-x-

Qamishli, Syria

The Commanders offered a few options when it came to narcotics. While food was scarce even when they were winning, there was always plenty of drugs to go around. Drugs to keep you awake, help you sleep; even keep you erect if that was what you needed. The older soldiers and advisers preferred khat: their mouths often full of leaves as they chewed through as much as they could fit. The younger ones preferred opium after one or two fights and they were desperate to sleep without waking up screaming. Leyla, at her age, didn’t know the name of her preference. It came in an inhaler and she was told it originated from the hated West. But it worked.

At thirteen, the Captain of the Third Children’s Regiment of the Free Life Movement had lost the need or desire to sleep. Even after night fell over Qamishli, her once vivid green eyes had a permanent shadow. She was still the gangly weed that had run up and down these streets, batting her eyes through the bazaar and playing pickup soccer just a few years ago. But that small amount of time had stripped away the potential and left the weed: just strong enough to keep up right and balance the Dragunov sniper rifle she had been given. Twin scars stretched from her mouth to the bottoms of her ears: a personal reminder from one of the radical imams of her ‘place’.

Walking the streets of Qamishli, she could see her place in the crumbling homes, the streets ripped apart by mechanized units and bombings, and the dead that had been left to rot in the remains: with anyone who could bury them either running or hiding in fear. Her family and friends had not been so lucky when they arrived. Her Father was always wary of the militant Islamists springing up around them and their unabashed hatred for the Kurdish. Leyla remembered the panic when news that the bloody tide that had overtaken Iraq was heading towards them, and that the national government was focused, as usual, on protecting themselves; they moved as fast as they could. It just wasn’t fast enough.

The memories sent one hand to her neck, clinging to the scarf around her neck, and the other into her pockets: her inhaler. With a deep breath blood rushed to heard: sharpening her senses to where even the empty streets sounded a bit louder. Footsteps. Someone was coming. Leyla wiped the tears from her eyes and turned to meet one of only three people who knew she would be there. Tariq wasn’t Kurdish, but like Leyla and many others, had been taken to make up the children’s regiments. He was the Captain of the First Children’s Regiment: usually sent out to face the local forces before the regular adult units. It was, admittedly, genius. One look at the baby-faced Tariq would make any soldier hesitate just long enough to get shot.

“You were right. Something is happening.”

A rustling behind him sent them both hustling into a narrow side street: the few lights surrounding the dark street fading as they disappeared into the darkness. A few FLM soldiers passed through; laughing to each other about something Leyla couldn’t translate in her head. After a moment, Tariq sighed and drew her attention back to him.

“The Commander is moving troops to the south of the city: close the airport and through the main road. There are soldiers here too: guarding the city center.”

“So, is it the national government? The Russians? Or would the Americans care enough to send soldiers here?”

“Dunno,” The darkness broke around Tariq as he lit a cigarette. The boy took a long drag: the white smoke rising into the air after a moment. “Whoever they are, the Commander’s scared. He’s got company, too. That foreigner is back too, and he brought someone with him. I’ve never seen the other guy before.”

“He’s in the Nu Dem building, then. I can get him if he is.”

“Are you sure?”

There was some movement and a small light from the tip of the cigarette extended to her. She took it. “I’ll need to draw him out of the building. If I can, I know a spot where I can get a clean shot.”

“It’s still a big risk, Captain. We’re lucky no one has told anyone yet. If you can’t kill the Commander, we don’t have a chance.”

“I’ll kill him.” Leyla exhaled. “I need to borrow a bomb from you though to do it.”

“And then what? What happens then?”

She had thought about that over and over to keep herself from thinking of other things lately. Despite his age, Leyla figured out quickly ‘the Commander’ was someone who was easy to scare and easier to predict. But then? Combined, the child corps had roughly fifty fighters. The FLM group in Qamishli had well over that, if not more. The odds and fates were completely stacked against them.

“Captain?”

“Do you think about how many people you’ve killed?”

In the dark, she watched Tariq shift and squirm before taking back his cigarette. “Always. You?”

“Yes.”

“So?”

“There’s nowhere for us to go back to. There’s too much blood on us. This is it. This is the last thing we do before we all go to Hell.” Instead of handing it back, Leyla tossed the cigarette down the street. “But we can drag them to Hell with us for what they’ve turned us into…what they’ve made us do. And maybe there will be less like us going to Hell when we’re done.”

-x-

Caesar Oliver Duquesne was not supposed to live past thirty.

