Nick opened his shirt and checked the Kevlar-3 undershirt on the right side. It had stopped both pistol slugs but there was definitely some damage to his ribs on that side. Trying to take deep, slow breaths, he buttoned his shirt back up. The bullet crease on his left calf had finally stopped bleeding, but not before soaking through the handkerchief and his pant leg. It would be a bitch to pull the solidly caked material free later.
“Please… mister… you promised… you promised… it hurts so much… you promised.”
Nick knelt over the wounded boy and decided that he really didn’t look much like the young Dennis Hopper. He didn’t look anything like Val.
“You promised…”
He could get Dean’s van, drive back here, load the kid in, and try to find some medical help before the boy bled out. Or he could point his would-be killer in the direction of the Huntington Library and tell him to crawl, although odds were low that he’d get there before he bled to death.
Either way, he’d be leaving someone behind who could describe him and the Nissan to the cops—if the cops were still a factor in this L.A. suburb—and raise Nick’s chances of being detained somewhere, thus lowering his chances of finding Val.
You try to kill a stranger for fun, thought Nick, you need to be ready to face the consequences. He wasn’t absolutely sure at that second whether he was thinking of the young man moaning beneath him or of Val’s alleged involvement in the attack on Advisor Omura. The difference was that Val, whether he ran from his father’s last name or not, carried Nick’s own blood and DNA.
Nick used his left hand to shield his face and eyes from backspatter as he set the muzzle of the Glock within three inches of the boy’s pale forehead and white, widening eyes and squeezed the trigger.
The Menlo was parked right where the kid had said it would be. Betty whispered to him that there were less than twelve miles to go even if he avoided the Pasadena Freeway by taking Monterey Road to North Figueroa Street and the Nissan’s own nav system confirmed it. There might be roadblocks ahead, Nick knew, but one way or the other, he’d be at Leonard’s address in half an hour or so.
As the plane finally banked back toward the east an attractive female flight attendant wearing a kimono entered the cabin from aft and Sato said, “Are you hungry or thirsty, Bottom-san?”
Nick shook his head. The flight attendant took Sato’s order of tako su, pepper tuna, and sunomono—the big man specified that he wanted it sauced with ponzu and wasabi mayonnaise—and barbecued squid in soy ginger sauce. He also ordered a bowl of nabeyaki udon without the poached egg. And sake.
When the flight attendant turned to Nick and bowed, obviously inquiring as to whether he’d changed his mind and would like something after all, Nick said, “Yes, I’d also like some sake.”
When the woman was gone, Sato asked, “Do you need medical attention, Bottom-san? One of the crew has military medical training and the proper equipment and drugs.”
Nick shook his head again. “Just some scratches and dinged-in ribs. I had them taped.”
They flew in silence for a few minutes. The A310/360’s two engines were so quiet that almost no sound from them entered the cabin; Nick knew they were on only because of the faint vibration underfoot and in the arms of his leather chair. He was close to dozing off when Sato spoke.
“You did not find your son, then, Bottom-san?”
“No. I didn’t.”
“Nor any clue as to his current whereabouts?”
Nick shrugged. “What are you doing here, Sato? You were supposed to be with Mr. Nakamura in Washington until tomorrow.”
The security chief—or was it assassin?—grunted. “Nakamura-sama is returning to Denver tomorrow, but a company flight to John Wayne Airport opened up today and he suggested I come out to make sure you made this flight.”
“If I hadn’t?” said Nick. He was very aware that no one had frisked him and that he still had the fully loaded Glock 9 on his left hip.
Sato made his clumsy version of a shrug. “I would have contacted authorities to inquire as to your fate, Bottom-san. Beginning with your assistant chief Ambrose, whom you mentioned in Denver. Or is it, as you said on the tarmac, ‘Chief’ Ambrose?”
“Promotion,” said Nick. Even talking sent pain through his tightly taped but still-aching ribs. “The regular CHP chief had a fatal heart attack on the third day of the rioting and fighting in L.A. and Dale received a temporary field promotion.”
“But your friend in the California Highway Patrol was not able to help you find your son?”
Nick shook his head again. The food came in, carried by three beautiful female attendants, and looked delicious. Nick wasn’t sure why he hadn’t ordered something: he hadn’t eaten in more than ten hours and it would be after midnight, Denver time, when they landed at DIA. Even his mall condos’ late-night cafeteria would be shut down by the time he got there.
Nick found himself salivating from just looking at Sato’s dinner laid out on the table, but it was the smell of the nabeyaki udon broth that really made his stomach rumble.
He gulped some sake, rose painfully, and said, “Where’s the lavatory?”
There were two doors on the aft bulkhead. The flight attendants had come in through the one on the right. Sato pointed to the door on the left.
A few minutes later, Nick stood in front of the wide mirror. This aircraft lavatory was three times the size of the bathroom in his cubie and had an actual bath as well as shower. The face and figure staring back at him looked out of place in the lemon-soap luxury of the executive-jet lavatory: Nick’s shirt was torn and bloodied, his tan jacket and chinos filthy—the left pant leg ripped and blood-soaked with white bandages showing through—and Nick had scrapes and new scars on his cheekbone and right temple. He’d received nine stitches along that cheekbone at the CHP barracks and the effect was moderately Frankenstein-like. They’d scrubbed off the worst of the grime there, but Nick still washed his hands and face vigorously in the plane lav, handling the thick hand towel gingerly, as if he didn’t want his dirt and blood to contaminate it.
Nick removed the Glock from the crossdraw holster, made sure the safety was off and that there was a round in the chamber, and set the heavy pistol back in place. If Omura-sama was correct—and Nick had believed him—then Sato was escorting him home to a death sentence. And one that would be carried out soon, probably tomorrow afternoon or evening when Nakamura arrived home to his mountaintop above Denver.
But Nick had his pistol now. An oversight? A test?
Either way, the 9mm Glock was real and his to use. But use how? Come out shooting, kill Sato first, then move from one hanging oxygen mask to the next until he could get onto the flight deck and demand that the pilot fly him…
Where? There was no nation in this hemisphere now that did not have extradition treaties with the New Nippon.
And what if Val had made it to Denver and was waiting for him?
But all this was academic, since Nick knew the door to access the flight deck could probably take repeated RPG rounds without opening or giving way. And that the crew was almost certainly armed, but wouldn’t even need that. All they’d have to do was keep the plane at altitude—assuming that some of his rounds either made it all the way through Sato or missed and depressurized the aircraft—and shut off the oxygen to his compartment. They could do that, of course, even if a stray round hadn’t depressurized the compartment. Nick shook his head and stared at the much thinner, almost gaunt by his standards of the last five years or so, and visibly beaten-up figure in the mirror. He was too tired. Too many nights with too little sleep. It was hard to think.