Stratagem (Death World Book 1)

Book summary

James Ray's holiday turns into a nightmare when he witnesses a Yakuza assassination and is framed for multiple murders. Branded a killer, he strikes a deal with the CIA and dives into the dark world of illegal arms sales and human trafficking. Can he clear his name before it's too late?

STRATAGEM is a gripping thriller that plunges into the sinister underbelly of society.

Excerpt from Stratagem (Death World Book 1)

The assassin looked over the plans one final time. On the desk, next to a neatly made bed, lay pages scattered around in organized chaos. A hundred photos showed the streets, the shops (every shop), and written plans alongside sketched routes.

As a professional, the assassin had many plans in place things in case shit went pear-shaped. Confident that all was set, the pages were organized and placed back in a folder. The last item was a smiling picture of the target—taken from a distance, cropped, and enlarged to letter size. The assassin stared at the image for a long moment.

Empathy does not exist.

This is a job for a specialist.

Releasing an audible sigh filled with resignation, the photo was shoved into the folder with the plans.

The assassin headed downstairs and slipped into a pair of white rider boots that matched the jumpsuit. In the backyard, a fire set an hour ago—in an old, large, and round metal bin—burned furiously, shooting flames high in the air.

No one attended to the fire. The assassin tossed the file on the jumping flames and watched the killing details and victim profile burn up. Assured of its destruction, the assassin strode over to a Kawasaki Ninja 1200 motorbike.

* * *

James Ray

Private Investigator

That’s as far as I got with building a website.

After several years as a PI, clients said I needed a website. I’m no Luddite, but whoever said building a website is easy, needs a reality check. ‘Drag and drop,’ they said. ‘Easy,’ they said. So far, I have my agency name in fancy lettering and a picture I found on the Internet.

That’s enough website building for one day. It was mid-afternoon. And although I had nothing to do, workwise, a new podcast of true crime from the fifties should be on the net by now.

I like quiet times like today. With an empty schedule, I can sit back and chill. Get in some ‘James’ time. Usually, I’m at work on a few cases at once. They aren’t dangerous, mostly. Cheating partners. Runaway kids. Stuff like that. I think I’m pretty good at my job. All, and I mean all, of my cases, come via referrals. That wasn’t the case when I first started. I searched directories for the lost and missing—mostly kids—not always, and sometimes articles from the newspaper. Headlines mostly. That seemed like a good way to build up cred. They were beginner days. I got into a lot of trouble, not just with the law but also with some shady characters. But I did build up a reputation. I did a lot of freebies as well. Not always by choice. My name got around. That was the main thing. I posted adverts in local ‘personal’ ads and free newspapers, which got the ball rolling.

You may be wondering why I don’t work a normal nine-to-five. Why on earth be a private investigator? Especially in New Zealand. Simple. I’m an adventure junkie and a travel junkie. Being a PI makes life interesting, and I get to (sometimes) help people. The pay is low or there isn’t a payday. It can take a year or more of hardcore saving, but I get to travel. The bug grabbed me at seventeen and I hitchhiked around the country, surviving on the ‘dole’ (that’s an unemployment benefit). I’ve visited several countries since then and hope to visit more. Money is always an issue, especially working for other people. So, I did some study, got qualified, and started my own business.

The podcast ended up forgotten, as a new case sidetracked me.

My last case before my trip to Japan. It sounded like a cheating spouse situation. Easy enough. It turned out to be much more, and it left me bruised and battered.

But that’s in the past.

It’s vacation time.

Three months in Japan.

It’s lovely being your own boss.

* * *

Sitting astride the motorbike, a Ninja 1200 Kawasaki, the assassin adjusted thick riding gloves, slipped on the helmet, and snapped down the mirror visor. The hired gun set an iPhone into a cradle attached to the gas tank.

The rider watched the iPhone clock tick off minutes before pulling off one glove and hitting a speed dial number. A man answered on the second ring. “Yo.”

“You ready?”

“Don’t worry about me,” the man said. “I’ll be there.”

The rider killed the call and dialed another number from memory.

“Riverbank hotel, manager.”

“Is he out?”

“About to call him.”

“Timing is important.”

“I understand.”

“Mark sure he turns right.”

“I understand.”

“Don’t fuck up.” The executioner killed the call.

* * *

The flight took ten hours. It’s a long time to remain seated in a flying sardine can. Not the best thing in the world. If it weren’t for in-flight movies I may have died from boredom. However, the excitement of seeing a new country dawned on me, as the plane started its descent with a hard left bank. The thought of experiencing cultures far different from my own made me feel like a kid in a candy store.

