-Part 1 end-
This is where the story of Tokyo Police Chief Soichiro Yagami and Japanese-American college student Ichirou Carson stops temporarily, and the story of American FBI agent Ray Penber and British SAS Captain John Price begins. Don't worry about Ichirou and Soichiro; they'll make their respective appearances in due time...although it might not be quite as you expect.
-Part 2 beginning-
Chapter 11
Theme: 30 Seconds to Mars-Anarchy in Tokyo
New Faces
"Yes...announce the arrival of 1,500 total FBI and SAS agents for a joint operation... No... No, we'll only send about 11 FBI and one SAS captain. Johnathan Price? He'll do fine. I'd like to have Ray Penber on the FBI side; pair him up with Price. Yes. That's right. Those two will be tailing the Kira suspect... No, I'd like Penber to do most of the actual investigating. No, Price is just there for backup. Yes, I've seen his record. Quite good for this mission. In one week? Excellent. They will be briefed then."
L hung up.
"May I ask who that was?" Watari questioned.
"Interpol directors. I'm sending a number of FBI agents to tail Light Yagami; he is a prime Kira suspect. We do not need to observe Mr. Nakamura or Mr. Asahi as closely; the rest of the investigation team will keep an eye on them for us."
"And, if I may be so bold as to ask, why did you specifically request an SAS agent?"
"Because I had a certain individual in mind. If they had suggested a different agent, I would have specifically asked for Mr. Price. He has an excellent record; his most recent mission has been a solo op on a tanker in the Bering Sea carrying non-fissionable nuclear material. He successfully destroyed the hazardous material and exfiltrated, despite extreme weather conditions."
He brought up a statistics list on the computer's screen.
Captain John Price, birthdate October 18th, 1971. Age as of today: 39. Height 5' 11". Weight 195 lbs. Short brown hair, olive green eyes. Thick graying brown beard. Preferred weapon: M1911 .45. Expert at CQC, combat knife use, and stealth. Nickname: "The English Bear." Current location: London, England.
A small flat in the rougher parts of London...
"AAchoo!" The bearlike man sneezed loudly. It was about 11:30 PM, and he felt like he was coming down with a bad case of influenza.
"God damn it..."
He knew he should have spent the £15 and gotten the flu immunization... His head ached, and his nose was stuffy.
He went to the bathroom, washed his face, running a hand over his short, thinning light-brown hair, stroking his fingers through his soft brown beard.
Price only truly felt alive when he was on assignments, dangerous ones. The mundane reality of day-to-day life didn't appeal to him. That was why he'd joined the armed forces. He didn't have anything to look forward to when he came back, except the next assignment. The next deployment. The next job.
He had the flu, now, so he wouldn't be able to go on any assignments for the next two weeks until he was fully recovered.
He slammed his fist into the countertop in frustration.
He loved the thrill of the hunt; camping out with a Dragunov, shooting around cover with an M4A1 SOPMOD, picking off stragglers with his pride and joy, an M1911 Custom. Anything would be better than sitting around here, nothing to occupy all of his senses, his physical abilities, his mental capacity. Even a mundane job...
He sighed and sat down in the tiny living room/dining room, flipping on the small TV, seeing if there was any news on.
"...and world leaders are strongly denouncing Kira as even more deaths occur, sparking fears that corrupt politicians may be next. More after this."
He flicked it off, putting his head in his hands. He greatly detested Kira; there was practically an international manhunt going on for him, and he wasn't invited.
He grumbled as he went off to his tiny bedroom, peeling off his pants and long-sleeved black t-shirt, and rolling into bed. Kira was messing up the world. Unbalancing it. Everybody was afraid now; names and faces were the new means of warfare, and he didn't like it one bit. He wanted to be somewhere...a war, a conflict zone, an operation, with his squad. His only true friends. The only people he felt responsible for. The only ones who'd watch his back, whom he could feel safe with, even in the middle of a warzone.
Slowly, he fell into a tumultuous sleep, a handgun in his mind's grip, firing away at enemies, ghosts in his dreams. Fevered visions that dissolved into others, the hostile forces this time riddling his body with sniper fire, and another time killing his squad, leaving him alone, hiding behind a rock, firing a few haphazard shots at dozens of enemies who were closing in on him, and they were going to devour him, tear him to pieces, pull him from end to end. And he wasn't afraid for his life; that wasn't the worst of it. There was a helicopter landing, gunning down the bloodthirsty troops, coming to rescue him.
