Chapter One
Wednesday, March 28th, 0012 NE
2030 hours
Atami, Shizuoka Prefecture, Japan
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. Thump. Thump.
Groaning behind closed lids, Natalie Rockwell winced as the head-pounding sound assaulted her eardrums, its incessant rhythm waking her from her slumber like a rubber mallet to the skull. As the captain stretched her neck from the tortuously bad angle it was propped on the floor, she squinted. In a murmur, she inhaled and spoke a single word.
“Scott.”
Even as the name rolled off her swollen, busted lips, she didn’t quite know where it had come from. If she was awakening from a dream, she couldn’t recall what it had been about. Forcing her tired eyes open, she peered across the dimly lit chamber.
She was lying on the floor of a dingy room with concrete walls full of cracks and graffiti, the latter of which was scrawled in Japanese kanji, none of which she could interpret. This place—wherever it was—looked like a dump or some slumlord’s basement. Looking down, she saw that she was wearing the same bloodstained, mud-splattered armor she’d worn in the forest. She stunk of sweat and muck.
Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.
That pounding—that pulsing. This was club music. Pure trance, or techno, or whatever the kids called it. It was like Natalie was hidden away beneath a rave. Where the hell was she?
“Tachiagaru.”
The voice—a woman’s—arose from behind Natalie’s head. Flinching too quickly to prepare herself for the pain that resulted, Natalie grimaced and rolled onto her side. In the back of the chamber, from its darkest, most shadowed corner, a young Japanese woman rose to her feet. She was a tiny thing, dressed from head to toe in…something. Dangling metal trinkets, mesh leggings on a single leg, a black leather jacket with a backpack slung over one shoulder. Punk chic, if such a thing existed. Her almond-shaped eyes observed Natalie beneath slanted, spiky hair that was half jet-black, half orange rust. Before Natalie could address the woman, she spoke again—her words backed this time by the subtle brandishing of a silver pistol. “Tachiagaru,” she said again, waving the pistol in an upward motion. “Up, up.”
Up, up. That, Natalie understood. Eyeing the Japanese girl warily, she rolled onto her knees to push to her feet. The moment her right arm pressed against the floor, a sharp pain stung her biceps. Eyes watering, she held herself up with her left hand and clutched her right arm against her chest.
A deep cut. Even in her foggy-headed state, she remembered clearly how it had happened. Someone from the EDEN strike team had sliced her arm with a knife. It’d been a two-on-one fight, with she and Becan McCrae facing off against the man. Oleg, Becan had called him. Natalie knew nothing about the man other than his name. Drawing deep breaths through clenched teeth, Natalie looked at her guardian again. The spiky-haired woman was still staring at her from the corner, handgun at the ready. Natalie dropped her chin and shook her head. “You don’t need the gun. I couldn’t do anything if I wanted to.” With every second of awareness, new pains were coming to her. Numbness on her face, the throb of a missing tooth, a dull hurt on her left shin—not to mention her arm. Natalie was a mess and in no shape to contend with anyone—not even a little punk princess like this.
“Tachiagaru,” the woman said yet again.
“God, can you speak vecking English?”
Crouching down slowly but with unwavering suspicion, the woman spoke. “Up. Get go.” She motioned with the pistol toward the chamber door. “Go.”
Natalie sighed. “Well, I guess that’s a start.” With her right arm still curled against her chest, she pushed herself up with her left one. Several agonizing seconds later, she was limping toward the door with the woman in tow.
With every step Natalie took down the catacomb-like passageway, the events of their escape from EDEN returned to her. She and her small band of outlaw survivors had fled toward the city of Atami. EDEN soldiers, some of them Vectors, had been hot on their heels.
So many dead. Colonel Lilan. Becan, Jayden. Half of the slayers Valentin Lukin gave us.
Every ten or so meters, the corridor branched into different directions, all of which were populated by young Japanese adults not dissimilar in fashion sense to the woman with the pistol. As she passed them, they all made fleeting eye contact with her, their expressions mostly curious. None of them seemed surprised by the sight of a weapon in their midst. These must have been gang members of some kind. Yakuza.
Yes—they were Yakuza. She remembered that now. Logan had made an emergency comm call to someone he knew in Japan. The next thing Natalie remembered, private vehicles were pouring onto the outskirts of Atami, engaging the police, aiding the outlaws in their escape.
