Time of Attack (21 page)

 

T
odd Elton sat on the hood of his black Chevy Silverado at the edge of the runway and watched the gray-green C-130 Hercules from the Nevada Air Guard’s 152 Airlift Wing come in low across the east desert. It continued north as if the pilots might have decided against stopping in such a plague-infested land, then, at the last minute, executed a lumbering turn to final approach nearly over the top of the hospital at the north end of town.

The arrival of a military aircraft in a place cut off from society—if only for two days—tended to draw a crowd. By the time the C-130 had touched down and rolled to a stop, a convoy of twenty pickups and three motorcycles had arrived at the airport.

Colonel Huber with the Utah National Guard had his men dressed in black biohazard suits, standing ready to accept the new cargo—and keep anyone in the twenty pickups from stealing it.

Monte Young, Elton’s father-in-law and the only sheriff Kane County had known for twenty-four years, stood at the front of a white Dodge Durango with a six-pointed badge on the door.

The rear of the C-130 yawned open and the National Guardsmen began the work of unloading palletized food and medical supplies.

The crew on the arriving transport was careful not to go beyond the confines of the ramp. None of them would dare leave the plane. If they did, they would find themselves calling Kanab home for the foreseeable future.

Though most of the valley was predominately Mormon and taught to prepare for disasters with extra food, it was amazing how fast the shelves of the local grocery had been stripped bare once news of the quarantine was broadcast.

Neighbor stopped visiting neighbor and a personally enforced approach boundary of at least fifteen feet became the norm. If someone had a cold or sneezed, the nonapproach area was raised to a bubble of thirty feet or more. As a doctor, and one mandated to deal directly with those already infected, Elton was placed even farther out in what he called a yell-zone—where he had to raise his voice just to be heard in normal conversations.

The guy who’d brought pizza to the clinic the night before had left the food at the curb, yelling at him to leave his money on the sidewalk. Elton didn’t have the heart to tell the poor kid that if he was infected, his money would be the last thing anyone should touch.

Last to be unloaded were the sets of large Pelican hard cases that Elton knew contained ECMO units. His heart fell when only two were lowered onto the tarmac.

An armed soldier ordered him to halt when he tried to walk closer.

“I thought we were getting a dozen ventilators and at least six ECMO machines,” he yelled to the guy who looked like he might be in charge.

“Realigned,” the soldier said.

“What does that mean?”

“Means the hospitals need the units for themselves. New cases are popping up in Salt Lake City, Las Vegas, Seattle, and Los Angeles. Everyone’s holding on to what they have in case they need it.”

Elton’s shoulders fell, stunned.

“Sorry, Doc,” the soldier said. “There’s talk of bringing some over from the East Coast. Maybe next trip.”

Elton knew better. If the disease was spreading, no hospital administrator was going to give up a piece of equipment they might need for their own patients.

He looked at the two Pelican cases. They wouldn’t be enough—and with all the information and conspiracy theories flying around the Internet, everyone in town already knew it.

A barrel-chested man wearing jeans and a faded tan Carhartt jacket stood beside a KLR motorcycle off the side of the runway. A curly head of black hair moved in the noon breeze. Brody Teeples was a known hothead and sometimes drunk. A talented cabinetmaker, he was ever spoiling for a fight. He had a mouth like a sailor and the eye of an artist. And though he was quick to crack another man’s skull for looking at him wrong, one word from his wife would cow him immediately. He loved her more than life.

And she was one of the sick.

Teeples strode over to face Elton, not caring to keep the distance of any yell-zone. His eyes, red from crying, stared holes in the doc. He hadn’t shaved in days.

“My Stephanie better get every bit of the care your family gets.” Teeples’s hands clenched in tight fists at his side. His lip quivered as he spoke.

“We don’t even know what—”

“I’m not askin’ you what it is!” Brody screamed, showing his teeth. “I’m telling you my wife had better get the care she deserves. The way I see it, your brother-in-law, who happens to also be related to the sheriff, is getting the best treatment while the rest suffer.”

Elton clenched his teeth at the accusation. He knew it would only incite things, but he slid down from his pickup to face the fuming Teeples, who had him by two inches and at least sixty pounds.

“And I’m telling you that we’re doing all we can,” Elton said.

Monte Young’s jovial voice drew Teeples’s attention away and saved Elton from the imminent beat-down.

