Zero Island (Blessid Trauma Crime Scene Cleaners Book 2) by Chris Bauer (i want to read a book TXT) 📕

“I find this interesting,” Mr. Yabuki said. “You are willing to sacrifice yourself. A very honorable gesture. Honor is a trademark of the Yakuza, as I’m sure you know. The days of the Samurai.” Another sip of his water, then he put his bottle aside. He folded his hands between his knees and leaned forward, into her space.

“But your solution is not how this is going to go. You are naïve, Ms. Mawpaw. He won’t leave the islands after he finds you. He’s a businessman, like I am. He’s just starting his operation again. Mr. Lanakai needs bigger incentives to leave. Much bigger incentives. Like threats of exposure about what he’s doing, or what it looks like he’s doing—”

She shuddered as an image hit her. The man taking pictures of Vena’s place. Of Kaipo, arriving there. He was Japanese, not Hawaiian. Was Yakuza, was there framing Wally.

“—and the permanent loss of something he covets. You. He wants to find you, Ms. Mawpaw, and he will. In pieces, all over Kauai. Unless he agrees to leave the islands permanently.”

She lost her composure, her temper boiling over. Her fingers tightened into a fist that delivered a short, sudden punch to Mr. Yabuki’s pointy jaw, then she got up in his face. “You killed Vena… you gutted her…!”

The two thugs pounced, ripped a screaming Kaipo away from their boss, subdued her and duct-taped her again, this time her mouth included.

Mr. Yabuki wiped blood from his mouth with a handkerchief, stood over her on the floor while she mumbled and kicked and squirmed.

“That was a mistake, Kaipo Mawpaw-san.”

19

An afternoon of sun and sand, beachside. Multiple bottles of beer were working their way out of Philo’s system courtesy of a sunbathing sweat, a hard swim along the coastline, and trips to the head to relieve himself. Philo and Patrick had their lobster dinners delivered to their cabana, the Hawaiian sunset overwhelming while they noshed. Patrick, quite the lobster-eating machine much like he was quite the Philly cheesesteak-eating machine, pulled chunk after chunk of meat from monster lobster claws and dipped them into the butter. Philo, on the home stretch with his meal, began pontificating.

“We need a lot more of this, Patrick, and a lot less time doing…” Better to keep the gore of recent experiences out of the dinner conversation. “You know, the other stuff.”

“Yes, Philo sir. More lobster, more sun, more beach and ocean, less dead bodies, sir.”

“Not the way I would have put it, Patrick, but yes, that’s what I meant.”

And not the time for this incoming phone call from Evan. Good hearing from him, bad hearing what he had to say.

“Another one,” Evan said.

The beach and the sun and the sea fell away, blanked out by horrific visions of more blood, more gore, and the despair he heard in Evan’s voice. Beyond grief, beyond shock, Evan was experiencing an accumulation of tragic events, including news Philo had already had a hand in delivering, the first to tell him about the second home invasion, where one of Evan’s female contractors at the Navy base had also been eviscerated.

“There are no words,” Evan said, sounding spent. “You have to see this. I’ll pick you up.”

Philo and Patrick slid into a military Jeep, Evan driving. Evan’s additional input: wear long pants, comfortable hiking shoes, long sleeves and hats, and soak yourselves in bug spray. He’d followed his own advice, his gear all Navy issue, including his sidearm.

“You carrying?” Evan said.

Philo rode shotgun, his bulky shirt resettled over the holstered handgun tucked under it, above his ass cheeks. Patrick was buckled up in the back seat. “You sounded serious,” Philo said, “so yes.”

“It’s fucked up, Philo, it’s all so seriously fucked up. I wouldn’t tell you not to. We’ll be there in twenty minutes. Then we walk.”

Their destination: Kauai’s Alakai Swamp. Evan steered onto a highway, began giving them a short verbal sketch of the terrain they would encounter.

“One of the wettest spots on the planet. Otherworldly. The world’s highest rainforest and swampland. People hike two miles through an open valley on dirt trails to get to the swamp, where the terrain changes. We’ll bypass the dirt, head directly to the boardwalk in the swamp itself. A few miles of skinny planks and terraced platforms and steps, and rocks. As the tourists say, ‘fun.’”

It was on Philo’s list of touristy spots for Patrick and him to experience. In Philo’s way of thinking, terrific postcard-worthy scenery.

“We won’t need to hike the entire trail,” Evan said. “Part of what’s out there is on the first half of the boards only.”

“Part of it?” Philo asked. “It’s spread out?”

“Across a few miles of it. What you’ll see when we get there is an all-Navy response so far, no police.”

“Why no cops?”

“No cops yet. That early-warning crisis event I had to attend to—what shorted out our taco lunches—we thought it was saber rattling by the North Koreans, showing off new missile capabilities. It wasn’t. Took us a bit, but we figured it out. It was drones. A fucking squadron of them.”

“Doing what?”

“Deliveries.”

They reached the entrance to a state park. Evan idled the truck, showed his credentials to a saluting Navy seaman behind a wooden roadblock. They parked amid other military Jeeps and vans, got out. Evan snagged a small thermal-lined shoulder bag with bottled water and an ice pack in it, gave them each a flashlight. Still twilight for their walk on the way in, but it would be dark on the way out. “Let’s hit the boards.”

Cloud cover had moved in, was met at ground level by an enveloping mist. Evan’s boots clip-clopped along the planks, Philo and Patrick in sneakers behind him. “Eyes open, gentlemen. Hoary bats in these parts. It’s getting dark, so they’ll be out. You won’t miss them. Wingspans of a foot or more.”

Philo knew about them from SEAL exercises throughout the islands, way back when.

“Ōpe‘ape‘a,” Patrick said. “That’s what they’re called in the islands, Commander sir.”

“Exactly,” Evan said.