Most of his siblings didn’t. Both of his older brothers were dead: cut down in cold blood and buried back home in Louisiana. He didn’t understand the reason why for Franklin, but by the time the Duquesnes buried Jeff, the reasons behind it became clear. In retrospect, Caesar supposed his Mother expected him to be hurt or angry over the territorial squabbles that had taken two of his family members away from him. ‘Black Men can’t be that reckless with their lives,’ she mused as she waited for some sort of emotion. Instead, surprisingly to her and most of his family in the aftermath, he shrugged it off.

Unfortunately, his other siblings didn’t learn from their brothers’ mistakes. Mikayla was sitting on death row after getting busted for several murders she served as accomplice to and Jackie was probably lost in Lake Charles with a needle still sticking out of her arm...if she wasn’t already dead. Mistake after mistake after mistake with the Angel of Death hovering waiting for him to follow in his family’s footsteps. The statistics were clear on that much.

He, however, was never that incautious.

His gifts were not substantial as far as Duquesne himself was concerned. He was not athletic or intellectually gifted: though he had some talent with numbers. However, he could read a room, see patterns and had a gift for persuasion. He used those to get into the right rooms and finesse the people who could help him change his future. No, he had not escaped the criminal lifestyle that tainted the Duquesnes. But, as he realized after finding out how his brothers died, it wasn’t the criminal lifestyle that killed them: it was the thug lifestyle. Criminals survived: it was their talent. Thugs died every second of every day.

So, Duquesne survived and survived until he reached the position he wanted. His reputation for discretion and persuasion made him friends who needed a middle-man for the more questionable deals they engaged in. And, when necessary, removing some problems that happened during the course their business. A Fixer: powerful enough to make moves on his own, vague enough to stay off the radar of any law enforcement. Then he found out there was a need for his talents on a global stage and it opened avenues he could barely have dremt of when he was younger.

Caesar Duquesne wasn’t supposed to live past thirty. He was forty now and standing in the middle of Qamishli. The war there had spiraled out of control and provided several opportunities for the organization he served as underboss to. Entangling and nurturing those opportunities while not overplaying his role in the wars were an interesting challenge, but he had did it very well. A few euros to a few blue helmets here and there got the best currency he could find into Syria: weapons. Small and large arms, explosives even an anti-air platform he was able to talk out of the hands of the Ukrainian Ministry of Defense. All of it had found its way into the hands of FLM: turning what was once a small Kurdish rebellion against the Syria government into a bloody, unceasing quagmire threatening to swallow the entire region.  

And now he had a front row seat to the plan’s next stage. The building they were in was once a Kurdish nationalist publication: Nu Dem. They were situation in the newsroom: the nationalist posters and Kurdish flag remained, defiled, with the FLM flag in preeminence behind a shoddy conference table. While he understood most of the conversation between the two others in the room, he was more concerned with the men guarding them all. Covered in body armor and armed with the best automatic weapons money can buy, their guards represented Executive Risk PMC. They had been operating in the region for years in various capacities, so it made perfect sense for them to be there. But they were mostly Western-born, and he didn’t need anyone growing a conscience with two of the most wanted terrorists on the planet arguing right in front of them.

The first was the leader of the contingent: Adil Alman al-Adnani. From what he could find, Adnani was an Iraqi local who had been rebelling his entire life. First against the Jordanian Royal Family, then he worked with the Chechen rebellion until the ruling oligarchs narrowed in on him. Working with FLM must have been a dream come true for a hardcore believer like him: on the front lines for a potential return of true Islamist rule in the region. But that faith had given way to something far more volatile.

The Commander al-Adnani Duquesne had met a year back had become scattered. His hair and beard hung in ragged strands: his clothing nearly in tatters. What was left of his right hand waved frantically: a desperate attempted to make a point that seemed to slip every now and then. The only thing that was in one piece on him was his bullet proof vest that was riddled with bullet holes.

Khalid bin Safidi, however, was much more collected. Well-groomed with clean black robes flowing from head-to-toe, the Saudi national found himself in any incredible position as, while wanted, no one outside of that room knew exactly what he looked like. The world usually looked for terrorist to be active bombers or planners: not bankers. Yet Safidi was one of the most talented bankers Duquesne had ever seen. The way he grew wealth for FLM would make some on Wall Street envious. It also put him in prime position to do what Duquesne, his organization and FLM needed their commander to do.

“If you fought for our cause one day in your damned life and actually got your hands dirty, you’d know why I cannot do what you’re asking me to do!”

“And if you thought beyond this moment, you’d know why I am asking.” Safidi responded with a sneer. “This war is bigger than this one little corner of the Levant. You have lost ground here against the Russians and government forces in the last three engagements. They will take Qamishli: if only to keep it out of Kurdish hands. Our partners have to move faster to beat them to that, since you have so clearly failed.”

