages she’d studied while attending Middlebury College back in Vermont. Christian learned to speak to his mother in both languages and to his father in Spanish. The Army and the U.S. government did the rest to fine-tune his skills, sending him to the Monterey Institute of International Studies.

Surprised by Karina’s recognition, he said, A little, holding his finger and thumb inches apart. I’m Christian.

I’m Catholic.

No, my name—

Just kidding. You always so serious? Karina teased. Maybe you should lighten up some … Christian. By the way, the Russian, what did you say? It was kinda sexy!

But before he could answer, Karina, embarrassed for stepping over the line, turned away. I have to check on my tables.

He was gazing out the window, without really looking, when he felt his phone ring in his pocket. Michelle. He answered.

Without a word exchanged, he listened to Dionne Warwick sing. The recorded message. The mission complete. He hung up.

There’s Lindsey, he thought.

Christian could tell it was her by the light blonde hair. He visually tracked Lindsey as she crossed 4th and made her way into Chapter One.

There you are, he said, catching her attention.

Mind if I join you? Lindsey said, placing her jacket on the back of a chair, her Peserico sleeveless silk top exposing her defined shoulders.

She used an engraved foldable hanger to suspend her Louis Vuitton Monogram. She didn’t like it touching anything.

Do you know how filthy purses are? she said, noticing Christian watching her. I watch girls put their purse on the bathroom floor, the same purse they put on the table or their bed when they get home. Gross! Am I late?

Nope, still on my first beer. Christian stood, giving Lindsey a hug. She kissed his cheek.

Lindsey would’ve liked their relationship to move from pecks on the cheek to her high-rise condo in Newport Beach. She made efforts every now and then to remind Christian the offer still stood.

Christian cherished Lindsey. She came under his standing rule: don’t shit where you eat. A rule he tried to keep — although, admittedly, he had broken it on some occasions, but never with Lindsey.

Lindsey was far too valuable an asset. He needed her protection, appreciated her toughness, and coveted her confidentiality. He could ill afford to lose her because of emotional connectivity. It took too much effort to cultivate the level of trust they’d built for each other to risk it all on sex.

Lindsey was not unattractive but not considered drop-dead gorgeous. She had passed her thirties practicing law and kept in shape to stave off her forties. Not naturally light blonde, more of a dirty blonde. Her martini choice, and the way she played the game, also dirty.

Her black business suit gave her away as a U.S. attorney. Lindsey’s hard work as an intern for the Civil Rights Division’s Criminal Section of the District of Maryland’s U.S. Attorney’s Office had paid off.

Now a federal prosecutor, she relished taking no crap, throwing her weight around, and tossing heavy hitters in jail. Anyone was fair game; she wielded an equal-opportunity hammer.

In Santa Ana, the county seat, the court of appeals and federal courthouse were within walking distance. Lindsey spent her days working cases and every Thursday night at Chapter One, sipping double martinis at the happy hour price.

She didn’t need to. Judging by the purse dangling on her shoulder and the Christian Louboutin red-soled heels she strutted, she could drink any time she wanted.

Most people can think back to a time and place and smile. For Lindsey, Chapter One was that place. She preferred hanging with cops. She was raised around cops and found comfort there.

Dad and older brother Gordy, Chicago cops distrustful of babysitters, dragged her to the cop bar hangouts since back when she was a little girl. It wasn’t uncommon for a patrol cruiser to pull up to her while she walked home or waited at school.

Hey, Linds, is that guy bothering you? Gordy said you need a ride. Hop in. 

She wasn’t of age to be in the bars, but often, she sat in the back, listening to all the cops talk, filling up on root beer and orange sodas while finishing up her homework. No one asked, and they all left her alone — that was Gordy’s little sister. 

The fond memories all came crashing down on January 13th.

Gordy was shot and killed over some chicken-shit loud music complaint, she heard her dad say through the crack of her bedroom door. He was on the phone with his sister, who lived in Milwaukee. Officers die in a blaze of glory, not because some drunk-ass old woman decides to take a pot-shot at the cops.

Why? Aunt Lucy said, in tears after hearing the news.

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