What in the hell’s going on? Who does Logan know in the Yakuza? He’d mentioned something in the call about a favor being owed. Not once in all the time that Natalie had known him had Logan indicated to the faintest degree that he was associated with Japanese gangs.
“Tachidomaru,” the woman with the pistol said.
When Natalie glanced back for direction, her escort nodded toward a short hallway on the right. Looking down it, Natalie saw that it ended with a single door. Tacked onto the wall was the universal symbol for a women’s restroom.
“Ikimasu.”
Translation not required. The woman was telling Natalie to go there. Just the same, this base level of communication was wearing thin. “What’s your name?” Natalie asked, looking back as she limped toward the door. “I’m Natalie. Rockwell.”
Face devoid of emotion, the woman gestured to the door and said again, “Ikimasu.”
Jaw firming, Natalie set her sights squarely ahead. Where’s Logan? Where is everybody? For as vividly as she could recall the survivors diving into black SUVs to make their escape, what happened after that was a total blank. They’d begun driving through Atami’s streets—she could recall that. The rain was slamming onto the SUV’s roof. They were moving at high speeds, making sharp turns to evade the city’s blindsided police force. Then…
Natalie winced, as if the question of what happened next prompted a specific sensation to arise. Gently, she lifted her hand to rub the side of her neck.
A pin prick. She could sense where it’d gone into her skin. She could feel the raised bump with her fingers.
…we were drugged.
Despite the suddenness of the revelation, Natalie couldn’t bring herself to be wholly surprised. Slowly but surely, the pieces were coming together. Logan reached out for help from the Yakuza, and the Yakuza answered. Though they must have had some sort of relationship with Logan, they surely knew nothing of Natalie and the outlaws. The last thing they’d want was troublesome cargo. Unconscious cargo, though? They probably handled that on a regular basis. But where was Natalie now, and where was everyone else?
Pushing through the restroom door, Natalie scanned the room for any signs of life. There were two other women present, both of whom seemed stoned out of their minds and who were swaying in unison along the far wall. As soon as the woman with the pistol entered behind Natalie, she barked out orders like a yipping dog. Though Natalie couldn’t understand the Japanese, whatever she said sobered up the two druggies quickly. Darting away from the wall, they slid past Natalie and out of the door without a passing glance.
Waving her pistol in the direction of the room, the woman said, “Kigaete kudasai.” Removing the backpack that was slung over her shoulder, she tossed it on the floor in front of Natalie. As she repeated whatever it was that she’d said, she took a step back toward the door, letting it swing shut in her wake as she disappeared through it.
Having bent down to unzip the backpack, Natalie shuffled haphazardly through its contents. A white knitted sweater and pair of dark blue jeans, all folded up alongside clean undergarments. A life of luxury compared to the dingy, tattered mess she was wearing now. Her eyes returned to the bag, where they focused on a sticker of an anime kitten. And just like that, the punk princess’s moniker was born—at least in Natalie’s head.
Kitty, it is.
Outside, Natalie could hear Kitty’s high-pitched voice yapping into a comm. Assertive little thing, whatever it was she was saying. Picking up the backpack, Natalie wandered over to the sink nearest the stall, where she plopped it on the floor.
For the first time, Natalie could see herself in the vanity mirror. Through the cracks and black blotches that adorned the mirror’s surface, a woman was staring back that Natalie scarcely recognized. The whole left side of her face was purple and yellow, nowhere so much as around her eye, which displayed a shiner the likes of which she’d never earned before. Her lip was busted, her face nicked up. She looked like she’d been in a car accident. Tightening her jaw, she moved her tongue around her mouth to search for the tooth she knew she’d broken. She could feel the sharp edge and large gap it’d left. She glowered at her reflection. Even her chestnut hair was matted with dried blood.
Oleg might have been the one to do this to her, but he was working on behalf of EDEN. Or at least a part of EDEN that was at the very top. As far as she was concerned, that implicated the whole lot of them.
They used Scott’s brother against him. They were going to kill him just like Scott and the rest of us. What kind of organization does that?
Not the kind she’d signed up to fight with. Before she knew it, she was shaking her head in the mirror. “You fool.”