Adnani spat and jabbed his nub of a finger into Safidi’s robes. “Watch your tone, you Saudi bastard. I’ve done more for our faith in one lifetime than you can do in three!”

“No one is questioning that, which is why we need you to leave. Tonight. Alone.” Safidi didn’t back away: the cold darkness in his eye warping into Adnani’s. “When it’s done, and you reappear in Mosul or Baghdad or Tikrit, your legend will be untouchable. You will be able to gather converts in ways that even the Central Council can’t yet. Then we can get our true victory.”

“Who is this ‘we’?” Adnani spat again. “I haven’t agreed to anything.”

“You will. Or we will leave you here! Don’t forget Adnani, you need our money and this one’s arms as well! Either you have us backing you or you will fail. Just like you did in Chechnya and with the Hashemites before that.”

The mention of his past seemed to stall the FLM commander for a moment. So, you’re not as fanatical as you act. Predictable: so predictable. Duquesne smirked, reaching into his coat pocket for one of his Turkish Gold cigarettes. With a flick of the lighter, he was more than ready when Adnani turned to him.

“I suppose you bring similar threats, Mister Duquesne?”

“Threats? No.” Duquesne sighed in a cloud of smoke. “Realities, more or less. You are valuable to us, but it’s worthless if you don’t see that value yourself. Safidi is correct: you can become immortal if you leave here tonight. If you don’t, you’ll just be one more dead Syrian in a conflict that has gotten out of control. In cases like these, the right choice is obvious, wouldn’t you agree?”

Adnani sighed, then sighed again. For a moment all he did was breathe as the weight seemed to settle on his shoulders: shrinking him in the shadows of Safidi and Duquesne. “My men will die if I leave them on their own.”

“Your men are martyrs for a cause they knew was bigger than themselves when they joined you. Their names will live in infamy so long as you are there to tell the world who they were.”

“…What would I even do? Just wait for the Russians to come in and destroy them all before going to Iraq? Watch them all die?”

Duquesne exhaled another cloud of smoke: the acrid smoke filling the room as the fixer mimed consideration. The plan was already set though. The only thing necessary was for him to comply. Unbeknownst to Adnani though, the plan didn’t call him to go to Iraq. Before he could elaborate, however, an explosion erupted on the streets below.

The room shook as whatever glass was left in the remaining windows shattered and flew into the air. The commander was knocked to his knees as the others scrambled to avoid the smoke and glass. Duquesne tossed the cigarette and pulled his Beretta M9. The mercenaries in the room prepared their main arms as well and each took a window: listening as the dead city came alive with shouts.

“What the Hell just happened?!” Duquesne said. “Someone get me some information!”

The words barely left the fixer’s mouth before another explosion ripped through the city. Then another, and another. Soon the sound of explosions was joined with gunfire and the screams of the dead mixed in with the yelling of their attackers. Whoever they were, Duquesne knew the difference between Russian and Arabic, and none of the screams were in Russian. The realization, though, was lost outside of himself.

“They’re here! The Russians are here! We will not let them take Qamishli!” Adnani’s good hand grabbed his AK-47 and charged out of the room. “Turn on the lights and grab your weapons!”

“Don’t go out there, you idiot!” Duquesne’s word fell on deaf ears as spotlights lit up the street. “Dammit. Secure Safidi!”

The Commander was well ahead of him, but it was a short trip down the stairs: only a few flights. Duquesne crashed into the wall as he scrambled to catch up. Something had gone wrong with their plans: very wrong. He could hear Adnani barking orders in the lobby as he landed on the main floor: the FLM commander was only a few steps ahead of him. “Adnani get back here!”

But he wasn’t listening. Blinded by faith, or glory or something else entirely he charged out of the doors of the Nu Dem offices, his trusted weapon ready for battle; right into a bullet.

In the noise that had overtaken Qamishli, it was hard to pinpoint the shot that did it. But it was enough to Duquesne to skid to a stop before heading out the main doors himself and dropping behind cover. No sooner than he did the body of Adil Alman al-Adnani crash backwards to the main floor. The FLM soldiers who had heard the blast had come to investigate, only to see the body of their leader dead from a clean shot to the head. They had barely processed Adnani’s death before more shots rang out, taking out two more soldiers before the rest could get their acts together and begin firing at a building across the street.

A sniper?!

Duquesne seethed: one less asset would be an issue for his employer’s larger plan. However, looking at the pool of blood spreading around the now deceased FLM commander, the fixer’s sinister mind began to spin. The possibilities, probabilities and outcomes all came together in a flood of predictions. A few seconds, maybe more, to flesh through them all as the battle around him grew more intense with each decision. Finally, given what he knew, Duquesne made the only call he could.

