Red Shark

Hatoyama bowed deeply. “Iseda-san, I apologize for our shameful manners. None of us have ever doubted you. Instead of exchanging harsh language, we must reach a meeting of the minds and seek the path of tranquillity through stormy seas. After all, each of us has a stake in seeing to it that this problem is resolved to our mutual benefit. The hundreds of billions of yen we have invested in our businesses are at risk. “

“You have nothing to fear from Marshal Jin. America will be defeated.” Tokugawa turned his gaze on the ugly granite headquarters of wartime Japan’s Imperial Army. “I promise you.”

Two men decked out in glossy double-breasted suits eased down a second-floor hallway above a sex club in Kabukicho. The mawkish aroma of cheap incense hung in the air; pulsing techno from 10,000-watt amplifiers vibrated the floor under their feet.

At the end of the hallway slivers of yellow light spilled from around a sliding door that opened onto a small, private room. The two men approached, listened, and heard throaty, urgent grunting, and, in sync with the techno beat coming from downstairs, the rhythmic slap of naked flesh on naked flesh.

With caution, one of the men slid the door open a crack and peeked in. He saw flickering lantern light and leaping shadows, and in the center of the room on a tatami mat, the intertwined bodies of a wiry Japanese man and two Thai girls. The man was fucking one of the girls doggie-style, while the other one, on her back at the bottom of the pile, urged them on with her mouth and hands.

A yakuza body tattoo covered the man’s sweaty back and buttocks. Intricate and colorful, it depicted the mythical Japanese boy warrior Kintaro astride a bear, fighting a pair of coiled, evil-looking serpents. Only one man in all Japan had that tattoo: Naito. As if alive, the tattooed serpents’ thick coils swelled and flexed as Naito rammed his cock into the girl.

The two men burst into the room brandishing unsilenced Glock 17s. The girl down on all fours screamed. In the split second she had left to live, one of the killers recognized her as the shofu — prostitute — he had fucked the night before. He remembered that her name was Peach Blossom. Under contract to Ojima, Naito’s boss, she had just arrived from Bangkok. Young — not yet sixteen — and petite, very pretty, she was already Naito’s favorite.

Before Naito could pull out of her, the two men opened fire. Nine-millimeter Parabellum slugs shredded soft young flesh, gristle and bone, tore into wiry muscle and ripped apart the boy warrior Kintaro and his serpents.

The killers took a moment to survey their work: A fine red mist hung in the room, clotted on walls and floor; fragments of straw matting floated in the air; smoking cartridge cases lay scattered across the floor and on the bodies. Satisfied, they snuffed the lantern and departed, sliding the door closed behind them.

Downstairs, the techno hadn’t skipped a beat.

7

The Pacific Ocean, east of Taiwan

Jake Scott entered the USS Reno’s torpedo room, reconfigured to the needs of the SEAL team. Nine men, their equipment and weapons, had been crammed into an already tight compartment fitted with Mark-48 ADCAP torpedoes strapped to their cradles, and where sailors hot-bunked due to lack of space. Scott relished the familiar smells of ozone, sweat, and lubricating oil.

McCoy Jefferson stood in the central aisle between the waist-high torpedo storage tables, stripped to his skivvies. He had been working out, and his muscular upper body glistened with sweat, as did his shaved head.

One look at him and Scott felt the torment his own body had been through during a highly compressed training session at Pearl that had had the SEAL team wondering who the hell this guy Scott was and what did he think he was trying to prove.