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For a moment, I was mentally transported back to my first black op in Karachi, Pakistan, another overpopulated cesspool where living shoulder to shoulder was a way of life—though the two cities couldn’t be more different.
Walking through downtown Tokyo at night was like walking through a video game after taking a hit of acid. Every high-rise was encased in neon lights, flashing, blinking, displaying scrolling ads the length of a football field. The streets were awash in an eerie blue fluorescent glow, reflecting off the hundreds of compact cars, bicycles, and motorbikes as they zipped past. The noise alone was enough to cause confusion and raise anyone’s blood pressure.
In short? It was a calculated, clever assault on the senses that guaranteed wide-eyed wanderers and naive tourists stayed up all night, making bad decisions while spending their hard-earned money with reckless abandon. Not ten minutes on the streets, and I’d already seen three people get pickpocketed, two men pummel each other in an alley, and a teenager get sucked off by a hooker in exchange for a joint.
I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there.
I sidestepped a group of drunken French tourists, bumping aimlessly off each other, laughing, slurring, completely oblivious to the danger around them.
Danger like me.
For a moment, I considered slipping the blade of my knife into one of their kidneys just to see how long it took before anyone noticed. But a digital clock on the building ahead reminded me that I didn’t have time for such games.
A cacophony of horns blared as I stepped onto the street, ignoring the blinking crosswalk. A portly fellow in a car the size of a tennis shoe leaned out the window, his face contorted in anger, his stubby middle finger in the air.
A universal gesture. One of my favorites.
I returned the greeting and slipped into the crowd, missing a food delivery truck by a mere inch.
The watch on my wrist vibrated with an incoming message.
You have ten minutes, tops.
I increased my pace, shouldering through the crowd. At the next light, I pivoted onto a slightly less crowded street. A cool breeze whipped between the buildings, carrying the scent of fried food, spices, and burnt gasoline from the motorbikes. Smoke from a yakitori street vendor billowed into the street, catching the colors of the neon lights.
Another right, followed by a left at the next block.
I glanced at my watch, picking up my pace.
Forty seconds later, I turned into one of the lesser-known izakaya alleys, home to authentic Japanese-style dining bars and restaurants. Very popular with tourists.
In stark contrast to the busier streets, this alley was dark, lit only by paper lanterns swaying from strings of lights that had been looped between the buildings that flanked the alley. Between the lanterns, massive bushels of bright pink Japanese anemone flowers hung low in the air, adding a sweet fragrance to the spices and incense.
After a quick glance over my shoulder, I opened an inconspicuous red door under a sign that read simplyrestaurant. Inside, everything was red. The light bulbs, the lanterns, the tables, the booths, even the rugs that stretched over worn hardwood floors.
A young woman with long black hair, red stilettos, and red lipstick greeted me from the hostess stand.
“I’m here to see Haru,” I said in Japanese.
“O—oh.” She blinked, obviously expecting me. “Yes. ID, please.”
As I dug into my coat pocket, the hostess swallowed deeply, her gaze flickering over my shoulder.
Her hand trembled as she returned the identification. “Haru is out at the moment but will be back shortly. She is expecting you. Right this way, please.”
The diners turned to watch us as we made our way through the tables. Because I’m Caucasian, because I’m wearing a suit that cost more than their cars, or perhaps it was because of the thick, jagged scar that ran down the side of my face.
I was led behind a curtain of beads and into a dark hallway that ended at a closed door. Through it, I could hear the low base of some godawful Japanese R&B music.
The hostess gestured to the door, indicating this was where I should wait, then took two steps back, eager to put distance between us.
I waited until I was alone in the hallway before turning the knob and opening the door.
The room was small, illuminated only by red light. It was hot and humid, rank with the scent of sex.
Set up like a waiting room, there were plastic chairs lining the walls. A small portable bar stocked with liquor sat in the corner. Ahead were three identical red doors. I recalled the blueprint I’d studied hours earlier. Behind each door was a room, and each room was a carbon copy of the next, containing nothing but a twin-size bed and a chair.
Hidden in the shadows, a naked woman knelt in front of a balding businessman. His thick, beefy hand fisted her hair, guiding her head back and forth as she sucked him off. He lazily regarded me, his lids heavy with satiation and whatever drug he’d taken before paying Haru, the madam of the brothel.