Proceed as planned.

“Stupid, reckless; foolish. He couldn’t even let himself get used correctly.” Duquesne snarled as he scrambled back up the stairs: keeping his head low just in case. After an eternity, he was back in the conference room where Safidi was, indeed, secure. “Make the call!”

“We’re already have, Mister Duquesne.” One of the mercenaries held out a satellite phone, which he took. “The operations center is ready for you”

“This is Duquesne,” The fixer corrected his horn-rimmed glasses as another explosion irritated the Hell out of him. “The FLM forces are turning against one another. Are the drones in position?”

“Yes sir, but –”

“We’re in the Nu Dem building. It’s marked. Eliminate all available enemy targets.”

“Mister Duquesne if you’re still in the city, it’ll won’t be clean.” Duquesne squeezed the phone until he was sure it was about to break. “We’ll have to explain the bombing to the Department of Defense. Plus, we cannot differentiate between the child units we have intel on and the adults with the UAVs.”

“I don’t give a damn! We’ll figure it out later!”

“…”

“Do I have to remind you what will happen if Qamishli is still standing when I leave?”

“…No, sir.”

“Then you may fire when you are ready.”

-x-

Hey Noora. I’m doing something really stupid. I wish you were here to try and talk me out of it.

Battle cleared her senses and her mind: letting Leyla do two things. The first is to focus on her targets and make the best shots she could. It was the first thing she had been taught when she was forced into FLM and it was a lesson she was more than happy to keep using that lesson. The second was more unfortunate. Her mind was clear: free of distractions and drugs and nightmares. Just her targets, herself and the memories of a better time whenever she took a deep breath into her scarf.

Bang. Bang.

Leyla had grown up with Noora. Noora wanted to start wearing perfume which her parents obliged her own and Leyla constantly mocked her for. It wasn’t terrible, just so ridiculous. She could hardly take her friend seriously when she insisted on dunking herself in that stuff every day. ‘One day you’ll get it Leyla.’ Noora scolded: twisting the tail ends of her scarf to keep from hitting her friend.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

Noora was dead: a piece of cloth and that awful scent the only thing left of her. As were her parents, and Leyla’s parents and everyone they ever knew or love. And now, so was the commander. The shot was perfect: the best she had ever done. A happy sob of relief left her throat before she turned her attention to the other soldiers who had come. She would kill them all: or at least as many as she could before her ammunition ran out.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Click.

Clearing the tears from her eyes she reached into her pouch for another ammo clip. It slipped: clattering along the floor of the school room she had bunkered in. It had a clear view of the Nu Dem headquarters that she used to stare at in boredom during her classes: imaging the future when she could be across the street, travelling the world to bring information back to the Kurdish people. Keeping on her stomach to avoid the shrapnel of bullets hitting her cover, Leyla pulled the clip back to her and loaded it. Even with the soldiers she’s killed, more were still coming for their revenge.

Clearing her eyes again, the girl heard something different: explosion. Tariq should’ve set off all the bombs he had. She wondered, then realized no one was shooting at her. The sounds of battle had melted away into screams of terror. Carefully, she pulled herself up to her knees, then her feet as she watched missiles rain from the sky into the city. The remains of her home city crumbled and fell before her eyes, which widened in grim reality as she realized two of those missiles were heading right for her.

-x-

Zurich

The black-tie event was originally intended to be private: only for the power players and their representatives who would be directly involved in the auction. However, so far, he had respectful, but winded conversation with the American Ambassador to the United Nations: a son of Pashtun immigrants with a flair for realpolitik. He was followed by the Deputy Chief of Staff for the ruling oligarch in Moscow: a taciturn woman who earned her current employer’s favor through direct, deadly force.

They were joined by others wanting an edge after the bidding was done. An envoy from the Saudi Prince, the scion of the Nehru-Gandhi Family; the Vice-Premier of the People’s Republic of China. It was more than he could have hoped for. It was a given that the auction would be a success, however hosting an event like this and opening it beyond the primary bidders was risky. They could always spend their time trying to influence which way the bidders would go instead of the one who would be holding the money. And yet, with some patience and no small amount of crowd control, Soujiro Rokkaku remained in the center of the room: with both the money and the influence in the palm of his hand.

The Baur au Lac Hotel had been the perfect location for the initial auction benefiting the Greater Kurdistan Fund. It was an interesting choice and benefit, considering there was no Kurdistan yet. Now, they were pieces on a board: inhabited areas of different regional states. However, combined, the proposed new state would immediately be a regional, if not global power. Beyond housing the sixth largest reserve of oil in the world, Kurdish-controlled areas housed untapped copper, coal and iron deposits: just to name of a few mineral resources. Most of the contracts were to extract those resources, along with building the infrastructure necessary for the proposed country to begin operating at top efficiency.

