Ratio: A Leopold Blake Thriller (A Private Investigator Series of Crime and Suspense Thrillers) Read online

  Copyright © 2014 Nick Stephenson and Kay Hadashi

  The right of Nick Stephenson and Kay Hadashi to be identified as the authors of the Work has been asserted them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in Great Britain in 2014 by WJ Books Ltd.

  All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

  Blake Family

  From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

  See also: Blake (disambiguation)

  The Blake family (/ˈbleɪk/ blayk) is an American industrial, political and banking family that made one of the world's largest fortunes in the oil business during the late 19th and early 20th centuries, with George D. Blake and his brother James D. Blake primarily through Standard Oil.[1] The family is also known for its long association with and financial interest in the New Manhattan Bank, now part of Blake Investments Inc. They are generally seen as one of the most powerful families in the history of the United States.

  Most recently, since the death of Robert and Gisele Blake, the sole heir to the family’s business interests, Leopold R. Blake, has taken the family’s investments in a different direction and has disappeared from the political landscape to concentrate on developing business interests in the fields of modern biotechnology, clean energy, and charitable causes. [2] Although the circumstances following the deaths of Robert and Gisele Blake are still unclear, many believe…

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Ratio: A Leopold Blake & June Kato Thriller

  BONUS - Divide and Conquer: A June Kato Short Story

  About the Authors

  More Books by the Authors

  RATIO

  A Leopold Blake & June Kato Thriller

  The Deadliest Game...

  When an old acquaintance calls in a favor, Leopold Blake finds himself unable to refuse – despite his best efforts. A major political conference is hitting Seattle, and presidential hopeful Jack Melendez is fresh out of bodyguards – a problem that Leopold is in a unique position to remedy.

  With all eyes on the Emerald City, Blake and his team soon discover that all is not as it seems. What should have been a simple protection job quickly turns into the weekend from hell, as powerful enemies converge on their position, bent on revenge. But who is the target?

  For June Kato, acclaimed neurosurgeon and martial arts expert, a weekend in Seattle was supposed to be the perfect getaway – an opportunity to connect with her new lover on a deeper level and finally enjoy some alone time. But fate, it seems, has other plans.

  As loyalties are tested and shocking secrets are revealed, Leopold and June find themselves drawn deeper and deeper into an elaborate and deadly trap that will change the course of their lives forever.

  Ratio is another exhilarating installment in the Leopold Blake series of thrillers, which can be read and enjoyed in any order. This book also contains a bonus short story, Divide and Conquer, featuring June Kato.

  Sign up for Nick Stephenson’s New Releases mailing list and get a free copy of the latest novella Paydown: A Leopold Blake Thriller.

  Click here to get started: www.nickstephensonbooks.com

  Prologue

  THE OLD MAN sat bare-chested in seiza: on his knees, back straight, hands folded in his lap. He listened to the sounds of the city below, feeling cool wind dance against his skin. Thirty floors up, the balcony offered a fine view of Tokyo’s jumbled vista, an endless metropolis stretching out as far as the old man’s tired eyes could focus. The evening sun hung low and heavy in the sky, casting a foggy light over the rumbling hills on the horizon. The city never slept, and neither did he.

  Death weighed too heavily on his mind.

  He shook his visions away and took a deep breath. His guest had been patient so far, with no need to keep him waiting any longer. The gaijin stood a few feet away surveying the streets below, his pale skin glowing in the fading light. The old man noticed faint pink scars around his forehead and jawline. The man’s eyes were obscured by sunglasses. He was Caucasian, slim, with chiseled features, and wore a tailored saburo, or Western-style suit, of deep blue. Underneath, a white shirt, no tie. His dark hair was flecked with gray and his voice cut through the air like a knife.

  “Oguchi-san, you’re trying too hard to forget,” the gaijin said. “You spend too much time in meditation.” He turned to face the older man. “Resolution comes only from action.”

  “I will meditate.” A deep breath. “You will act.”

  “As agreed.” The gaijin removed his sunglasses. His dark eyes settled on Oguchi’s chest, focused on the cherry-blossom tattoos covering much of his frail body.

  “You will stay for tea,” Oguchi said.

  The gaijin didn’t reply.

  “It is considered polite.”

  A nod.

  Oguchi turned his head. A young girl waited inside the apartment. He waved her forward. She fetched a low rosewood table with an iron kettle and two small ceramic cups. She knelt and poured half a cup of pale green liquid into each, tipping the contents away after a few seconds. She refilled the cups, now warm, leaving them within arms’ reach of the older man. Both palms on the floor, she bowed silently before retreating back toward the apartment.

  “Sit,” Oguchi said.

  The gaijin obliged, settling crossed-legged on the balcony floor opposite, taking one of the cups in both hands. The young girl seemed to sense her presence was no longer required and she slipped back inside, sliding the shoji door closed behind her.

  Oguchi studied his guest carefully. “You have everything ready?”

  The man nodded. “A complex job. But vengeance never did come easy. Or cheap.”

