The neon bled into the streets, painting it in sickly colors. I was on a mission – to find this 'sake' everyone raved about. A chance to compare a fermented rice alcohol to the familiar burn of good Kentucky rye. Tokyo, I mused, wasn't so different from any other concrete jungle. Packed with millions, their lives crammed into towering steel and glass cages. Just another human sardine can. Still, the eerie lack of pedestrians on the sidewalk was odd. Where was the Shibuya nightlife I'd heard whispers of?
Ego, I decided, was a crafty bastard. It'd sooner blame the city than admit I was hopelessly lost. Didn't help that I couldn't decipher the chicken-scratch on those shop signs. I was an ex-detective, not ex-linguist. My only guides were the street signboards, a confusing mess of neon hieroglyphics punctuated by the occasional merciful sprinkle of English letters and arrows. One wrong turn could land me in a part of Tokyo even the devil wouldn't recognize. Maybe, I should've really rented a tour service.
Suddenly, the air shattered. A series of sonic booms. They were gunshots, no doubt about it, and whoever was shooting sounds like they were having a rave.
I don't know what had possessed me at that time, but I sprang towards the sound, towards the blood trail it would surely leave. What the hell was I thinking at that time when I was unarmed? I didn't know. I did not even know what will I do when I actually meet the culprits. Talk them into shooting me, maybe?
A yellow car sped past me in a blur. The sleek design was not your average car, it was a finely tuned Japanese sports car. The driver was certainly beyond the speed limit as the gust of wind whipped my hair sideway.
The black tinted window reflected the blinding neon lights, I was unable to see the inside. Empty plates hung from its back. I don't need my detective badge to connect the dots together. I was gasping for breath as my legs did their work. Looks like Bahia wasn't the fitness retreat I'd hoped for, but hey, I was on a damn vacation.
I reached an intersection and the acrid smell of gunpowder lingering in the air was strong. On the zebra crossing was a petite figure lying in a crimson pool. The culprits were ghosts already, probably escaped in the yellow car. It was a textbook drive-by.
"Jesus Fucking Christ," I mumbled under my breath as I approached. Bitterness filled my mouth. Another prayer whispered into the neon abyss, another unanswered plea.
There the victim was, a petite figure, clad in a mangled white school uniform, lay sprawled on the asphalt like a broken doll in her own pool of blood. She was a girl, a teenager. A single bullet had found its mark in her forehead, a sloppy execution. But the multiple bullet wounds randomly spread across her body told a different story—a story of vengeance.
Death was a constant companion in my line of work. But this scene, a young girl sprawled lifelessly, mirrored a past I desperately tried to move on. Images of Rose, my wife, flickered like a broken record in my mind.
Shaking my head harshly, I forced my focus back to the present. Why target a child? A 9-milimeter semi-automatic lay beside her, clutched in the hand of a kid barely a teenager. What kind of messed up world allows this? Japan, the land of politeness and overpriced sushi, felt a million miles away. Here, a schoolgirl packing heat was about as likely as a sumo wrestler squeezing into a clown car.
This girl deserved better than to be another statistic, another life snuffed out in a world spiraling out of control. I wanted to be involved, to avenge her death, but getting involved meant back into the abyss, the very darkness I'd literally crossed an ocean to escape.
The last thing I wanted was to be pulled back in. Yet, the thought of walking away while a life remained unavenged gnawed at the fragile peace I'd built. "What goes around comes around," they say. And right now, that saying felt like a punch to the gut.
Part of me, the weary, world-battered part, wanted to walk away. I'd crossed an ocean for a sliver of peace, a fragile truce with my inner demons
But another part, a flicker of something I thought long extinguished, flickered to life. Maybe it was the girl's age. Maybe it was the sheer senselessness of it all. Whatever it was, it gnawed at the callouses I'd built around my heart.
I clenched my fists. Walking away wasn't an option. Not this time.
