Collector of Secrets (35 page)

Oto and the second bodyguard remained motionless, both men clearly shocked as Hiro raced forward to scoop Tomoko from the ground. “I’ll take her downstairs.” He fled to the waiting elevator, carrying her in his arms.

“You care about her so damn much? Then you can stay locked up with her.” The great man’s bellow echoed out into the grand foyer. “And just so you know, little girl, your American boyfriend is going to die.”

T
omoko balanced on the creaky chair with her knees tucked to her chest. A bowl of steaming water sat on the wooden table; Hiro dipped a cloth into it. Leaning forward, he attempted to pull her hands from her face, but she tensed and refused.

“You’re playing a very dangerous game with Kodama-
san
.”

Her muffled voice was defiant. “I’m tired of being a victim.”

“If you want to live, you’ll be whatever he tells you to be.”

Tomoko removed her left hand from her face. She pointed at the bandage covering his pinkie finger. “You may have chosen to survive that way, but I won’t.”

“The difference is that I’ll live.”

“If you call it living.”

“Call it what you want. Now move your other hand so I can see your face.”

Tomoko could sense that he was serious about helping, although why he was being so kind was still a mystery. Her feet slid to the floor, and she dropped both hands into her lap. Her right eye blinked and fluttered when she opened it. Surprisingly, the vision seemed fine.

Hiro leaned in closer. The cloth turned pink with blood as he gently wiped at the wound. His sleeves were rolled up close to his elbows, and she could see the tattoos snaking down his arms. The odor of stale cigarettes floated from his mouth. Tomoko instinctively turned her head away, but his hands gently guided her face back toward the light. There was something about him that was so oddly sincere.

“You must listen to me. Being an illegitimate child is Oto’s weakest spot. If he didn’t think you were still a useful bargaining chip, he would have killed you for mentioning it.”

Tomoko shifted in her seat. “But everyone knows his father never publicly acknowledged him and that the leaders of the other
Yakuza
gangs treat him like an outcast. They believe he should never have inherited his father’s position. Oto seized power but never paid his dues. There was a magazine article about it just a few months ago.”

“True, but a magazine can’t describe how dangerous and volatile he is.”

Tomoko bit her lip and flinched at the sting of hydrogen peroxide. “Ow!”

“He’s been searching for this map since his father died more then twenty years ago. It’s not just the money he wants. He believes if he discovers the map and recovers the fortune, he’ll gain the full respect of his peers in the
Yakuza
community. That’s the most important thing to him.”

“You mean he’s just a child who wants the other kids to like him?”

Hiro shrugged. “Yes, I suppose.

She could feel the bandage on his hand pressing into her hair. “I’m sorry about your finger. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Don’t worry.” Hiro placed the final piece of medical tape into place. “That should hold until morning. The swelling will go down in a few days. You should get some rest. I’ll see if I can get something for your headache.”

Tomoko flinched again but this time from surprise. “How can you be so sure I have a headache?”

He turned away, tossing the water into the corner and gathering up the medical supplies. “I’ve been hit a few times before. I know how it feels.”

MAX WOKE with a start. A clanging bell was demanding attention. He strained to force the pea-soup fog from his sleepy brain. Sitting up, he noticed he was on a double bed pressed into the back corner of a room. The walls were cedar logs infilled with white caulking, and he recalled staring up at a cabin perched on an ancient rock base. Ben had settled him in before leaving to take his granddaughter back to Osaka. There’d been a promise that they would speak again when he returned. The remainder of the day was filled with frustrated agony, pacing near the gate and imagining every woodland noise to be Tomoko’s footfall. But with nightfall’s descent, the only visitors were the stars and so, despondent, he’d withdrawn back to the cabin.

I must have fallen asleep.

The piercing jangle continued unabated as Max stumbled to the desk at the cabin’s front. The solid black receiver of the chrome-dialed 1950s phone felt heavy in his hand. “Hello?”

“We are not alone!” Ben’s voice on the other end was burning.

Max paused. Now that the ringing had ceased, he could hear baying voices—dogs. It was the sonorous cries of animals on the hunt. “What’s happening?”

“Someone’s here. I can see on the security cameras. They came over the fence, and there’s more than one man.”

The Yakuza . . . or the police!
Max felt his heart skip a beat. “I don’t know how they found me.” His free hand ran through his unkempt hair.

“Come through the trees and meet me by the flagpole. Use the flashlight I gave you, but be careful. They may see it.” Ben’s voice overflowed with urgency. “Hurry! There’s no time!”

Max threw the receiver onto the desktop. He turned and lunged back to the bed. His hands shook while stuffing loose articles into the almost empty daypack.
Where’s the diary?
He paused for only a second, straining to recall.
Ben’s got it. Now move!
Rushing for the door, he reached for the handle, but paused as it dawned on him that the invaders could be waiting on the other side and he’d walk straight into a trap. He considered turning on the porch light, but decided against it. The darkness could work to his advantage. Max slowed his breathing and pressed himself against the strip of wall between the door and a large picture window. Inching the curtain back, he peered out onto the front deck. A dim glow drifted up from the yard light at the distant base of the stairs. The coast looked clear.