Natalie had had no objective way of knowing if Scott had been right about the recording device they’d hijacked the train to retrieve, but at this point, Scott wasn’t the one on trial. EDEN was guilty as sin.
But of course, that didn’t exonerate her. Heart in the right place or not, Natalie had been fooled twice now—first by Scott, then by EDEN itself. And if she’d been wrong about Logan in some way, with his involvement with the Yakuza…
…she didn’t know what to think anymore. The only thing she knew for certain was that staring at her reflection wasn’t going to solve anything. If Kitty wanted her to change into new clothes, then change she would. After glancing at the door to ensure her privacy, Natalie began removing her mud-crusted gear.
All the while Natalie cleaned herself off, her mind retraced every event that had led to this point. Her meeting Scott in Cairo. Her being betrayed by him. Or so she’d thought. She thought about Krasnoyarsk, where Lilan and the Falcons came into the picture for the first time, then about the stomach-flipping flight that took them to Northern Forge. Her turn to outlaw status had not come easily. It’d taken the testimonies of every person from Falcon Platoon. It’d taken the swallowing of more pride than she knew she had in her. It’d taken her putting herself in Scott’s shoes and asking if she would have done the same thing had their roles been reversed. When the answer to that question started to become maybe, that was when the true self-reflection began. She hadn’t definitively known what side she was on until she saw Mark Remington on that train. Until she saw that EDEN was willing to use an innocent cadet as leverage—to kill him, even—just to get to his brother. That spoke of something far more sinister than what Scott had done to her in Egypt. She regretted nothing about going on the doomed train mission that’d landed her where she was now. It had opened her eyes fully. It had shown her the truth about EDEN in a way Scott never could have.
Turning the faucet’s rusted knob, she ugh-ed in disgust when brown water gushed out. Summoning what little dignity she had left, she cupped her hands beneath it, lowered her head, and splashed a handful onto her face. After several more splashes and some serious rubbing, she looked at herself again. Clean, yes, but no amount of face-splashing was going to hide those injuries. It was what it was. Angling her head to inspect her grungy hair, she groaned in revulsion and lowered her head again. Holding her hair beneath the open faucet, she combed her fingers through it to get as much gunk out as possible. It wouldn’t be thoroughly clean, but at least she could keep it wet enough to slick back in a way that looked quasi-intentional. Finished with her work, Natalie looked into the mirror. She looked like a drowned, beat up rat. Hands on her hips, she shook her head. The wet look meets assault and battery. She sighed and tied her damp strands into a ponytail. Whatever. Sliding the white sweater down over her chest, Natalie shook her hair free from it then looked at herself in the mirror. Dressed to the nines but looking like the survivor of…well, a train wreck. After stuffing her dirty gear into the backpack, she zipped it up and turned to the door.
I need to find the Falcons. I need to find Logan. I need to find out what the hell is going on. With her mind set to forward, Natalie opened the door and stepped back into the hall. Once more, her eyes found Kitty, but this time, her escort wasn’t alone.
Standing next to the punk princess was a middle-aged Japanese man with jet black, parted hair. Wearing a black and orange satin outfit that skirted the line between ninja garb and a bathrobe, he stood beside Kitty with his dark eyes on Natalie and his hands lifted in something akin to a prayer pose. Several seconds after an awkward stare-down, the man offered a courteous bow. “Miss Rockwell.”
English, at last. As the trance music faded into the background of her mind, Natalie took a cautious step forward, just enough to let the bathroom door ease shut behind her. Wary but hopeful, she angled her head. There was no need to speak what she was conveying. The look on her face made it clear. She wanted to know who this man was.
“I am sure you must have many questions,” the man said, eyes rising again to meet hers, though the prayer hands remained. “Allow me to answer one of them now. My name is Nobu Tachibana. I am the…” Nobu paused, as if searching for the right words. “…oyabun, or father head, if you will, of the Ikeda-kai in Atami.”
Never before had Natalie heard of the term oyabun, but father head sounded a lot like godfather. Was Ikeda-kai the name of a Yakuza family? Was she talking to the man at the top of it?
Nobu gestured to Kitty. “I hope that my kobun, Youko Kita, was not too inhospitable.”
So, the punk princess had a name. Youko “Kitty” Kita. It was almost too perfect.
“We have much to discuss,” Nobu said, stepping to the side and gesturing for Natalie to join him. “Please, walk with me.”
