Drone Command

The Japanese solution to Tokyo’s high land prices, crowded streets, and insatiable demand for golf were multistoried driving ranges like Tip-Top Golf World, one of more than eighty such facilities across the city, several of which were owned by yakuza bosses like Oshiro. Like his fellow countrymen, the sumo-size gang boss was a golf nut and shut the place down after ten p.m. every night so that he and his crew could practice their swings in private. It was not uncommon for his boys to celebrate birthdays, weddings, and even new criminal enterprises at the three-story range. Oshiro had even settled a few gangland truces at the Tip-Top after hours where invitees could hit an endless bucket of balls into the lush natural turf ringed on three sides by steel netting.

Tonight Oshiro was celebrating his win of the Golden Sword tournament on Kobayashi-san’s fighting freighter. He cleared more than a half million dollars in betting that night, but the golden sword was worth many times that in honor alone.

Not bad for a fat Okinawan boy, he thought.

The top deck was everybody’s favorite because the balls flew farther. It was also satisfying to watch the white spheres sail high into the air and drop majestically onto the closely manicured greens or explode like grenades in the fine-grained sand traps scattered across the three-hundred-yard range. Even poorly hit balls skittering off the deck appeared more formidable when they began their journeys thirty feet in the air.

Oshiro smacked away with his titanium driver, dressed in his uniform of black silk overshirt and baggy silk pants, worn to hide his girth. His brand-new pair of custom-fitted black-and-white alligator golf shoes creaked beneath his weight with each powerful swing.

Three of his newest men, all fresh off the boat from Okinawa, swung frantically with their oversize drivers at the balls perched on the rubber tees, trying to impress their oyabun with their still imperfect strokes. Oshiro’s older kobun laughed hilariously at them, shouting instructions, encouragement, or insults, cigarettes clenched in their crooked teeth. The seasoned killers were swinging their drivers as hard and as fast as they could, too. The fat Okinawan crime boss promised a hundred thousand yen for the farthest drive in the next ten minutes. So far, that honor belonged to Oshiro-san.

The constant ping of metal drivers was a barrage of noise, almost like gunfire. When Troy Pearce emerged from the third-story stairwell, no one noticed him or the suppressed .40 caliber pistol in his hand. They certainly hadn’t heard him dispatch the two guards on the first deck. Finally, one of the yakuza saw him and shouted, pointing a finger. Oshiro’s number-two man dropped his driver and reached for a pistol tucked in the small of his back, but his forehead caved in with a bullet strike before his hand touched the grip.

Pearce marched forward, gun raised. The other yakuza pulled their weapons, some expertly, some clumsily. All died before they got a shot off. Seven corpses lay on the Astroturf range mats, bleeding out into the plastic grass.

Oshiro’s titanium driver clattered on the cement as it fell from his thick gloved hand. Pearce pressed the barrel of the pistol’s suppressor against the Okinawan’s broad forehead. Oshiro raised his hands. The silken shirtsleeves fell back. A colorful carp slithered up one beefy forearm, a raging tiger on the other.

“Who sent you?” Oshiro’s thickly accented English was calm, collected. He was genuinely curious.

“You did. Karma’s a bitch.”

Not the answer the yakuza boss was expecting. “Dude, you know I have powerful friends.”

“You mean Kobayashi? He’s the asshole who gave me your address.”

The Okinawan swore bitterly.

“Don’t take it personally. He was in a lot of pain at the time.”

Oshiro’s eyes narrowed, calculating. “So why am I still alive?”

“You give me what I want, I give you a break.”

“What do you want?”

“Did Tanaka put you up to killing the American, Kenji Yamada?”

“Who?”

“Wrong answer.” Pearce slipped his index finger from the trigger guard to the trigger. Oshiro’s eyes followed it.

“You mean on the boat?”

“Yes.”

“Tanaka ordered the hit.”

“Why?”

“He didn’t say. Paid well. Said to keep one alive for a witness. Wanted everyone to think the Chinese had done it.” His fat lips curled into a grin. “Start a war between you and China.”

“Will you swear to that in open court?”

The smile disappeared. The Okinawan shook his massive head. “I can’t, man.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged, almost apologetic. “Honor. Bushido.”

“I respect that.” Pearce lowered his weapon.

Oshiro’s broad shoulders slumped with relief. He lowered his arms. “What else do you want to know?”

“The men on your ship who killed the American.”

Oshiro motioned to the corpses scattered on the deck.

“That’s all of them?”

He nodded grimly. “My best men.”

“That’s not saying much.”