It was a challenging, expansive project: especially with the unrest in the region brought on by the formation and rebellion of certain Kurds and Islamists through the FLM. Still though, it was only a challenge: one that wasn’t beyond Rokkaku’s capabilities. It was why he was trusted with chairing the Fund, along with his other duties as Executive Chairman of the Rokkaku Corporation.

“Sir.”

The Chairman turned from his conversations to his right-hand woman. Halimah Rao had a successful career in the Singaporean civil service: well-respected and rising to prominence in the Strategy Group of the Prime Minister’s Office before accepting her current role in the Rokkaku Corporation. He had instructed her not to interrupt his politicking unless there was news from Qamishli. Looking at his watch, he realized that news was coming an hour early. Something had changed.

Excusing himself, he followed Rao from Le Petit Palais, the grand venue that served as their auction and dining hall for the evening and was immediately flanked by his security as they escorted him to a salon-turned-boardroom where he had held some of the private meetings of the auction. Rao adjusted her black hijab as the doors closed. “It’s Duquesne.”

“What happened?”

“He wouldn’t say. He insisted on talking directly to you.” Rao said, extended a mobile phone. “He’s still in Qamishli.”

A dark look crossed Rokkaku’s smoke-grey eyes. “Mister Duquesne. What happened?”

“Sir, we had a rebellion while I was on the ground. It looks like the children units banded together and tried to get revenge on their superiors.” Duquesne voice crackled from the other end. “They raised some serious Hell until the UAVs from Executive Risk bombed the city.”

“They lost control of children?” Rokkaku said. “That was the easiest part of their job.”

“Apparently. Although, it does give us more to work with as far as the media is concerned. Instead of putting it all on the shoulders of the Russians, we now have child terrorists trying to free themselves from their masters and failing.”

“Yes, that does have potential.” Rao handed her boss a butane lighter and guillotine as he pulled a Cohiba Siglo II from the humidor chest in the middle of the table. “It will certainly make it easier to get a Western coalition to declare the FLM a terrorist group. How does it look?”

“Bad. Bodies are everywhere and not just from the FLM. I’m guessing if we dug under the surface, we’d find the people they slaughtered to take Qamishli in the first place. Whatever media is let in here are going to have a field day.”

“Good. We will go with that then.” Rokkaku took his seat at the polished conference table. “You were with Safidi. Is he safe?”

“He’s safe. Adnani got blown away, though. A sniper took him out.”

“That complicates my plans for Iran.”

“Stupid bastard had a martyr’s complex and ran into a trap. Nothing can be done about that.”

“The Iranian regime will not be shaken by anything less than a legend. Without Adnani, we will have to manufacture a new one.” Rokkaku breathed in: the end of his cigar burned brigther, followed by rich smoke filling the air. “If I remember correctly, there was a religious leader inside of the FLM, right?”

“From what I understand, his role has been mostly as an adviser to the military leaders. Though he has been on the various fronts to preach to the soldiers. I can start putting together a file on him, if necessary.”

“It is, Mister Duquesne. We may be able to turn him into much more depending on his capabilities. I will have Mrs. Rao take care of that, though. Make sure Safidi makes it back across the border safely, then lay low until I return to Kobe.”

“One more thing. One of the drone operators at Executive Risk may be developing a conscience.” Duquesne voice quieted. “The kid gave me push back when I gave the kill order. I can find out his personal details and determine if he’ll be a risk moving forward.”

“If he is truly feeling guilty, he will take care of himself.” Rokkaku sighed. “Still though, you may keep an eye on him if you wish. The worst-case scenario is that we tie that loose end before it becomes a problem. Talk to the leadership, though. Their training is not thorough enough if some of their people are that emotional.”

“Of course.”

The Chairman hung up the phone and sat back: smoking in silence for a few minutes. Finally he turned to his aide, “Syrian Kurdistan is ours.”

“Not without complications, though?”

“I never seem to be that luckily Halimah.” Soujiro Rokkaku mused. “Al-Adnani is dead. I will have to be more creative to lure the Iranians into conflict for their Kurdish piece..”

“Maybe we can assemble Greater Kurdistan without the Iranian piece. At this point, we will also have to control the crowd. Some downstairs have already started questioning their investment, especially if there is a long-term insurgency. I overheard the talk when I came to retrieve you.”

“Let them talk,” The Chairman said. “The more fighting there is over Kurdish territory, the more expensive it becomes.”

“You’re more confident than usual in the value this project, Mister Rokkaku.”