The investigation would be a nightmare. I was a stranger in a strange land, my rudimentary grasp of the language barely enough to order a drink. I had no resources, and the local police would likely be as interested in my investigation as a stray dog.
I looked down at the girl one last time, and took her gun. A silent mumble escaped my lips, "Sorry." I turned and walked away, walking towards where I came from. Suddenly, a flicker of movement caught my eye. Two figures emerged from the gloom of the alleyway, clad in uniforms similar to the girl that was gunned down.
They knelt beside the girl's body; their young faces told me they were about the same age as the girl that was gunned down. One spoke, her voice a clipped whisper in Japanese. My cop instincts screamed a warning that I was diving way deep into a simple conspiracy and told me to run away.
In a twist of bad luck, the silver-haired girl's gaze turned towards me. Before I could react, they dashed towards me. Strong hands gripped my arms, their touch surprisingly cold. The girl with the braid spoke again, this time in heavily accented English, "We need you to come with us."
"Come with you? Where? Who are you?" I demanded; my voice laced with suspicion.
They exchanged a glance, a silent conversation passing between them.
The they moved, the way they spoke… it screamed government agency, and a clandestine one at that, but it didn't make sense for children to be employed.
I stared between them, a prisoner in their steely gazes.
"Again, cooperate with us or else."
"What happens if I say no?" I asked, my voice barely a rasp.
The silver-haired woman tilted her head, a gaze full of hatred in her icy blue eyes. "Let's just say it wouldn't be in your best interest," the girl with the braid pushed the gun into my back.
This whole situation felt like a dame with a heart of ice and a trigger finger itchy for trouble. My years on the force kicked in.
I shoved the other woman aside in a move as smooth as spilled liquor on a linoleum floor. The gun went off, a sharp crack echoing through the alley. Adrenaline surged, pushing the dull ache in my bones aside. I slammed into the silver-haired broad, throwing her off balance. We crashed to the ground, a tangle of limbs and soaked clothing.
She was fast. A knee slammed into my ribs, knocking the wind out of me like a right hook from a two-bit thug. But years spent dancing with death made me a resilient tango partner. I countered with a vicious elbow strike, connecting with her jaw. She grunted, momentarily stunned, her icy blue eyes flickering with surprise, the surprise a dame gets when she realizes the mark ain't gonna roll over and play dead.
The other girl, the one who hadn't spoken yet, hesitated. Her hand hovered near her own concealed weapon, but she didn't draw it. This about control, about making me their puppet on a string.
I used the distraction to my advantage, rolling away and scrambling to my feet like a roach scuttling out from under a boot. The silver-haired woman was already up, eyes blazing with a cold fury. Before she could attack, I launched a flying kick, aiming for her gun.
She twisted away with a grace honed in some back-alley dojo, the kick grazing her shoulder. We circled each other, panting heavily. Despite their efficiency, they weren't expecting a fight. They underestimated me, a mistake I intended to exploit.
"Who are you?!" I yelled, more to buy myself time than anything else. "Why do you need me?"
A blur of movement flashed by - the other woman, the one who hadn't spoken yet. Her hand shot out, a blur of silver catching the dim light. Before I could react, a searing pain erupted in my arm. I looked down to see a slim, wicked-looking device embedded in my shoulder, a tangle of wires snaking from it. Panic surged as my vision swam.
"It's a taser," the woman said coolly, her voice devoid of emotion. "Doesn't hurt permanently, but it'll mess with your motor control for a few minutes. Now, will you cooperate?"
The gun, forgotten on the wet ground, seemed miles away. Frustration bubbled up, a bitter taste in my mouth, "You cheated," I growled.
A ghost of a smile played on the girl's lips. The girl retrieved the gun, "Come on," she said, her voice clipped. "We don't have all night."
Defeated, I let them tie my hand with a zip tie before guiding me through the streets into a van. The game had just begun, and I was already a pawn at their mercy. Classic.