  “If my soul can rest, no payment is too much.”

  No reply.

  Oguchi sipped his tea. “Do you know what it is like to lose a son?”

  “I have some idea.”

  “I lost a son and a granddaughter.” He set the cup down on the tray. “When I am ashes, who will carry my memory?”

  No reply.

  Oguchi didn’t press for an answer. Slowly, he reached out a hand, plucking a single poppy from a nearby trough. He held it up, studying it carefully.

  “Nature has its own way of balancing,” he said, picking out the seeds and tossing them onto the floor in front of him. “Each seed is an inconsequential part of a much greater whole. Perfectly balanced, uniform. The power of natural design. A perfect design.”

  “I’m familiar with the concept,” the gaijin said. He hadn’t touched his tea.

  “This is the balance I seek,” said Oguchi. “This is worth your price.”

  The visitor slipped his sunglasses back over his eyes and stood up. “I have done as you asked. The rest is up to you.” He headed for the door, stopped and turned around. “And you should know as well as I,” he said, “that nature has a way of playing by its own rules.”

  He opened the shoji and stepped inside the apartment, slipping away into the darkness.

  Chapter 1

  THE CRACKED WINDOW frame let in a deep howl as the wind picked up outside, the curtains pulled shut against the glare of the sun. In the darkness, a television hummed quietly to itself in the corner, casting a dull g
low over the dingy room, the muted sounds of the news report barely audible over the sound of the killer’s heavy heartbeat.

  A face appeared on the screen, grinning wide. Handsome, Hispanic, a man with too much money and too many secrets to hide. US Ambassador and Presidential hopeful Jack Melendez beamed his trademark smile to the televised crowds, one of many pieces of stock footage the killer had forced himself to watch in the last week.

  “Sources confirm Ambassador Melendez will arrive in Seattle early this week,” the news anchor said, turning to his co-host. “Looks like it’s going to be quite an event, Sally, don’t you think?”

  The bimbo named Sally nodded. “That’s right, Jerry. It’s not often we get the chance to see political history in the making.” She looked into the camera and smiled, polished teeth gleaming. “And Channel 7 will be there with all the latest reports. Stay tuned, Seattle.”

  Eyes still glued to the newscast, the killer finished dressing, pulling a full-length black body suit over his naked torso. On top of that, simple work clothes, a set of dusty coveralls to complete the effect. Tattered baseball cap in one hand, he took one last look in the bathroom mirror. Perfect.

  Locking up, he stepped outside and felt the cool air hit his face, scents of salt water and wet grass filling his nostrils. Keys in hand, he climbed into his old pickup and started the engine. He took a deep breath, allowing himself a moment of focus.

  Jimmy old boy, I’m gonna do right by you. I got him right where I want him, and I’m not giving up until Mission Accomplished. He smiled. And that means dead.

  The pickup’s V8 engine growled as the killer shifted into gear and rolled the truck onto the deserted road out of the suburbs. He drove the few miles from his small rental home in the north end of the city to downtown, eschewing the freeway for surface streets. Even though Seattle had only been his home for a few short weeks, he knew the city inside out.

  The reconnaissance process had been simple, but effective. Long walks at lunchtime, early morning jogs on weekends, and various routes home in the evening after work had given him all the education he had needed. Every traffic signal, every street corner, every dark alley and broad boulevard was burned into his memory. At the center of his focus, Washington State Convention Center, the largest of its kind in Seattle, and the new luxury hotel recently built next to it. Some very important guests were due to check in any day, and he wanted to be ready.

  With the roads and exit routes mapped out, his attention had turned to tactical strategy. Instead of heading straight for internet searches, a sure-fire way to catch the attention of the FBI, the killer had taken a more personal approach. One that couldn’t be traced back to him. He had become a frequent bar customer, almost a nightly activity of late, visiting taverns and clubs haunted by ex-military men with stories to share. With enough beer and whiskey, a man could talk for hours.

  On top of the interviews, as he had called them, the killer had spent months reading up on sniper habits, priming his mind to be cool, stealthy, and sharp. “Steady and ready” had become a mantra, something he muttered whenever he needed to settle his nerves or focus his attention. He already knew how to shoot; what he needed to know was how to hide, not just from plain vision, but from infrared sensors. He needed to learn how to disguise smells and sounds, how to conceal his presence, become a ghost. It had cost him a lot in beer money, but it would be worth every penny when the time came to pull the trigger, plunge his knife, or strangle with piano wire.

  He had everything he needed; food in silent wrappers, water in easy-open containers, a jug for piss and shit, and kitty litter to keep the smell down. Above all else, he had at least three ways to kill a politician in his sleep. He thought about the foil-lined styrofoam panels he had fabricated, designed to fit floor to ceiling, one wall to another. Thanks to some clever engineering, they folded up small enough to be concealed inside a rucksack, to be taken out when the time was right.

  For several painstaking hours, he had studied the hotel and Convention Center architectural plans, making certain he had the panels just barely oversized for a tight fit. He had painted one side of the panels to mimic bare concrete, but they hadn’t looked right. Instead, he had taken photographs of concrete and had a full size banner made.

