Killer Genius: She Kills Because She Cares

Epilogue

Prologue

March 15th 2020: 1:34 p.m. EST

For the average smuggler, the occasional detainment was commonplace. Ryo Yoshida had proven to be immune to such things. His luck had held strong for over fifteen years, during which time he had safely relocated millions of dollars in contraband in and out of every country from Albania to Zambia and everywhere in between. His ability to move himself and his wares from one nation to the next like a ghost was why he was considered the best transport man in the history of the Yakuza. His meticulousness was unsurpassed when it came to setting the groundwork for a criminal enterprise.

In nearly every major airport around the globe, he had scores of pilots, flight attendants, security guards, baggage handlers and even airport bartenders, all of which eagerly accepted his calls. He was generous with his bribes, and why not? He was rich beyond the wildest dreams of the average Japanese native, an accomplishment he achieved without ever harming anyone directly, despite his dealings in everything from cocaine to stolen museum exhibits.

Yoshida’s ‘industry’ made him a worldly man. He was familiar with every major city in the world; even the obscure burgeoning ones, like a museum curator knows priceless artifacts. He’d accumulated thousands of frequent flyer miles and hotel reward points throughout his travels. He could carry on an intelligent conversation about anything from fashion to sports to fine dining and he could wow them in four different languages.

People in airports often made idle chitchat with him, probably because he was such a good-looking man with eyes of steel and unusually sharp cheekbones. He was blessed with the body of a man younger than someone in his mid-thirties and was always dressed in an expensive, perfectly tailored, designer suit. Confidence oozed out of his pores, only adding to his charismatic aura, even on the rare occasion when he wasn’t in the mood to suffer fools.

Are you from Japan, originally? the Caucasian lady seated next to him on the plane asked. Despite the annoyed glare her husband shot her from the next seat she was inexplicably determined to talk to Yoshida.

Yes, he answered. I was born in a small province outside of Kyoto.

You speak English so well, the lady remarked.

It was his experience that Americans always marveled when a non-American mastered their bastard language. It was a contemptible issue, but one he was way too polite to address directly.

Thank you! he replied in such an overly enthusiastic tone that it made the moment awkward. The lady finally stopped asking questions.

***

You’re all set. Welcome to New York, the customs agent said with a nod and a purse of her lips.

He collected his forged passport and bowed slightly, not because he thought he had to, but he knew that Americans expected Asian tourists to bow. For him, it was all about blending in, even if that meant portraying a stereotype or two.

Walking through the aisles of John Fitzgerald Kennedy airport, he let his mind drift as he casually made his way to the luggage carousel. Eventually, he was as absent from the moment as a daydreaming school-boy. He was a consummate professional, at the top of his game, so he couldn’t help but be lulled into feeling overconfident and dismissive during what was essentially a low risk delivery. He was only human, after all.

Of course, while not mentally engaged in the present, a man like Yoshida always winds up juggling multiple matters in his head. He mulled over the details pertaining to the multiple heroin shipments he was to supervise, a suit that needed mending and a meeting with his son’s kendo sensei when he returned home. And like any virile male away on business, in his opinion, anyway, he was thinking about getting a ‘sleeper’ or as Americans more specifically describe it, some female companionship for the evening. So, as odd as the details of his current assignment were, there was no need to dwell on why his current client wanted thirty preserved blowfish livers or why he was being paid so much to deliver them personally to New York. In fact, he spent most of the time it would take him to meander from baggage claim to the cabstand thinking about everything but the merchandise he carried.

Please take me to the Gardener Gates Hotel, Yoshida instructed his cab driver after spending twenty minutes watching other people climb into vehicles.

First time in New York? the cabbie asked. He was a burly, unshaven man who smelled of Irish whiskey and cheap cigars.

Not at all, Yoshida answered. I’m actually a big Yankees fan.

Yeah, I hear you got some good teams in Japan, the cabbie volunteered. Not as good as America, mind you. But decent.

Yoshida sighed. At least the arrogant, sloppy-looking driver didn’t mistake him for Korean, or some other Asian ethnicity.

The cabbie didn’t say much else during the drive, he assumed because the trip wasn’t far and the fare would be fairly small. Without being engaged in conversations, Yoshida was able to take time to note how recklessly New Yorkers drive before the cab turned into the circular hotel driveway. He paid with one of his other identity’s credit cards and made his way to the hotel lobby where he was greeted by an overly friendly desk clerk.

Welcome to the Gardener Gates Inn. I’m Henry. How can I help you? Henry couldn’t have been a day over twenty-one, and was so skinny that the burgundy concierge jacket he was almost resembled a small child playing dress up with his father’s clothes.

Yes, I am checking in. The name is Tanata, Yoshida explained, handing over the forged passport with matching credit card. While Henry awkwardly punched the keyboard in front of him and eventually produced a room key card, Yoshida added, I am expecting a package, probably within the hour.

You’ve got it, Tanata-san! Henry said with a big smile and an exaggerated bow. Being a polite man, Yoshida did not reveal his aggravation.

We have a great suite for you, Tanata-san! You’ve got a king size bed, with a huge bathroom. There’s also an office area. You’re going to love it.

Thank you, Henry-san, Yoshida said with a bow as he collected his fake IDs and rushed for the elevator.