Though nearing sixty, the sheriff was a wide, squarely built man with a strong jaw. He had a bit of a belly, but big arms and shoulders to go with it. Certainly past his prime fighting days, Young gave the impression that he would have no qualms against throwing out his back while he used his last bit of good health to give a ne’erdo-well a whipping.

“You boys didn’t hear about the whole social distancing thing?”

“I don’t give a damn about me getting sick,” Teeples said. “I just want to make sure your son-in-law takes care of somebody besides people related to you.”

“And you know he will,” Young said.

“I don’t know shit anymore, Sheriff.” Teeples shook his head, sniffing back angry tears. “The news says everyone that gets this stuff dies. They’re saying the only chance anyone has is to be on a heart-lung machine—and any fool can see they didn’t bring enough of those on that plane.”

Elton took a deep breath. “I’m going to do everything I can—”

Teeples spun, cutting him off. “Don’t you go making promises you don’t intend to keep.”

Sheriff Young moved a half step closer. “And you might consider not making threats that will get you hurt.”

“Take it like you want, Sheriff,” Teeples snapped. “But if my wife dies because your family gets better treatment, there’s gonna be hell to pay. You can count on that. And I’m starting with the little doctor man here.”

Young nodded his head as if chewing over the words. “You know,” he said at length, “they’ve given these poor National Guard boys live ammo to enforce the orders of this quarantine—and protect the hospital.”

“I’m not scared of no National Guard troops.”

“I guess I wouldn’t be, either, if I was you.” The sheriff shrugged. “They might pause before they shoot you, thinking you’re just a poor, misguided soul who’s upset over his sick wife. But they don’t know you like I do, Brody.” Young’s eyes suddenly narrowed and his voice grew stern. “I won’t make that mistake.”

“You threatening me?”

“Take it like you want,” Young said, hand on his sidearm.

A shout from the colonel drew everyone’s attention away and gave Elton a chance to move away from the stare-down and toward his truck. He drove away, leaving the sheriff and Brody Teeples posturing on the tarmac. His main concern was to lead the National Guardsmen back to the hospital with a truck full of medical supplies and the ECMO machines. There were fifteen people there with an unknown illness. No one knew how contagious it was, or how it even spread—but, for now, the hospital seemed to be the safest place in town.

Q
uinn slipped out of his boots in the entry of Ayako’s studio apartment and watched as she used her fingers to fluff the moisture from her hair. Without the helmet and oversized goggles, it was easier to get a look at her. She hung the denim jacket on a hook along the wall and mopped her brow with her forearm. A white wooden bowling pin with a little black bow tie stood on the shelf just inside the door.

Quinn nearly knocked it over when he took off his jacket. “You are a bowler?” He pushed the heavy pin back a little, making sure it stayed upright.

“Not really.” Ayako gave a pensive sigh. “I once shared an apartment with another girl. If I came home and saw the bowling pin in the window I would know she was . . . busy with a client. It is all I have left to remind me of her.”

Quinn decided not to ask more about the girl. Instead, he took the time to study Ayako.

The short skirt, white blouse, and kneesocks were meant to replicate the look of a Japanese schoolgirl—a popular fantasy for Japanese men who hired prostitutes. Quinn couldn’t help noticing that the socks were a little too large for her tiny feet and the baggy heels hung out of the back of her slippers. She was still able to carry off the costume, but Quinn could make out the tiniest of lines around her smallish mouth. Wide, chocolate eyes, though attractive in their own way, held a weary look that liner and makeup could not hide.

“I am sure you are tired, Quinn-san,” she said in English. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Some water would be nice.”

She opened the fridge to give a look at what she could offer. “How about orange juice and toast? I doubt you got breakfast on your way across from Korea.”

“I would not turn down something to eat,” Quinn said.

Ayako moved two graphic novels and a pile of mail off the table so he’d have a place to sit. She made him toast and a poached egg to go with his juice, bantering about the Japanese intricacies of sorting recyclable trash while bustling around the small kitchen. A dishtowel hung cavalierly over her shoulder, and she spoke easily, as if she’d known Quinn all her life.

The TAG Aquaracer on Quinn’s wrist said it had been nearly twenty hours since he’d eaten anything—a long time for someone with his gaunt frame and high metabolism. Ayako sat across from him with her hands in her lap, watching intently while he ate.

“Emiko-chan says you have great skill at violent things.” Ayako rolled pink lips as if she should not have let that slip out. “She says you are the best.”

“There is no best.” Quinn smiled over the glass of juice. “Some are better on one day, others are better on the next.”