He could not bring himself to face his commanding officer and announce that his squad was dead, and he was alive.
"Price...you swore. Every man comes home alive. You swore, didn't you?"
He was the captain. He went down with the ship. The soldiers he commanded were his responsibility. If one of them died, it was his fault. A result of his irresponsibility. If all of them died, he should have been killed alongside them, protecting and aiding them with his last breath. That was how it worked for Captain Price.
He wasn't a hero to most people. If anybody knew what he'd done. What he'd seen. Who he'd killed. How many lives he'd taken. They would want him dead, a cold-hearted war criminal who deserved to rot.
But to his squad...he was a true hero. He'd saved the lives of his squadmates several times. He inspired absolute loyalty. He was rough on the outside...but he truly cared for his soldiers. His boys. When he did joint ops, he was always the leader. In control. At the head of the assault. He took point, was always on the offensive. Covered his mates' backs when they were retreating, heading for the extraction point. He didn't prefer one squad member over another. All of them were equal; everyone got the same amount of attention from him.
And...he followed orders. He didn't betray or backstab anyone. Never did double-agent missions. He never had the resolve. Couldn't bring himself
Go rogue.
He held his squad at the highest regard. No matter which force, which army, what side, his squad were at the top of his priorities. If he were to start his own squadron and recruit soldiers...he would be a global threat, the leader of a stateless mercenary army with absolute loyalty, extreme training and conditioning, fighting for what they believed was right.
But he never had delusions of grandeur...which was fortunate for the world at large.
The next morning, the captain woke up to the noise of his cellphone ringing. He was a light sleeper; had to be if he was in the SAS. Price rolled to one side of his bed, picked up the phone, and sat up, noting that the number was blocked.
That was interesting.
He answered the call.
"Captain Price, speaking."
"Hello, Mr. Price." An electronic, distorted voice was speaking. Whoever was calling was using a voice filter in an attempt to hide their identity.
"Who am I talking to?" He growled into the handset.
"You will be needed in Tokyo in 3 days' time. We will provide more information once you complete the following tasks."
"Who the hell is this?" The man barked gruffly.
"It seems you do not recognize my voice. I am L."
L, huh? World's greatest detective asking his help? What was this, some prank?
"MacTavish...if that's you...God damn it you're in for some pain."
"I am not MacTavish. I am L. You are needed in Tokyo for...an assignment of the utmost priority. You will be provided with a ticket and an alias. A passport along with the ticket will be dropped off at your apartment on 125 Neil St. in approximately 2 hours. You will be using the alias I give you now to get on your flight. Are you ready to take note?"
"Shoot."
"Your alias is Ethan Miller."
"Got it."
"The tickets are for British Airways Flight 238, departing Wednesday at 6:45 from Heathrow. You have 3 days to pack any equipment you want to take with you, including projectile weaponry, knives, and ordnance. We will provide proper security clearance for your weapons. Do not declare any of your items. Any additional gear will be procure on site. Do not, under any circumstances, give out your real name to anyone. John Price is dead. You are Ethan Miller from now on. You will be briefed once you arrive in Tokyo. Good luck, Mr. Miller."
The call ended.
Well. Any assignment was better than nothing. And if it ended up being an ambush, he could handle himself.
At around 9:00, the passport and ticket were dropped off by a man wearing all-black clothes and a trench coat. Price...or...Miller didn't bother saying a word to him; the soldier just took the envelope, flipped through the passport, and looked at his ticket. Once he was satisfied they were the real deal, he gave the agent a nod and closed the door.
Over the next three days, he cleaned and tested his weapon of choice for this mission, his beloved M1911 Custom, in addition to packing bulletproof armor and gear. Since this mission was in a fairly populated area, he decided to forgo the standard SAS uniform for slightly less identifying clothing. He wore a bluish-gray pixel-patterned load-bearing vest, a close-fitting gray combat jacket, and concrete-gray pixel-patterned synthetic cargo pants. He carried a small black military backpack. To top it all off, he wore a MARPAT slouch hat. Although he was easily identifiable as a soldier, there were no clear indications as to which country or armed forces he hailed from.
The M1911 was packed in a hard metal case inside his large desert-camouflage duffel bag, along with a Kevlar vest and a few changes of clothes.