“Where is my crew?” Natalie asked without moving.
Nobu paused before answering. “They are in my protection.”
“Like I was in your protection, with this chick holding a gun to my head?” She didn’t care if she sounded rude. It was exactly what she’d awoken to. Situations didn’t get much more frank than that.
Once again, there was silence. Nobu’s eyes narrowed as he scrutinized Natalie from the hall. At long last, a smile crept out. “The Ikiryō was right about you.”
“The what?”
“He said you were direct.”
“Who is the…” She let the statement hang for Nobu to pick up.
He didn’t. Gesturing again, he said, “Please, this way.”
With trepidation but no other options, Natalie followed Nobu and Youko up the hall.
With every step the trio took, the pulsing trance music grew louder, shaking the walls around Natalie with every thump of electronically enhanced bass. Each time they passed someone in the hall, be it a stoned-out druggie or a security guard, Natalie noticed that eye contact with Nobu was deliberately avoided. After passing through several doors and around several corners in the labyrinth, Natalie found herself following him up a short stairwell. Her shin was aching, but she sucked it up to keep pace. At long last, with the trance music reaching a volume that was bordering on unbearable, she caught sight of a metal door ahead. Sucking in her breath, she braced for whatever was on the other side. A guard by the door bowed as Nobu approached, then he pushed the door open.
Sound and lights. Those were the only things Natalie could register. She winced as violet laser beams illuminated the mob of dancers before her, their frenetically gyrating forms indistinguishable from each other amid the flashing lights and smoky haze. The music was pounding now—thumping her chest like a heart attack.
“This way, Miss Rockwell!” Nobu shouted over the noise.
Lost in sensory overload, Natalie could barely make out Nobu’s voice. Emerald eyes fighting to adjust, she was finally able to block out the strobe lights and find Nobu beside her. Youko placed her hand against Natalie’s back, pushing her forward as if directing a blind person.
This was a sight to behold. With every second that passed, more and more of the room’s details came into focus. It was spacious—a rave in every sense. There was a heavy smell of narcotics in the air, and the dancers were moving like they were tripping on acid. Keeping her head down, Natalie went where Youko pushed her, having long lost Nobu in the crowd.
At last, she saw him again, approaching a pair of guards who were protecting an elevator built into the far wall. Nobu had a brief exchange with the guards, both of whom bowed and stepped aside to allow him entry. Quickening her pace, Natalie slipped in with Youko behind her. Moments later, the elevator doors mercifully closed.
“God,” Natalie said, the word slipping out and laced with anguish. As the elevator began its ascent, the thumping of the rave diminished until it was bearable. Natalie winced as she closed her eyes and leaned her head back. Getting out of that room was a release.
There was no comment from Nobu or Youko regarding the scene they’d just witnessed. They simply stayed quiet for the ride. After having risen at least three or four floors, the elevator stopped, and a door on its rear wall opened. Once more, she was presented with a corridor. Its floor was made of dark wood that had a lustrous gleam, and the walls were painted like wheat. Thankful to just be in a place that looked clean, Natalie followed Nobu as he led her onward. At the end of the corridor was another door and another pair of guards, who after their customary bow allowed Nobu and his guests entry.
It was Nobu’s suite. There was no doubt about it. The living room the door opened into was wide and decorated with couches, wall-mounted televisions, and every luxury a crime lord could be afforded, from a wet bar, to a second wet bar, to an open dining room with a chandelier, to an assortment of Japanese decorations and electronic devices, none of which Natalie could identify.
“Please,” Nobu said, pointing to the leather couch as he slipped behind the nearest wet bar. As Natalie lowered herself onto the couch, Nobu and Youko shared a brief exchange in Japanese. Youko bowed, then promptly stepped to the front door, where she about-faced to stand guard.
There are no windows. The thought struck Natalie as her eyes wandered the penthouse suite. It wasn’t surprising, but it said a lot—none of which she wanted to think about.
“Do you have a favorite drink?” Nobu asked.
“Where is my crew?”
Chuckling again, Nobu placed two small glasses on the counter and filled them with clear liquid. Taking one in each hand, he sauntered Natalie’s way. “Awamori,” he said, identifying the drink in the glasses as he handed one to her. “Very strong, so go slow.”
