“Yoshio is not only Yakuza, he is Samurai, with genealogy tracing back to the Shogun clans. I am honored that he represents me. Thank you, Yoshio-san,” he said, and the two traded short bows.
Philo removed his jacket, handed Patrick his holstered Sig, and walked his lanky underdressed frame—jeans, white sleeveless tee, sneakers—into the middle of the room.
“So you are Lanakai’s fighter,” Yabuki said to Philo. “Interesting. I have to say I’m a bit underwhelmed, Mr. Trout. You look undersized, and old.” He smiled at Lanakai, then Mifumo. “This shouldn’t take long.”
“Yeah, I’m his fighter,” Philo said, “for today at least. That was good, Yabuki, that comment. Smart. It’s in my head now. It took me off my game a second, made me want to cut your balls off with your little dagger, so it worked. But here’s what it also did. Your fighter—Jerry here—he’s thinking about it too, feels a little pressure now, can’t lose to an older, smaller guy, and he needs it to be over quickly, to satisfy your expectations…”
Philo stared down his bareknuckle opponent. “By the way, Jerry, this old guy is undefeated in sixty-five fights, and I hear you’re not.”
Philo called to Lanakai. “If anyone is gonna referee this thing, get his ass out here now. I’m ready to go. And Yabuki, here’s the thing, you old Yakuza fuck—
“My father was a Navy pilot during WWII. He lost friends because of your jiji. We all have heroes we avenge. My father is mine.”
The metal door to the chicken farm’s death room burst open, two men quickly invading Kaipo’s space to grab her by her handcuffed arms. They slammed her onto her back on the flat conveyor belt and held her down. Swinging arms, fingernails, sharp elbows, and sharp teeth—all of her defenses went into motion, bloodying one man’s nose and gouging the other man’s eyes. She struggled, grabbing hair, ears, and genitals, but after another two men arrived she was no match for the four of them. They pulled her wrists forward, had her momentarily subdued. One of them produced a key for her handcuffs.
Excellent, she told herself, her adrenaline off the chart. With my hands free, now they’re gonna see some shit.
The man held up the key in one hand to taunt her with it, smiling knowingly, then unholstered his handgun with his other hand. His smile turned into a grim dash before he raised the gun’s butt end above her head.
Lights out, Kaipo.
She awoke on her back, head throbbing, wrists by her sides, attached with plastic cable ties to the conveyor belt rails. Her ankles were restrained the same way, all zip ties tight and unforgiving. The men were gone, the door was closed, daylight showing through a window. The stink of dead chickens made her stomach rise again; she vomited off the side of the conveyor belt. Exhausted, she fell asleep, dreamt horrifying scenes of death and dismemberment, the PTSD from her cleaner-fixer work for Ka Hui kicking in.
The door swung open, jolting her awake. A gasoline generator on squeaky wheels entered, a man pushing it. He set it up in a corner, left the room without even a nod in her direction. The door swung open again, the same greasy-haired Japanese man entering, this time pulling a large piece of travel luggage, more like a trunk on wheels. He found a spot he liked for the suitcase and tipped it over to lay it flat on the floor, then went for the heavy-duty zipper that kept its payload in place, unzipping the top and finding other zippers for other compartments. The first item out was a folded plastic mat in blue, heavy, with the consistency of a boat cover; he laid it flat. Then came the suitcase’s contents item by item, with him placing each on the mat.
All this activity, the generator, the luggage piece, what was in the luggage… all was familiar to her. The same M.O. for when she worked for Ka Hui.
On the mat were vise grips, knives, needles, a bone saw, a sternum saw, an electric circular saw, scalpels. To the side, multiple Styrofoam coolers, their lids off. The only thing missing was the lye. It wouldn’t be needed if the body parts were meant for delivery somewhere.
He stepped into a one-piece hazmat coverall, found the rickety chair in the corner, and sat. He retrieved his phone, spoke one brief phrase into it in Japanese. When the call ended, he slipped a headpiece with a plastic face shield over his greasy-haired head, then worked his hands into a pair of nitrile gloves. Hazmatted head to toe, he placed his hands on his knees, which allowed for perfect posture while he waited. He was now looking at her from across the room, an eerie visage, although she couldn’t see his eyes, a human form inhabiting a space-age protective suit, about to do an inhuman thing. A déjà vu experience for her, the vantage points reversed.
She didn’t understand what he’d said on his call, but she was sure she knew what it meant: I am ready.
Kaipo knew now she was going to die. Her only unknown was how much torture would be involved.
32
They met in the middle of the slaughterhouse floor. Magpie, the largest of all the men present, accompanied Philo. Mifumo’s cornerman oozed pure ancestral Samurai in a leather chest piece and arm coverings, leather headpiece, and colorful robes underneath, and two sheathed swords by his sides. Mifumo’s entire body dripped sweat, his shirt and tights and exposed skin glistening as though he’d been spritzed for a TV workout commercial, including his bare feet. Philo had worked up his sweat by pacing, shadowboxing, and, what he didn’t want to admit to himself, fretting.
The referee, one of Yabuki’s men, looked the part with a white shirt and black trousers, and wasn’t nearly large enough to separate the two men if they didn’t want him to. He searched each of their faces before speaking. The man’s hand squeezed