Amazingly, he didn't have a lick of trouble getting through security. The tickets were for coach class, which didn't bother the captain in the slightest. Coach was better than a hard helicopter seat that was open to the freezing-cold mountain air, after all.
The flight itself went smoothly; however, airline food didn't exactly agree with the man's stomach. Miller wasn't picky by any stretch of the imagination; he just ate whatever he could get. It wasn't the taste or texture that got to him. It was the effect on his digestive tract. He was used to eating military rations, but this stuff just turned his guts inside out. A nasty case of the flu didn't help him any.
As he stepped off in Tokyo International, his eyes reflexively sought out writing in English, which was sparse and somewhat vague.
His attention was pulled away from airport signs by the droning ring of his cellphone from inside his vest pocket. He picked it up.
"Captain Miller, speaking."
"Welcome to Tokyo, Captain Miller. Please go to gate 37; you will be met by an escort there. The escort will be wearing a red baseball cap. Your bag has already been collected, and will be provided to you later on."
"You said you'd fill me in on the assignment when I got here. What's with all the delaying?"
"You will be briefed shortly, Mr. Miller. Please be patient."
His gut churned. He felt like he'd been set up, pulled into something he didn't want to be a part of.
"Is this a solo op?"
"No. You will be working with a team. That is all I can tell you at this point. Please proceed to the rendezvous location, and you will be briefed shortly thereafter."
"This feels like a trap."
"Trust me. It is not."
"Why should I?"
"Do you want to capture Kira?"
The soldier's keen green eyes widened at this. Kira? This entire matter was about Kira? He should've known. He should have bloody known. He'd probably be working with the Japanese police, then. If that was what L meant by joint operation...
"I'm not working with civvies, if that's what you're thinking."
"You won't be."
"Who, then?"
"You will be briefed later. Please continue to the RV."
The call ended.
He growled slightly, coughing and spitting bloody mucus into a bin. The sneezing was gone, on the bright side. But now his chest was congested, and his throat was severely strained from the cough he was struggling with. His voice was hoarse, and his throat burned with the bursting of tiny capillaries every time he hacked up blood.
He wandered around the airport a bit, exchanging some of his British Pounds for Japanese Yen, and buying himself a steaming hot green tea from one of the airport cafes.
The hot liquid soothed his throat, the burning sensation dissolving away with each sip of the almost medicinal drink. He never guessed he'd appreciate a cup of tea this much.
What a relief.
As Miller approached Gate 37, he immediately noticed a woman wearing a bright red baseball cap, her black ponytail bobbing through the back. She seemed to notice him as well, since she began approaching him through the crowd. Once she was right next to him, she leaned towards Miller.
The captain felt the blood flowing to his face involuntarily, a red hue tingeing his cheeks.
"Follow me, Mr. Miller." She said quietly. A deadly, venomous quiet.
The blood rushed away from his face, leaving him pale as a ghost. This woman...whoever she was...somehow managed to scare him shitless with a single sentence.
He nodded and followed her as she navigated through the crowds towards the exit of the airport. As they stepped out into the fresh Tokyo breeze, Miller noticed a black car with tinted windows waiting for them, the engine running.
"Get in the back."
The SAS man complied wordlessly. This was beginning to feel less like an operation and more like a kidnapping.
As he sat down stiffly in the rear-right seat, the driver spoke roughly. He wore dark shades, so Captain Miller couldn't identify him.
"You got the package?"
"Yep. Let's go."
As the car took off, the woman handed Miller the metal case which he knew contained his M1911 and concealed-carry holster. He opened the case, equipping the holster.
"Don't try anything funny. Or else." She patted her belt, which held a polished metal Desert Eagle .50 Cal.
A round from a Deagle would almost certainly be unsurvivable, especially at this range. He wasn't even wearing a bulletproof vest. Not like that would make much difference...they probably had armor piercing bullets loaded in those things.
"Left here."
"Got it."
Miller's eyes widened as he looked to his left. A truck was speeding through the intersection they were passing through, and the glasses-wearing driver seemed oblivious to the fact that the car, containing them, was in its direct path.
"LOOK O-" His scream was cut short as metal smashed and twisted around him, turning the vehicle into a wheeled coffin. Miller's head smashed into something hard, and he blacked out.