He cracked the door open and eased out into the crisp night air before edging toward the staircase. A flights of staris led him down to the first landing. Pausing to crouch, Max stared through the handrail’s slats. Far below, a shadow raced from the bushes toward the base of the rock wall. It could have been the shape of a bulky animal, but as the figure drew closer to the yard light, it clearly became that of a man. He was dressed entirely in black with broad shoulders and a slender waist—but it was his thick neck that gave him away.

Holy crap, it’s him!

Max’s panicked mind raced in circles. He was fairly sure he hadn’t been seen yet. The problem was that the only escape route was now cut off—there was no alternate way down.

Thick Neck was almost at the bottom of the stairs when Max saw the shiny reflection of metal in his
hand. It could mean only one thing.

Scurrying upward in retreat, he could feel the big man’s weight vibrating from below. It would be only a matter of seconds before the killer arrived. Clambering onto the nearest handrail, Max scanned the steeply pitched rooftop. The end of a slender rope, likely used for maintenance, stretched down from the peak. He grasped and pulled with all his might, trying to move as noiselessly as possible on the asphalt shingles, praying that the line would hold his weight as he scrambled up its length.

The footsteps below reached the landing and stopped just as Max eased himself over the far side of the peak’s crest and lay still. He tried to slow his rapid breathing. Both hands clutched the peak to keep from sliding backward to his death.

Suddenly, the door was kicked inward with a crashing bang. Stomping boots raced inside. He heard Thick Neck cursing in frustration. The bed frame was flipped and slammed about in anger. The room was empty, but the thug was bound to figure out soon enough that the roof was an option.

A cell phone rang and he heard the killer answer, still yelling.

Max knew he needed to do something quickly. Masked against the noisy conversation below, he slithered left toward the chimney. The stonework began at the peak and ran about three feet down the backward-sloping roofline. He peered into the darkness below.

If I stay, he shoots me. If I jump, I die.

A whisper of a thought eased into his brain—there was another possibility. Rising up, he straddled the roof’s peak and slid the daypack off his shoulder. Undoing the zipper, he probed around inside, finally retrieving a dagger.

The blade cut easily through the twine-like maintenance rope.

Max forced himself to concentrate as his shaking hands fed the material through his belt loops. Using what little light was available, he struggled to join the two loose ends together with a fisherman’s knot, making sure to leave an eight-foot loop of loose rope. The result was the makeshift ring of a lineman’s belt attached to his waist. Standing up, he secured himself by easing the loop over the chimney top’s four corners—he was attached.

All I have to do is climb onto the outside of the chimney and stay hidden till he’s gone.

Below, the two porch lights snapped to life, illuminating the cabin’s front and the surrounding canopy of trees. Frozen in place, Max stared down onto Thick Neck
,
who strode into plain view. The man had his broad back to the roof as he moved to the balcony’s front. He rested his handgun on the railing before lighting a cigarette.

Max’s muscles burned hot, and he struggled to remain absolutely still.

Don’t turn around. Don’t turn around. Please, don’t turn around.

Smoke curled slowly into the air, dissipating into the dark sky as Thick Neck leaned against the handrail, drawing repeatedly on the burning ember dangling from his lips.

Max held the painful pose as the seconds ticked past, biting his lip, swallowing a groan.

Finally, Thick Neck’s cigarette flicked outward into space and then, without warning, he turned and looked straight up at the rooftop. The two men held eye contact for a split second as the big man grinned maliciously and spoke a single word—“Tomoko”—while drawing a line across his throat with a bulky finger.

No!
She can’t be dead!

The air exploded with action as Thick Neck dove toward the gun. Grasping it, he spun and fired repeatedly. Max dropped, hugging the roof, scarcely avoiding the bullets ripping past. He could feel the projectiles’ searing heat as they screamed past his skull.

Springing forward, the big man clambered onto the handrail, which groaned under the immense load. As he struggled to pull himself onto the roof, he lost the grip on his pistol, cursing its fall into the dark bushes below.

Max grasped the chimney and pressed the toe of his shoes between the stones. Reaching around the far side, he gripped the rock and prayed the rope would hold as he swung out into space. The loop tugged at his waist but held firm against his body’s weight. Every limb shook, and he prayed for strength while clinging precariously, inching his way around to the outside edge.

Thick Neck screamed curses as he struggled to reach the chimney, but his voice fell silent when he reached the daypack resting on the peak. Max understood enough Japanese to know that the man was muttering, “Where is it? Where is it?” Moments later an angry cry preceded the sound of the pack clattering down to the deck. The killer was now reaching around the chimney, grasping. He grunted as he tried to catch Max’s arms. Each swipe missed by mere inches, before the attempts ceased.

Max listened for sounds of movement, his mind reeling.
It can’t be true.
Tomoko can’t be dead.

The rattle of a chain preceded a hammering weight crashing violently into the chimney over his head, causing him to shout and duck. Bits of rock and dust rained down, choking the air.

What the hell?

The metal ball slammed again, even closer this time.

Shit!
Max listened to the rattle of the links being retracted. He knew the device would get him eventually and his mind spun desperately. A fresh burst of adrenaline coursed through his veins.

You’re gonna pay, you bastard!

Max edged back the way he’d come, and waited.

The weight smashed into the rock a third time. Closer yet, it brushed the hairs on his head, while shards of rock bounced against his face.