“Not just in the value of the project. The value of life, Halimah.” With another great breath, Rokkaku rested his cigar in a glass ashtray and steepled his fingers. “Generations of lives have been lost there. Entire families are buried in the fields of Kurdistan: waiting for some archaeologist fifty years from now to find them. But all that death has only made the land richer: those souls sewed into every resource. It is in our grasp; waiting for us to reap a harvest unlike anything else we have seen. And once our platforms and container ships are there, it will be worth every life that bled out on its soil.”

A heavy knock on the door brought an end to the conversation. Rao opened it, allowing in one of the bankers from Julius Kohler: a slim German man with an overbearing bright expression. In contrast to the two in the room, he was jubilant. The ledger under his arm had a great deal to do with that.

“Mister Rokkaku,” The banker said with a heavy German accent. “You wanted to see the books once we were done?”

“How many contracts are left to be auctioned?”

“Two or three. I’ll get you an accurate number, but they are for the utilities. No one is touching those until they actually see what they have to work with.”

“That’s, actually understandable.” Rao sighed. “Though arrangements will have to be made for that and we cannot do at the moment.”

“Regardless, the auction went very well. The representatives for the provisional Kurdish government have agreed as well. All that is necessary now is your signature as Chair to allow for the transfer of funds into our accounts.”

“How much will be going in tonight?

“The full amount raised at auction, sir. Fifty Billion American Dollars.”

ONE

 “And so, we have our new sovereign.”

Tsutomu Shima managed a laugh in response. The first winds of Summer had started tapping on the windows of his office overlooking the financial district all week, but only now had he taken the time to notice them. His several decades had seen its shares of public and private rises and falls: many of them had his fingerprints due to his singular client for three generations: The Rokkaku Family.

For over forty years, Shima had served as the trusted lawyer and advisor for the Rokkaku Family. Like the rise and falls of so many he had engineered on the family’s behalf, Shima had a front row seat to the tragedies that tended to follow them. Shima started working under Daisuke Rokkaku just after his wife and youngest daughter perished in a boating accident. The eldest son, Seichiro, survived until adulthood and took his father’s place as patriarch of the family business. He did well until the day he and his wife were murdered by what was eventually discovered to be a rival. Their death left their sons, Soujiro and Kenta, in Shima’s custody until Soujiro grew old enough to replace his father and continue the shadowy family business.

Soujiro Rokkaku. Both Daisuke and Seichiro were visionary men for their time. They grew the Rokkaku operation from a local chain of gas stations to a national powerhouse. But it was Soujiro who, in ten shorts years, made it an international force. The Rokkaku Corporation under Soujiro quickly cornered the Pacific oil market; using their newfound monopoly to expand their holdings into heavy industries and communications. Those tools were exactly what they needed to cement the other, much more profitable industry all three generations had nurtured: arms dealing.  

             The Rokkakus has been the most successful dealers in the international arms trade and the fortune from it was key to expanding their legitimate enterprise. Soujiro had brought his business acumen to the dark network of gun running as well, becoming somewhat infamous in the Japanese underworld. Unlike his father and grandfather, Soujiro had not been afraid to skate close to the edge of the cliff. His ambition was sometimes reckless, and earned him more than a few glances from law enforcement, but it was hard to argue with success.

At least, it was right up until the day the shadows surrounding the Rokkaku Family caught up to Soujiro as well.

The old man’s eyes began to sting: dryness from the warming weather, hopefully. Shima wasn’t an optimistic by nature. Too much death surrounded this family for it to not have repercussions on Soujiro’s future. However, Shima held onto the sliver of hope that like his predecessors, Soujiro would at least find some sort of human happiness before his time. Admittedly, he came as close as he possibly could. But even that was hanging by a thread in the aftermath of his death. All that was truly left was the varied business interests: both legal and illegal.

The Rokkaku Corporation would take care of itself. It had already begun the process of moving from its headquarters in Kyoto to a much more palatable atmosphere in Singapore. The illegal aspect was much more delicate. The network that had grown under Soujiro’s couldn’t just disappear with him into the ether. Too many people across the world depended on the steady stream of arms and money it provided. As unprecedented as it was, they needed to find a successor. A few of Soujiro’s lieutenants had tried to seize the moment: looking to take advantage at their darkest moment. However, Shima had been a step ahead and ensured calm for the moment as he worked with the world’s most dangerous crime lords on a reasonable successor. The cold months after the bloodshed had been tense and not everyone was pleased. But, in the end, it would maintain the status quo and that’s what matter most.