“Answer my question.” Natalie didn’t want a drink, and if she did, it’d be a beer. “Where is my crew?”
Nobu smiled faintly and placed her glass on the coffee table. Unlike Natalie, he was all too prepared to take a sip himself. Ahh-ing with satisfaction, he sat down on the couch across from her, leaned back, and crossed his legs. “I can tell that you are slow to trust. I understand. I would be, too, had I gone through what you’ve gone through.”
This man had no idea what she’d gone through.
“It is imperative, however, that you learn to trust me. We both want the same thing.”
“The same thing, huh?” she asked. “And what, pray tell, is that?”
Angling his head almost curiously, he answered, “For you to leave.”
Okay—so that was unexpected. The tension in her shoulders relenting a bit, she leaned back into the couch, her gaze focused on the Japanese man as he continued.
“Your presence here poses a great threat to the Ikeda-kai. If you are found to be here, it will not be law enforcement that comes knocking on our door. It will be Vector Squad.” He smiled pleasantly. “I am a confident man, but I am not a fool. Not only am I in possession of the people Captain Faerber sought to capture, thanks to you, I also possess one of his soldiers. I do not think he would take kindly to my involvement in such affairs.”
He was talking about Lisa Tiffin. And he was right.
“And so that is why I urge you to trust me,” Nobu said. “It is the means by which we both will find what we seek: a swift resolution to our mutually shared problem.”
With all that she’d experienced recently, Natalie was in anything but a trusting mood. If she was being honest with herself, it just felt more satisfying to be disagreeable. But she couldn’t argue with anything Nobu was saying. And if he wanted her and her crew gone, well, there was no way she’d argue against that. “Okay,” she said simply, nodding. “I’m listening.” For the sake of getting out of there, she’d give Nobu the benefit of the doubt—and the trust that he sought.
Nobu’s smile slowly grew. “The Ikiryō says you come from the Nightmen.”
There was that word again. There was no doubt now that it was a reference to Logan. “Why do you keep calling him that?”
“Because it is the only name of his that bears meaning here. I do not know ‘Logan Marshall.’”
“What does it mean?”
Hesitating as if contemplating whether or not to humor the question, he eventually answered, “An Ikiryō is the spirit of a living man that leaves its host body to torment others.”
Good God. Why in the hell is Logan called that?
“It is an unusual concept to you, perhaps, but it has served your friend well over the years.”
Now acutely interested, Natalie leaned forward and cupped her hands together, staring at Nobu with intensity. “What exactly does Logan do here?”
Nobu chuckled knowingly. “That is a question better posed to him. I do not want to…put words into his mouth, as you say.”
“Was he a hitman?”
“Again, I will allow him to answer that question. It is not a word I would personally use to describe him.”
That answer had yes written all over it.
“He will be here shortly, as will the rest of your crew. You will have plenty of time to ask them all the questions you wish.” His expression growing more serious, he leveled off his head to stare intently at her. “In order for us to proceed, Miss Rockwell, I must be able to contact the Nightmen. I will need you to provide me with whatever contact information you can.”
Now that…was troubling. Half-shaking her head, Natalie said, “We were under strict instruction to avoid comm chatter at all costs. Now obviously, that didn’t work out for us, but still, in our current state, I don’t know how smart it is to tempt fate like that.” The last thing they needed, as Nobu had already stated, was Vector beating down their door. It would only take one second of intercepted comm chatter to make that happen.
“I assure you, we have means of utilizing the global comm network that are quite secure.”
“So did the Nightmen. As I’m sure you can see, that didn’t work out for us.” It was the understatement of the century. EDEN had known exactly when, where, and how to hit them.
Though the smile never left Nobu’s face, it did shift into something slightly more forced. “EDEN only knows to look for registered signals. We have many throwaway comms. This is the only means by which we can proceed.”
“I just…I can’t. I’m sorry, but—”
“Do you want to leave, Miss Rockwell?”
Mouth still open from what she was saying before he interrupted, she thought on the question. Of course she wanted to leave.
Picking up on her unspoken yes, Nobu said, “Then you must learn to trust me. I cannot tell you how the Nightmen’s signals were intercepted, if indeed that is how EDEN came to find you. But I can tell you that we are quite accustomed to communicating on underground networks.” Dipping his head to look deeply at her, he said, “Please, Miss Rockwell. Extend to me this trust. You already know I wish to avoid EDEN interference at all costs. This would be handled with the utmost caution.”
