| |
Passing countless vehicles of the four- and two-wheeled variety, Sanitoro got us to the border in record time. But as expected, that's where we lost some momentum. Traffic congealed as every vehicle leaving Little Tokyo was halted by well-armed Federal police in body armor. Soldiers, really. Not a bad gig for veterans. Gone were the smiles and jokes among themselves I'd noticed earlier. Now they were all business. To an outsider, it may have appeared that they didn't give a damn who entered Little Tokyo, but that it sure as hell mattered who crossed the border into their side of the city. That outsider would have grasped the shape of things well enough.
"Purpose for entering the city?" the soldier barked as Sanitoro lowered his tinted window.
"Passing through," Sanitoro replied, his gaze fixed forward.
The soldier's eyes focused on the tattoo crawling up Sanitoro's neck—the maw and fangs of a roaring tiger—and his grip tightened on the automatic rifle slung across his Kevlar-covered chest.
"We're heading out into the Wastes," I said, leaning over to nod at the good citizen doing his best to make our fair city a safer place. "I hear it's beautiful this time of year."
Not knowing what to make of an Anglo riding along with a member of the yakuza, the soldier took a step back and stared at us, sizing us up. The eyes behind his clear protective goggles were indecipherable. Would he radio for backup? Detain us for further questioning? Order a full cavity search just for the hell of it?
None of the above, as it turned out. He paused long enough to scratch at his nose and then waved us through, almost as an afterthought. With a slow nod, Sanitoro rolled up his window and steered us into the city.
They called it the City of Angels, once upon a time. But that was before the fallen variety started roaming our congested streets and dark alleys, seeking whom they might devour. Figuratively speaking, of course. For the past quarter century or so, the city was officially designated as Sector 51.7634 by the United World government. Had a nice ring to it, but probably wouldn't look too good on one of those I Heart T-shirts. Not that tourists visited our town much anymore. There were other places to go and things to see—like that big green lady with the torch on the east coast. What was left of her reminded folks of the good old days, back when immigrants by the thousands flocked to our shores seeking freedom and a better life.
Now they sought to escape the Eastern Conglomerate's warmongering. The Russians ended up with the Anglos in Sector 51.7634, and the Japanese clustered in Little Tokyo. There was an understanding between the Russian mob and the yakuza; as a rule, they didn't mess with each other's territory. You could say they had a cold war of their very own. Much like the UW and EC, the Russians and the Japanese knew full well that an all-out turf war would destroy the parts of the city they currently laid claim to. Neither side wanted to see their holdings destroyed.
The acid rains were taking care of that just fine. No need to help the deterioration along any.
According to Sanitoro's radar, the Blackshirt chopper was already twenty kilometers ahead of us. But he didn't seem concerned about losing it. We remained within range with a two-hour drive ahead of us, thanks to traffic. It would take that long before we reached the edge of the city where civilization as we knew it—urban sprawl and eroding concrete—disintegrated into dusty desert.
"If they catch us tailing them," I said, "you'll have to play the part of my loyal valet." It wouldn't do to have the yakuza involved in this endeavor. "Might want to pop your collar." I gestured toward his exposed tattoo.
Sanitoro remained stoic as he dodged the evening commuters, headlights and taillights blasting past us like fireworks. "And if we are accosted by any feral residents of the Wastes...I hear Anglo meat can be a very precious commodity."
"Right. I cook better than I cook." Or something like that.
According to local legend, bands of cannibal gangs roamed the Wastes hunting for fresh meat. Kids' stories really, told around a warm oil drum in the dead of night. The truth was far less sensational. Most of the city's Hispanic population, weary of dealing with the Russian mafia who ran this town, had moved out into the desert to start new lives for their families. A tight community, they scorned outsiders. And they did all you'd expect to propagate the cannibal myth. The fewer adventurous souls who ventured into the Wastes the better, as far as they were concerned.
"You'd really hand me over to save your own neck?"
"Forgive me," Sanitoro said. "I am not much of a loyal valet."
"No sir, you are not." My stomach growled with sudden menace, and I realized I hadn't eaten lunch thanks to that rip-roaring stakeout earlier. It was looking like dinner wouldn't be on the menu either. "Got anything to eat?" I popped open the dash compartment and found two extra clips for Sanitoro's .45 Magnum lying beside a sheathed military-issue dagger. Not the most mouthwatering fare. I snapped the compartment shut.
"SoyPro bars. Under your seat."
I found the stash and tore one open. Didn't taste much better than standard rations, but I was in no position to complain.
"How often do your...business dealings...take you into the Wastes?" I asked around a chewy mouthful.
"Not often." He didn't elaborate.
Hours lay ahead of us, driving through the night into potentially hostile terrain, and my traveling companion had already exhausted his daily word allotment. Earlier, he'd been dangerously close to verbose, discussing the virtues of Junior's subversive efforts. But less talk meant more time to think, to sort things out.
Fine by me.
So Junior—otherwise known as Yoshiro Okada, alias Chimera—had decided to follow his abducted friends to wherever they were being detained out in the middle of nowhere. He'd remained in contact with his uncle until three days ago. In that time, the Blackshirts had entered Little Tokyo with impunity, rounding up Junior's rabble-rousing pals by the dozen. Exact count to be determined. Sanitoro and his men had managed to follow the Feds as far as they dared, and Sanitoro had seen their unmarked van enter the Wastes, headed southwest. The same direction our friends in the helicopter were currently leading us.
Agent Adams wanted me to believe she had no idea where the internment camp was located, that it wasn't in her jurisdiction. But she knew such camps existed; we'd argued once or twice about them before. For the good of the many was her party line. Sure, a few Japanese immigrants may have been displaced and inconvenienced, but the goal was for Little Tokyo to remain a safe, vibrant community. The majority of its residents were peace-loving types, after all, not insurgents determined to bring down the UW.
Maybe so, but the whole situation reeked like a historical mistake of rotten proportions.
I focused my thoughts on Daichi Takahashi, the only kid on Wanda's list that we'd been able to locate. And he just happened to be taken while Sanitoro and I were following him. Coincidence? Hardly.
Somebody wanted me to follow Takahashi. But who? Yoshiro Okada, hacking into the Blackshirts' comm channels, telling them to pick Daichi up once our stakeout was in place? Junior might have been all right as far as tech wizzes went, but he wasn't that good. A Federal agent then—maybe Adams herself? She hadn't been able to tell me what she knew over the phone; her superiors were always listening in. So this was her way of lending a hand, pointing me in the right direction? Doubtful.
Maybe this was just dumb luck, happening to be there right when Takahashi was snatched. Right place, right time? I'd lived long enough to know better.
Junior's last communication with his uncle had referred to gifted ones being singled out by the Blackshirts. I'd recently encountered a trio of suprahumans with incredible gifts, and I was one of the select few who retained memories of them. No government-mandated spin cycle for the brains of yours truly, and no idea why I'd been afforded such preferential treatment. Regardless, I had a hunch it was no mistake that I was now heading out into the Wastes.
I couldn't help feeling like I'd been summoned.
"Wake me up if you spot any cannibals." I slouched down in the seat and shut my eyes, stifling a yawn. "Give me a fighting chance, at least."
Sanitoro grunted something that almost sounded affirmative.