All that remained was the agreement of one final key piece: Colonel Kham. Colonel Kham served as the chief of staff for General Sai Win: the current leader of Burma. The Rokkakus had used Burma and its military junta for years as a key intersection for its arms trade. General Win helped keep the arms flowing for a reasonable cut and certain contracts to secure the junta against calls for reform and democracy. Soujiro Rokkaku’s death interrupted that deal and made the junta’s hold on power tenuous. The General needed a successor just as badly as the rest of the world did, but he was also a shrewd man and couldn’t let the opportunity pass him by.

In front of Shima was a slew of new construction projects the Rokkaku Corporation would help Burma finance: including a state-of-the-art refinery complex. The reformers in the country wouldn’t like it, but having it there would secure the junta’s interests for a few generations and also provide cover for the arms network running through Rangoon. It’s the deal Soujiro would make to ensure order. The thought resonated and repeated in Shima’s mind as he added his signature to the contracts. The new CEO’s approval was a forgone conclusion, so the only thing left would be to inform the world’s next lord of war of their new title.

“So, when will we have a chance to meet our new boss.”

“That depends. Unlike our previous boss, she prefers more luxurious climates and leaves most of the daily work to people like me. She is supposed to be vacationing in Marseille right about now with some new toy she’s picked up. She wouldn’t go into any details, so I suppose that she’s learning to be more discreet.”

Kham’s thick eyebrows heaved as he listened to Shima. “If she has to start learning to be discreet now…”

“She’s got a good mind for this business. That’s the key thing.”

“You think so?” The third party on the phone finally spoke up. Until that moment, the saiko komon of Kuwata-kai had been perfectly fine just listening to the conversation. Kuwata-kai was a relatively new branch of the largest Yakuza family in Japan: specializing in financial crimes. The ‘Bank of Crime’, young and hungry for growth and the power it provided, had tried to muscle in on the Rokkaku Corporation; deciding that the young owner would be ripe for control. They miscalculated, but instead of making a further example of them, Soujiro Rokkaku saw potential in partnering with the group.

Like everything else Soujiro had touched, the partnership flourished. Yuu Tsuruho, the group’s leader, was rumored to be in line to take over the entire family after the assassination of the previous oyabun thanks in no small effort to Masahira Ishihara: the group’s top advisor and an old friend of Shima’s. The two had ensured the Yakuza and Rokkakus could profit well together, but now in the middle of the uncertainty Kuwata-kai had begun to get anxious. This deal would keep them in check, or at least that was the hope.

“She’s was our previous employer’s most consistent trading partner. She is the closest thing we have to a successor outside of members of his family.” The words mixed into the shreds of cigar smoke still hanging in the office air before they had begun their business. It still didn’t feel right to call him family: not after everything that had happened. However, to the best of his knowledge Soujiro’s younger brother had disappeared somewhere in Europe months before the older brother was assassinated. “But, I won’t pretend like she was my first choice to lead this enterprise.”

“Then why?”

“Because he trusted her.”

“Just trusted her?”

“Knowing him…”

“I’ve heard the stories of how she accomplished Kashmir.” Kham ran his hand through the bit of hair left on his thinning head. “She’s not exactly orthodox. Tie in these excursions and the continued investigations into Mr. Rokkaku haven’t stopped despite what has happened…you can understand why we are beginning to get nervous.”  

Shima glared at him. Even in death, it was foolish to toss around his name. “Then why did you agree to this deal?”

“Because he trusted you. We’d be even more foolish not to do the same now that he’s being replaced. The General and I simply wish his replacement was more…level-headed.”

“I agree.”

“We can all agree on that,” Shima sighed. “I wish she was a bit more level headed as well. However, I don’t know if we will ever replicate what we had in our previous boss. He was one of a kind in many ways. At this point we have two options: order or chaos. We can maintain an order, even though it will be less than ideal. Or, we can watch it all be swept away in chaos. Our previous employer wouldn’t have considered it a choice at all.”

“Agreed.”

“Then its settled,” Shima rose from his chair and extended his hand. “The world is changing in many ways Colonel, but some things should remain the same. That’s why old men like us exist after all; to maintain stability in these youthful, turbulent times.”

The Colonel laughed and rose from his seat as well. “What are you doing calling yourself old? You’ll outlive us all at this rate.”

“That’s certainly not my intent. Thank you, Ishihara.”

“Thank you, my old friend. We’ll be in touch.”

“What will you do now?” Kham asked as he shook Shima’s hand. “He’s gone and left no heir. And despite our confidence in her to get the job done, our new boss would most likely prefer to choose her own grey eminence.”

“That may not he an option, at least not immediately. Once we get the legalities out of the way, I’ll bring her here. Kyoto is the safest point for you and a few others to make your greetings and begin to lay out how the next six months go.”

“There is always be a position in Rangoon if you desire it. We could use your intellect; especially now. The pro-democracy movement is becoming popular again.”

