Cajun Justice(97)

“The yacht’s black,” Cain said. He dropped his backpack onto the pier and retrieved a pair of marine binoculars. He put them to his eyes and adjusted the focus with his finger. “It’s big—gotta be about fifty meters. The name is on the side in white lettering. Mi-na-shi-go. What’s that mean?”

The choppy sound of an approaching helicopter muffled Champ’s reply.

“What?” Cain said, turning his ear toward Champ.

“Orphan!” Champ shouted through cupped hands. “Minashigo means ‘orphan’!”

The helicopter swooped down to just fifty feet above the pier and hovered overhead. Its downwash disturbed the water and caused the anchored boats to bob and crash against the docks. Cain plugged his ears with his fingertips to dull the piercing sounds of the rotor blades and turbine engine. He strained to keep his eyes squinted against the downwash. The helicopter’s nose dipped and raced toward the yacht.

“Who was that?” Champ asked.

“I don’t know, but I intend to find out,” Cain replied.

Chief Alvarez motored El Viento into the marina and tossed the rope to Cain. “Tie us up.”

“We’re not staying,” Cain replied. He pointed into the darkness. “We’re going out there.”

Cain stepped onto the hull, and Champ followed behind. “Hey!” Cain pushed his palm into Champ’s chest. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“With you guys. That’s where the story is.”

“No way in hell. It’s way too dangerous, Champ. You’ve gotta stay behind to tell our story in case we don’t make it.”

“I’ll cover it from this rust bucket,” he said as he studied El Viento, noting the boat’s dings and scratches from years of recreational use.

“I had my doubts about you at first, Champ, but you’ve proved me wrong. You did great tonight. Take this.” Cain handed him the phone he had ripped from the yakuza gangster at Matchbox. “You brilliantly guessed the code to unlock it, and I’m sure there’s another story in there somewhere. But this is where we part ways.” Cain kicked off the dock.

Chief Alvarez twisted the throttle of the outboard engine to full power and navigated out of the harbor toward Tokyo’s busy shipping lanes. Cain peered over the bow and the port and starboard sides of the keelboat. The moon illuminated the murky waters. He noticed floating trash, plastic bottles, and other debris—an unusual sight for Japan’s notoriously clean society.

I guess the sea is where Japan hides its trash and dirty secrets, Cain thought as the smallest hint of the Minashigo appeared through the darkness like a modern-day pirate ship.

Cain’s impatience grew as the sailboat did its best to wade through the rocky waters and avoid the various fishing vessels anchored throughout the bay. Fishing was a popular industry in Japan, and many locals were hoping to find their dinner at sea.

“Hold on, Bonnie, I’m almost there,” Cain whispered, believing she would receive his message.

The yakuza’s yacht slowly came into focus, and Chief Alvarez killed El Viento’s engine and hoisted its sails. Cain began assembling the scuba gear. He spit into the round mask and dipped it into the salt water. He hooked the hose to the nitrogen tank and snapped the gear into place. Then he froze, paralyzed by his thoughts. He felt petrified as he stared at the scuba equipment.

The chief noticed the sudden change in his friend’s demeanor. “Is everything okay, Hurricane?”

Cain didn’t respond.

“Hurricane!” the chief repeated. “Cain, are you okay?”

Cain snapped out of it and wiped the sweat from his brow. He took a couple of deep breaths. “I’m okay. I just realized the last time I dived was that Christmas in Thailand.”

The chief understood. He nodded. “I’ll go for you.”

“No! This is something I have to do. I will not lose another one to the sea.” Cain cinched the weight belt around his waist and tied the dive knife around his calf. He threw the oxygen tank over his back, put the regulator into his mouth, held his mask in place, and tipped backward into the ocean. The cold water sent a chill down his spine, and then everything suddenly went quiet and black.





Chapter 77



Cain’s upper torso surfaced to the top of the water. He signaled that he was okay, and the chief handed him an underwater flashlight and fifty feet of coiled three-eighths-inch-thick polypropylene rope. The navy preferred this type of rope because it was water-resistant and it floated.

Cain hooked the rope to a D-shaped aluminum carabiner and tugged on it to make sure it was secured. He turned to face the Minashigo. He got his bearings and mentally calculated the distance. The boat was approximately one hundred yards away.

“Good luck,” Chief Alvarez whispered, and gave Cain a thumbs-up. “I’ll be waiting right here for you when you’re done.”

Cain stared through his mask while the water slowly engulfed him as he submerged. He caught himself sucking in too much oxygen as he tried to perfectly buoy himself—that sweet spot where he could dangle between the two worlds without surfacing or sinking to the ocean floor. He was out of practice, and he had never thought he would be diving again. After a few moments, he found himself getting back into the swing of it. Just like riding a bike, he thought before calmly and rhythmically kicking his rubber fins to propel himself toward the yacht’s two massive diesel engines. It took only about ten minutes, but it felt more like an hour. He knew from his training that the time warp was caused by the adrenaline flowing through his veins. Tonight he was either going to rescue Bonnie or die in the process. His father’s words to Cain’s adolescent self came to mind. Cain had been in the seventh grade when he told his dad about wanting to fight a bully at school who was picking on Bonnie. “Nobody messes wit da Lemaire family,” his dad had declared. “Even eef you don’t win da fight, make sure he walks away dinkin’ eet wasn’t worth tanglin’ wit a Lemaire. Dat’s da Lemaire brand of Cajun justice.”