“Still,” Ayako said, fingering a little photo charm that hung from her cell phone. “I can see from the way you move that you are the man for this job.”

Quinn frowned. “What job?”

Ayako raised a penciled brow, surprised at his reaction. “Emi-chan said you were coming to help me.”

“Interesting,” Quinn said. “I was under the impression that you were going to help me.”

“She only told me you had some questions that I could answer.” Ayako shrugged. “And that you could help me sort out a problem with your particular skills.”

“She didn’t mention Oda or the girl with the foo dog tattoo?”

Ayako recoiled as if she’d been slapped. Standing quickly, she turned to a stack of dishes in the metal sink, throwing more around for effect than she actually washed.

“I am sorry if I have upset you,” Quinn said. “But I need to find this man, Oda. I believe he put this girl up to shooting someone.”

Ayako spun to face him, a dripping dishcloth in her hand. One dark kneesock puddled around a tiny ankle. Her chest heaved under the translucent cotton blouse, unbuttoned far enough to expose a little black bow at the center of her bra. Had it not been for the stricken look in her eyes, Quinn would have thought she was flirting. “Oda is . . .” She swallowed hard, then turned to vomit in the sink.

Quinn jumped out of his chair to steady her, but she put up her hand, shrugging him off.

“Do not touch me!”

He backed away. Emiko’s description hadn’t prepared him for this.

Slowly, her breathing calmed. She took a paper towel from a roll by the sink and dabbed at her mouth.

“I am sorry. It is only that . . . Oda has this effect on people. Emiko probably told you as much.” She closed her eyes as she spoke, swallowing, working to focus her thoughts.

“So you know where to find him?”

Ayako said nothing for a long time, her hands trembling as she tried to dry a clay teacup. At length, she looked up, leaning against the edge of the kitchen counter, batting her eyes. “I was never allowed to know exactly where he stays. Perhaps if you help me with my problem, you will find the answers you are after.”

“Okay . . .” Quinn groaned. He took his seat back at the table, skeptical. He needed this woman’s cooperation and hoped his particular skills would not get him in trouble.

Ayako folded her arms across her chest. “There are several yakuza families operating here in Fukuoka, the weakest of which is the Taniguchi clan. They are also the most dangerous, always trying to claw their way up the ladder. The second in command is a lieutenant named Sato. Emiko may have mentioned him.”

“No.” Quinn shook his head.

“That is interesting.” Ayako wrinkled her nose and pursed her lips, as if discussing the man made her want to spit. “Sato is the yakuza soldier who forced Emiko’s mother to be his concubine when her father died. Of course he tossed her to the side like a piece of trash when he was tired of her—as he does with all his women. Frankly, I believe he was more interested in Emiko, as his tastes run toward younger girls. A longtime client of mine who works for Sato told me the Taniguchi clan had some kind of issue with Oda recently. Such ‘issues’ usually mean someone has been killed in a particularly bad way. Sato will know more.”

“That’s all I can ask.” Quinn leaned back in his chair, ready to listen. “What’s this problem that you need sorted out?”

Visibly calmer now that Quinn had agreed to help, Ayako padded across the small apartment and plopped down on a love seat along the block wall. Her unmade bed was just a few feet away. Well practiced at playing an innocent schoolgirl, she draped her legs over the arm of the love seat and hugged a pillow to her chest while she stared at the ceiling. It took Quinn a moment to notice there was a poster of some Korean boy-toy heartthrob tacked up there, staring back down.

Quinn waited for her to think through her scheme. One of her kneesocks had a hole on the bottom. In fact, on closer inspection, all her clothes were frayed or worn in some way or another—just like her.

“My niece is missing,” Ayako said after a thoughtful silence. “I need you to help me get her back.”

“Kidnapped?”

“Without a doubt she is being held against her will, and I know by who,” Ayako said, still gazing up at the poster of the Korean singer who was no more than half her age.

“Sounds like a problem you should take to the police.”

“That would not turn out well.” Ayako gave a strained laugh. “The police are fully aware of what I do for a living. They would never believe any niece of mine is only an innocent university student. She would be judged by association.” Still on her back, Ayako turned her head to look at Quinn under heavy eyelids. “Do you know what they call prostitutes in Japan?”

“I know the Japanese word, if that’s what you mean.”

“There are lots of names for us,” Ayako said, giving a resigned shrug. She let her gaze return to the Korean teenager on the ceiling. “
Iero kiyabu,
for instance . . .”