“Just put it down and get it over with. You’ve done it before.”

“The General was hoping for a more nuanced approached: especially with the Americans watching us closer without a large arms operation to keep them away.”

“I appreciate the thought. However, for now I need to stay here. At least until we are sure nothing upsets the balance.”

“On that note, General Win will be passing through Japan as a part of a tour leading up to the next ASEAN conference. He was hoping to get in private trip to his grave.”

“That one will be a little tricky to pull off.”

“The General insists,” The Colonel said as both men made their way to the highly-polished oak doors. “Win respected him a great deal and wants to pay his respects in person.”

 “I will make every effort to accommodate General Win. Please let him k-”

Both men stopped. Even before Shima fully opened the door, they were sent reeling from an overwhelming stench. Blood. Why does it smell like blood? His hand turned cold on the handle: trying to consider other options. However, both his and Colonel Kham’s personal security were out there. I must know what’s going on. He thought as he let the door slide the rest of the way open. I have to maintain order.

‘Slaughter’ would have been generous. The bodies of both of their security teams lied twisted on the ground: their blood pooling on the carpet and soaking the windows enough to block the afternoon sun. Shima often heard of the bloodshed his work had effected in other corners of the world, but outside of the deaths in the Rokkaku family, he could avoid seeing any serious barbarism with his own eyes. The sight of it, the stench of death, was overwhelming. Shima stumbled backwards into his office as Kham step forward; pulling out his sidearm as both of their attention. In the center of the chaos, blood drenching into his clothes, was a young man: his face mostly covered by the hood he was wearing, but his blue eyes gleaming with manic interest at them.

“Who are you? What have you done to my men?”

A smile slowly spread across the young man’s face as he got to his knees. In one hand was presumably the main weapon of the attack: a black tomahawk dripping blood into the larger pool at his feet. In the other hand, he twirled a karambit. The Colonel had devolved into shouting in Burmese: his fury overtaking him as the assailant knelt there: smiling at them both seemingly ignorant of what actions he had done.

Shima’s shock was broken by gunfire as the Colonel fired into the hall. The assailant reacted quickly; using one of the corpses as a shield for himself. Kham did not let that stop him and continued firing, curses flying as fast as his bullets until the gun finally clicked empty. The Colonel dug through his pockets, but both he and the young man knew the truth: there was no backup ammunition. With little choice, the Colonel reached to close the door; not seeing the tomahawk fly in a perfect arc across the hallway and landing in the center of his chest. He gasped and dropped his weapon as their assailant crossed the hall: taking his time as Shima raced back to his desk with the remain strength he had.

 “You pathetic old men,” The young man said: pulling the tomahawk out of Kham’s chest and sending him spiraling to the ground. “Always trying to tie the world on a string.”

The Colonel’s desperate, final cries chilled Shima to the bone as he hammered the emergency panic button. As unwise as it was, he couldn’t bear to turn around to face his attacker. It didn’t stop the sickening thud of the blade as their attacker hacked into Kham’s body over and over until the cries of horror gurgled into quiet.

“Turn around, Mr. Shima.”

I’m going to die here. Shima’s panicked thoughts settled into that one. As old as he was, he knew death would come, just not like this. I’m going to die…and it’s all going to fall apart.

“I said turn around.” The attacker spun him around so they were eye-to-eye. Every inch of his face radiated with twisted pleasure of his own work. Shima had seen him before, he was sure of it. He would never forget someone so brutal or warped. But it was a memory that seemed so pointless now at the end.

My last thoughts should be of this…wild dog. “You’re going to fail. The only thing this will do is create anarchy.”

The young man looked confused for a moment, before his smile lit up his face again in manic glee. “Exactly.”

Shima barely felt the karambit enter his neck, but he did feel his blood spray out and say it splatter on the young man’s face. Clutching helplessly at the wound, Shima sunk to his knees; his mind focused on the brothers as they grew up. Their lives playing in fast forward as he focused on the good: the time before all of this. Tsutomu Shima held onto the image of the two boys, Soujiro and Kenta, as much his sons as they were their parents, as his blood soaked the floor beneath him and his breath finally stopped.

…

‘The only thing this will do is create anarchy.’

The old man’s words rung in his ears well after it was all over. That was certainly a goal, but there was more to it: more than what he could’ve understood. It would take more than this to rip this world out of the hands of people like Tsutoma Shima. But this; this was a start. To get to the end, he would need help…and more importantly, he would need him by his side. At any other time, it would’ve been impossible. But with Soujiro Rokkaku dead and his organization crumbling maybe he would be open enough to an idea the killer had accepted when they had first met.