  Attention to detail was crucial.

  Up ahead, the busy afternoon traffic signaled he was getting close to his downtown target. He thought of his old friend then, a man he had worked with for several years, his old partner. “Partners in Petty Politics” they had called themselves. And now one of them was dead, killed before his time, leaving the other behind to pick up the pieces.

  But justice would be done.

  ***

  A few slow minutes later, he took the exit into the city and headed for Pike Street. Traffic had eased a little, and the hotel quickly loomed into view. He pulled the truck into the loading dock and killed the engine. Climbing out, he grabbed his cap and tool belt from the seat, snapped the previously prepared fake credentials to his lapel, hoisted his heavy rucksack of supplies over his shoulder, and headed for the security booth at the far end of the courtyard.

  The loading dock clerk looked up as he approached the window. “Yeah?”

  “Where do I find building operations?”

  The clerk pointed at the main entrance behind him. “Just through there. You got ID?”

  The killer tapped his pass. “I’m kinda in a hurry here. Last minute call. You know how it is, right? These guys expect you to drop everything at a moment’s notice.”

  “You got that right.” The clerk pressed a button on his console. “Go on through. You want Rick Gustafson. You know the way?”

  “Yeah, got it. Thanks.” He nodded briskly and set off, pushing through the heavy doors into the polished corridor within. A short walk later, he reached a small office manned by a young, plump blonde man. The door was open.

  “Are you Rick Gustafson?” he asked, rapping on the door and stepping inside. He remembered to smile, something not habitually easy for him. “I’m told you’re the man to see if I need to get something done around here.”

  Rick tossed down a clipboard and sat forward. “Yeah, that’s right. The manager is out from work on maternity leave right now, but I’m getting it done for her.”

  “Great.” He handed over a business card, “Seattle HVAC” emblazoned on the front. The card included a name and contact number, one of his many aliases. “I’m Trevor Hanson. I’m here for the building inspection that was ordered.”

  Rick picked up his clipboard again, flipping through several pages. “I don’t see anything about an inspection.” He looked up. “That’s something that’s handled internally anyway. Our ventilation systems get checked every quarter, no issues.” He tossed the clipboard down again. “Who called you, exactly?”

  Trevor smiled and forced out a chuckle. “Wouldn’t you know it? The biggest conference of the year coming to town in a couple days, and nobody told you about what needs to be done.”

  “Yeah, well…”

  Trevor found a work order of his own, something he had fabricated the day before. “I think someone’s keeping you out of the loop, Rick. Here’s the order, you’ll notice the top-level clearance.” He handed it over, giving Rick a hard stare. “I assume you’ve been cleared to work here for the duration of the conference?”

  Rick waved him off. “Oh, yeah. We run a tight ship here in plant ops.” He took the memo from Trevor and studied it carefully. “Jesus…”

  Trevor nodded. “Yeah, you’re getting it now. You have two high-level VIPs coming for the conference this weekend, and they’ve ordered their own inspection of the place, every part of it. I’m the guy they send out for mechanical inspections and crawl spaces.”

  “So, you’re like a Secret Service agent or something?” Rick asked with a hushed voice.

  “Yeah, I guess. Kinda. At least, they’re the ones signing the paychecks.” He smiled again. “But let me explain. Nobody is supposed to know I’ve been her
e. You need to do your bit too, and keep this to yourself.”

  Rick nodded. “Yeah, yeah. I can do that. No problem, boss.”

  “These inspections always get done before big conferences like this. It’s pretty simple stuff, mainly routine. It’s nothing you have to help with. We just like to make sure the place is up to scratch and that there’s no possible security breaches.” He took the work order back. “Mostly I just need access to the basement and attic mechanical levels to inspect and do any alterations, if necessary.”

  “Today?”

  Trevor looked at his watch. “It was scheduled for five minutes ago. The sooner I get started, the sooner I get out of your hair and let you get back to the real work of running a hotel.”

  Rick pushed out of his chair. “You got it, boss. Follow me.”

  Nodding, Trevor held the door open. As the operations manager blustered past, Trevor fished out a white plastic key card from his pocket and dropped it onto Rick’s desk.

  ***

  A few flights of stairs later, Rick wrenched open a heavy steel door leading through to a dark room that smelled of damp and oil. “This is the basement level,” he said. “I can let you in the mechanical room where we house the ventilation systems, but I can’t leave you alone in there. Both the hotel and Convention Center are controlled from here.”

  “Lead the way.”

  Under Rick’s watchful gaze, Trevor spent twenty minutes bluffing his way through an inspection. The ventilation systems were huge, taking up most of the room, but the heat and noise were enough to mask Trevor’s improvised attempts. A few fake electronic monitors helped, not that Trevor figured Rick even knew what to look for, but it wasn’t worth taking the risk. He spent a few more minutes poking through corners with his flashlight, opening up a few panels. Finally, he switched off the monitors and took a deep breath.