Natalie didn’t like the idea of this—not at all—but he was probably right in saying that it was their only option. What else were she and the survivors supposed to do? Stroll over to the airport and hop a flight to Norilsk? That wasn’t happening anytime soon. Pressing her palm to her forehead, she finally said, “All right. If you need their contact info, I’ll help you get it. You ought to be able to pull it from my comm.” She glanced at her backpack. “It’s in there along with my gear.”
“Thank you.” Nobu turned his attention to Youko. He spoke to her in Japanese, and then as she retrieved the bag, he said, “I will have my people begin this right away.”
As Youko marched with the bag to the door then out of the room, Natalie couldn’t help but wonder whether she’d made the right decision. In the end, it didn’t matter. They’d have searched the bag on their own anyway. Eyes returning to Nobu, she asked, “When can I see my crew?”
“I wanted the opportunity to speak with you before involving any of them. But now that we have spoken, they will be brought here at once.”
In other words, he’d planned to use them as leverage to ensure she cooperated.
Nobu continued. “Logan is already en route and will be here shortly.”
“I had a man who was burned,” she said, referring to Jakob Reinhardt. “A pilot. How is he?”
There was a brief pause before the oyabun answered, “I would be lying if I said that I knew the specific medical conditions of any of your crew members. But they are all able to be transported, and they will all be here soon.” Before Natalie could ask a follow-up, Nobu was rising from the couch and offering her a smile. “I am afraid, now, Miss Rockwell, that I must be going.”
“So soon?” she ask, dryly.
Nobu chuckled. “Yes. You have given me what I asked for, and I must now meet my end of the bargain. As soon as I make contact with your Nightman allies in Russia, I will make arrangements for you and your friends to be retrieved. As soon as it is safe, of course. EDEN patrols and law enforcement are combing the streets. Arranging any sort of transportation now would be far too risky.”
But apparently not too risky to transport my crewmates here. Something smelled fishy.
“For all of our sakes, I am afraid you must reside here until it is safe to move you. At that point, the arrangements will be made.”
“And how long will that be?”
Smiling in apology, he said, “I do not know.”
“I mean, give me a gauge, here. A day, a week? A month?”
“When the streets are clear from patrols, however long that may take. I will attempt to speed that process along by spreading word on the street that you have left Atami.” He bowed, a gesture Natalie was beginning to hate. “As soon as I have any information for you, I will provide it. In the meantime, please,” he said, gesturing toward the two doors, each on opposite walls at the end of the suite, “make yourself comfortable here. All of this suite’s amenities are yours to use. I will have Youko bring more clothes for you soon, if you wish to bathe.”
Of course, she wished to bathe. Almost as much as she wished to get her crew and leave.
“I am sure we will speak again soon,” Nobu said. Before she could find something to say in response, he was making his way toward the suite door. Several seconds later, he was gone.
Natalie turned her focus to the far wall. Her gaze became lost. How did we end up here?
“Shawa.” Barely into her reverie, Natalie looked back at Youko. The punk princess pointed in the direction of the rooms that Nobu had indicated. Once again, she said, “Shawa.”
“Shower. I got it.” Pushing up from the sofa and wincing, she made her way in the direction of the indicated bathroom. After the insanity of waking up on a concrete floor with a pistol pointed at her, walking through a rave, then having a disconcerting conversation with the godfather of a Japanese Yakuza clan, a little lathering would provide a much-needed reprieve. As long as she got to do it by herself—and concerning that, she was taking no chances. Locking the bathroom, Natalie wandered across the stone floor, removed her clothes, and prepared to feel renewed.
Five minutes later, she was unlocking the bathroom door and stepping back into the main room of the suite, fully dressed and just as grime-covered as before. As Youko raised a curious eyebrow, Natalie offered the most sheepish of embarrassed expressions. “I can’t figure it out.”
Youko cocked her head.
“I mean it,” said Natalie. “There’s like, a bench, a couple of buckets, and a faucet with a control panel. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.” With a sigh, she waited for the punk princess to translate on her own.
With a smirk, Youko sashayed into the bathroom to teach the American how to bathe.