David looked at his friend.

"Honestly? Because I was lonely. I'd been alone for thirty years running ops. I went through two wives. They thought I worked for the Department of Defense inspecting food service at military bases. Real exciting stuff. I lived a lie with them and it ended both marriages."

He put his hand on Royce's shoulder.

"I never lied to you. I withheld the truth a lot, but I never told you a lie."

"I know," Royce repeated. Ever since being recruited, he'd relied on David, his only contact with the Organization. In fact, the term "Organization" was what they had come up with to call the group they worked for – they had never been given an official name. Section 8 was the term that David had given him for the team for this mission, since people seemed to want to hang a label on things.

"Who do I – "

"Don't worry," David said, before he could finish the question.

"The Organization will be in contact with you. Finish this mission. You know what needs to be done."

"But with you gone – "

"You'll be all right. Just do what you're ordered."

David pulled his car keys out, indicating that the meeting was over. Royce walked with his mentor to the Defender, stood by the door as David got in and started the engine.

David rolled down the window.

"I'll leave this – " he tapped the steering wheel – "in the parking lot at Kaneohe Air Station. You've got your keys. Take good care of her."

"I'll…" Royce wasn't sure what to say.

David reached out the window and gripped his forearm.

"Be careful. There are always wheels turning within wheels."

With that, he let go and drove off, leaving Royce standing alone in the clearing.

The Black Wind Society of the Yakuza was controlled by a middle-age man who looked like he would be comfortable standing behind the counter of the local pharmacy, smiling at customers and dispensing medicines to make them feel better. Atio Kasama had a slight smile almost permanently entrenched on his face, a look that had disarmed many he'd come in contact with over the years – to their great disadvantage, for Kasama was anything but a happy or pleasant man.

He harbored dark thoughts and ambitions, and had ever since watching his father, a strict disciplinarian who ran the family with an iron hand, butcher his mother with a knife, and then commit suicide – after tying him to a tree in their small backyard in suburban Tokyo many years ago. Kasama spent eight hours getting himself free of his father's knots, all the while watching the bodies of his parents go into rigor mortis in front of him and their blood coagulate in the mud that had formed underneath.

Even at that age, traumatized by what he'd witnessed, he knew he did not want what was going to come next if he stayed. His parents had been only children in their families, so he would become a ward of the state, an institution he saw as simply a much larger version of his father. As he worked his way free of the bonds, he decided that for the rest of his life he would make his own rules and live his life his own way.

He'd escaped from the knots and the dead household and disappeared into the Tokyo underworld. Subsequently, he learned the reason for his father's despair – he had owed a large debt to a bookie who worked for the Yakuza. Kasama went to visit the bookie – not to wreak vengeance, as one might suppose, but rather, to learn. He considered his father weak for giving up to a force outside of himself, and he wanted to understand such power. So he learned the trade of exploiting the weakness of gambling in others – others like his father. He also learned how to exploit other weaknesses in people, in the form of running prostitutes, lending money, and dealing illegal drugs.

By the time he was eighteen, Kasama had already made his mark in the criminal underworld. Then the Black Wind had come calling. It brought him into its fold and gave him the security he had never known within his own family. His determination never to give in to any of the vices he helped ply made him different from most of those around him and allowed him to rise quickly in the ranks. Added to that was a ruthlessness that had no boundaries. He would do whatever his superiors demanded of him, because he knew it was the quickest way to get to the point where he would be the one giving the orders.

He became the right-hand man to the head of the Black Wind over six years ago, and when his boss passed away in his sleep from a heart attack, Kasama assumed power, just one year ago. There had been a few squeaks of protest from others high in the organization, but he'd crushed those squeaks with direct and violent action, brooking no dissent to his rule. There were even rumors that the heart attack had not occurred naturally. Kasama knew the truth, which was that he had nothing to do with the death, but he allowed the rumor to circulate unchecked, since fear was the most effective tool for keeping his people in line.

Now he was in his armored limousine and on his way to an afternoon meeting with some rich industrialists at a location they had designated near the port of Tokyo. He was not happy. He had inherited a problem from his predecessor: nine rich businessmen who used the Black Wind's darker talents in some of their shadier negotiations around the world. His predecessor had made the deal in exchange for political influence and money, but somehow – Kasama wasn't quite sure when it happened – the balance of power had shifted too far in the businessmen's favor.

This past month he had gotten involved in brokering some sort of deal between this group and the Abu Sayef guerrillas in the Philippines. There had been similar dealings in the past, most of the time over the return of hostages taken by the guerrillas. Kasama usually sent people with the money to negotiate the release, and in the process kept a generous broker's fee. But this last encounter with the Abu Sayef had been different.

He sent a man with a message, and the reply had been a slap in the face to the Black Wind. Kasama watched the DVD of the killing of his man just once. He'd had it explained to him that the man was given some sort of virus that slowly killed him. He understood the message because he understood the old men with whom he was working: many of them had been involved in Unit 731 during the Second World War. The name of that infamous unit made even Kasama think twice about who he was dealing with.

So when the limousine pulled up to the nondescript warehouse where he was to meet some of the old men, he waited for a few moments, as three sport utility vehicles with tinted glass pulled in, one in front of his car, two behind. His men. Armed to the teeth. They were in an alley next to the port. Warehouses lined the alley and all the doors were shut. There was no one in sight.

It bothered Kasama that he had to make such a show of force for a meeting. It was a loss of face. But the DVD had made an impression on top of his feelings about those who had once been part of Unit

731. Something was going on, something he was not clued in to, and that bothered him more than the loss of face and made him wary. It also bothered him that his chief bodyguard had not been there to meet him. That was most unusual, and Kasama planned on severely disciplining the man – another finger removed would be a fitting punishment.

He remained in the car as a man got out of each SUV and took up position near the doors of the appointed place. They had automatic weapons, which they openly brandished. Kasama had never been here before. However, he'd met with the old men before in such out of the way places several times.

One of the men tried the door. It did not budge. Kasama frowned as he watched through the armored side window of his limousine. Who did these people think they were?