Back home, on the wall is a world map. Several countries have a bright yellow highlighted streak. These mark the places I’ve been lucky enough to visit. The islands of Japan had a red pin stuck in the middle. The next travel target.

My guidebook looked a little worse for wear. I’d rifled through it a hundred times or more. Small cards placed throughout the book indicated places I wanted to visit.

I stared out the small window and my first thought of Japan was: gray concrete. That’s all I saw as the plane banked left for the runway. I learned later that this was a man-made island built only for the airport.

I got off the plane unsure where to go. Everyone else seemed to know the direction, so I followed them. Baggage claims and immigration, I knew that much, but the guidebook contained zero information on this part of the trip.

On the tram connecting to the main island, I noticed a few Japanese people staring at me. Many passengers closed their eyes as if sleeping. Other non-Japanese stared out the windows or at their phones. My mobile phone was in the duffle bag. There wasn’t anything for me to look at. There aren’t any online profiles of me, not that I created anyway, I’m not directly connected to social media in any form. I don’t have a website. No Facebook, or Twitter. No Instagram or Snapchat. No TikTok, Pinterest, Signal, Reddit, or LinkedIn. Nothing.

I got off at the first stop after the long bridge and took a taxi to my hotel in Osaka. I wanted the ride so I could see the city, the people, and general life. It was all around. Bicycles and people crowded the sidewalks. People hurried back and forth, while others lingered and chatted with friends or used smartphones. Just like home. The side roads were no different. Many clusters grew around fast-food restaurants.

It was a good taxi ride. The driver never spoke a word and never blew an amber light. He got me to the Riverbank hotel in good time. I entered the main foyer, duffel slung over my shoulder looking for the check-in desk.

And that is where I met Tomoko.

Her job was as the concierge and sometimes front desk clerk. Also, her English was pretty good. We hit it off. And for the past month, we have visited so many places listed in my travel guide and places not listed in my travel guide. The relationship was far from serious. As a tourist, I doubt it would get any further. Though I was starting to like her a lot. The way she laughed, flicked her hair back and laughed at my stupid jokes, made me think my time to leave Japan would be a very hard moment.

The Riverbank. A nice, modern hotel, nowhere near a river. They served a continental breakfast every morning and delivered an English newspaper. Occasionally, I glanced at the headlines but never read any of the articles. I’m not a newspaper guy.

I’d been here just over a month when the room phone rang.

I stared at the ringing phone for a moment. No one knew I was there apart from the hotel staff. I thought it might be Tomoko calling to cancel the date or something. It was a surprise to hear a nervous man state that he was the hotel manager.

I stood there, jeans half on. No shirt. “How can I help you?” I couldn’t remember his name, and I didn’t want to call him Mr. Manager. Though, I heard, that in Japan they do.

“An issue has arisen and I need you to vacate the room before ten this morning.” He ended the call.

What the fuck?

I have plans to meet Tomoko outside the movie theater at twelve. Quite pissed, I took the elevator to the reception area after packing my duffel bag. The manager met me and apologized with several bows of the head.

“I booked for three months,” I said.

“Yes. We’re very sorry for the inconvenience.” He pushed an envelope toward me. “This is your refund.”

“Why are you kicking me out?”

“Not just you, sir. We have a rat infestation that must be taken care of immediately.”

A quick look around showed no one in a rush, panic, worried, or checking out. Except for me, of course.

I accepted the envelope and slipped it into my bag. There wasn’t a point in battling the situation. They wanted me out. I was gone. “Is there another hotel near here that you could recommend?"

“There are many hotels in Osaka, sir.” With that, he turned around, entered his office, and shut the door.

I exited, feeling the staff staring at me with each step I took closer to the door. I didn’t make a scene. What was the point of that?

At the bottom of the steps, I looked in both directions, wondering where to go. The manager suddenly appeared at my side. “So sorry,” he said. “Go that way. You can find a hotel easily, near the end of the street.” He pointed right. I thanked him as I grabbed my guidebook. It had a great list with a fold-out map. Hopefully, I can find somewhere before meeting Tomoko.

I found a decent-looking place (according to photos in the guidebook) a couple of streets away from the movie theater. Hope they have a room.

Welcome to my Thought-Cast, folks. It’s like a podcast, but much more personal. I’m James Ray, a private investigator from New Zealand, and I’m on holiday.