Quinn shook his head, not recognizing the term. It sounded Japanese, but he’d never heard it.

“
I-e-ro ki-ya-bu
. . . yellow cab,” she said, sighing. “I supposed it is because we give rides to strangers . . . Miyu-chan is no
iero kiyabu
, no matter what they think, but since she came to visit me, the police would assume.”

“How long has she been missing and who has her?” Quinn cut to the chase, preferring not to dwell on the plight of girls in the yellow cab profession. Prostitutes made for perfect informants, and he’d dealt with many over the years in his own line of work. No two were exactly the same but most shared the common qualities of desperation and a sort of penned-up sadness that made Quinn want to beat to death the men who used them.

“Two days.” Ayako swung her legs to the floor and sat up, facing Quinn. “But she is still safe, if that’s what you are wondering. Sato is a pig but, luckily, he’s been away from the country. He prefers girls who are unsullied, so his men will keep her that way. He returns from Guam tonight. We must get to her before then. So, you see? We have a common cause.”

“And you have some idea of a plan?” Quinn asked.

“I do, now that you are here.” Ayako smiled, nodding as if it was all so clear to her. “That is the most excellent part. If Emiko says you are the best, then you are surely the best. I want you to walk into Sato’s office and say, ‘Mr. Yakuza Boss, Miyu-chan is not a prostitute. She is my friend. You must give her to me or I will cut off your genitals’ . . . or something like that.”

It was Quinn’s turn to laugh. “And if he doesn’t give her to me?”

“Then you must keep your word and cut off his genitals.”

“Or something like that.”

“Emiko-chan would agree with me,” Ayako said. “This one deserves it.”

Quinn rubbed the stubble on his chin, thinking things through. Fatigue from the long flight and the ocean crossing was beginning to catch up with him. “Why not ask this longtime client of yours about Miyu?” He asked. “If he works for Sato, then he should know where she’s being held.”

“Watanabe stinks of urine.” Ayako scoffed. “He has moved up the ranks in the underworld, but he still acts like a
chinpira
.”

Quinn chuckled, almost feeling sorry for this Watanabe guy. For a woman to describe a man as Ayako had, she had to have a pretty low opinion of him. To “smell of urine” was another way of calling someone immature in Japanese.
Chinpira
were low-level yakuza thugs who bullied people when they thought they could get away with it but groveled to their senior bosses. Quinn had met with a few such young hoodlums during his visits to Japan. The three
bozozoku
thugs he’d killed in Virginia had been perfect examples of such punks. Unless they happened to be on business from a higher authority, one look that said he meant business was usually enough to send them walking the other direction—as long as they could do so with their honor intact.

“In any case,” Ayako said, “Watanabe pays me well because it makes him feel like a big man. He asks for my complete loyalty but has none for me—only his boss. Sometimes he cries in his rice wine over how sad and thankless his life is in the Japanese mafia—and then falls asleep in the hotel bed all night, keeping me from seeing other customers. It is a hazard of my chosen occupation, I suppose.” She shrugged. “No use in clenching the buttocks when the gas has already passed . . .”

Quinn smiled. It was the colorful Japanese equivalent to not crying over spilled milk.

“Exactly where would I find this Sato?”

“Watanabe let it slip he will attend a boxing match in Fukuoka tonight, shortly after his flight arrives from Guam.”

“So, Miyu will be with him?” Quinn asked, thinking through his options.

“I do not know,” Ayako said. “But if she is not, we can follow Sato from the fights. He is sure to go straight to her afterward. He will not want to put off partaking of such a young treasure.”

Ayako looked at her watch, suddenly springing to her feet. “
Shimata
!” she snapped. Dammit! “I am late. My client will be disappointed if I am not there before he leaves for work.”

She rummaged through a pile of clothes on her bed, snatching up a frilly pink blouse and matching lace apron. She put on the denim jacket and shoved the new clothes inside it, next to her body to protect them from the rain during her bike ride.

Ayako tipped her head toward the bed while she gazed in the small vanity mirror to apply pink gloss to puckered lips. “Please, get some sleep. I will be out for some time.”

Quinn looked at the pile of tangled sheets and pillows, nodding slowly.

“Do not worry,” Ayako smiled with her freshly glossed lips. “This apartment is my sanctuary. You will be the first man to ever sleep here. Now please, get some rest before we go and visit Sato tonight. You will need it if you are forced to cut off his genitals.”