After a thorough inspection of his room, Yoshida loosened his clothes and called his wife to let her know he landed safely. His second call was to let the client know that he had arrived and was in possession of the items in question. There was no answer other than an automated outgoing message, so he left a voicemail. Afterwards, he had only one more matter to see to.

Yes, Yoshida-san, the soft-spoken, but very enthusiastic woman on the other end of the phone call said in Japanese. So good to have you back in New York. What are you in the mood for this evening?

Well, I was on a Japan Air flight and they always have good movies. I saw one starring the American actress named Demi Moore. She had dark-hair, and a husky voice. White. Yoshida answered.

Yes, the woman agreed enthusiastically, trying something other than your usual blonde. I know the actress you speak of. I have just the girl.

She should be younger than Demi Moore, of course, he clarified suddenly.

Of course, the woman agreed. At what time would you like your visitor to arrive?

Midnight should be perfect, Yoshida answered. I’m in the Hilton as usual, staying under the name ‘Tanata’. It was 6:32pm. He imagined he’d be done with the blowfish livers client by then.

Seconds after getting off the phone, there was a knock at the door. He approached the door silently and peered through the peephole to see a still smiling Henry.

Your package arrived, sir, said Henry. Yoshida opened the door and the young man held out a rectangular cardboard box wrapped in mailing paper.

Thank you, Yoshida answered, as he took the package and gave the kid a ten-dollar tip. After closing the door, he opened the package and took an inventory of the contents.

Inside the box he found a small glass tube with eight grams of cocaine in it, a box of condoms, one thousand American dollars and a .45 caliber semi-automatic pistol. It was a standard precaution of his to arrange for this kind of ‘care package’ to arrive at his final destination. He hadn’t felt the need to brandish a gun in years. Even when he was a young smuggler just starting out, it was only on the rare occasion that elder gangsters would try to test his mettle. Nowadays, as connected as he was, only a crazy person would try something during a merchandise exchange, even if they were only slightly familiar with world-renowned Ryo Yoshido.

He still checked the gun before hiding it in a bureau drawer near the front door of the hotel suite. He was a creature of habit, and at the end of the day, it was those habits that made him the respected professional he was. He was the product of a working formula and he enjoyed it.

Yoshido opened his suitcase and removed the delivery package from inside. An ingenious piece of equipment, it looked like an ordinary green and red picnic cooler bag, but it was lined with dry ice, creating it the perfect bag to transport this particular merchandise. Sixteen hours had passed since the contents had been assembled, if the client didn’t call soon he was going to have to either put the blowfish livers in the hotel suite’s refrigerator, or replenish the dry ice. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

As two more hours passed, the cocaine would be the only thing keeping him awake. Yoshida was terribly jetlagged and the client was taking much longer to call him back than he had anticipated. When 9:00pm came and went with no response, he became agitated. In another fifteen minutes, a text message finally came through:

Please accept my apologies. I have been delayed.

A courier will arrive shortly with the rest of your money.

With the end of this excursion in sight, Yoshida decided to calm down by ordering a quick dinner; a medium well steak that arrived by 9:40. He was relieved that someone other than Henry delivered it. He washed the steak and potatoes down with a glass of Pinot Noir and a Cialis gel capsule.

He didn’t suffer from erectile dysfunction, but always took a performance enhancer before entertaining a prostitute, to insure he was getting his money’s worth.

Finally, at 10:32pm, just minutes after he’d put the dinner tray in the hallway, there was a knock at the door. Grateful that the courier and the hooker were not showing up at the same time, he retrieved the gun and stuffed it in the back of his waistband before he slowly opened the door. Dimly, he wondered how the courier got past the front desk without calling ahead.

He did not expect to be greeted by a very attractive black woman wearing a form fitting, dark green dress. Curvaceous but physically fit, the woman was carrying a briefcase in her right hand. He assumed the woman was in the wrong place. I’m so sorry, can I help you? he asked.

The woman smiled. You are Mr. Tanata, right? she asked with a raised eyebrow. Her make-up was perfect; as was the symmetrical way her hair framed her face. Demi Moore was suddenly the last person on Yoshida’s mind. He began hoping the escort service had made a mistake in his favor.

I’m here to pick up a package from you, the woman explained as she smiled and batted her eyes

His penis began to swell against his leg. Of course, he said. He was clearly flustered. I must apologize; I was not expecting someone quite so attractive. Please, come in.

Yoshida stepped aside and let the woman pass him. He watched very intently as she crossed the room and reached the desk.

You do have the package? the woman asked as she put the briefcase down and turned to face him.

Do I have time to call and get a Beyonce look-a-like instead? Yoshida wondered quietly. Yes, of course. It’s right in here, he said, lifting the cooler from the top of the bureau.

I’m also supposed to mention that we’re very sorry about making you wait, the woman said as they exchanged packages.

That’s really okay. Miss…I’m sorry, what is your name?

My name is Crystal, she answered.

Pleasure to meet you, he said.

Well, it’s supposed to be, in any case, Crystal said. To make up for your inconvenience, I’m supposed to fuck you.

It took a full three seconds for Yoshida to say, I beg your pardon?

My boss says Japanese men call them ‘sleepers,’ she continued to explain. He wasn’t sure you’d like me, but in the event that you do…

I like you just fine! he said a little louder than he’d intended.

All right then, she chirped. Well, count your money and get undressed.

He opened the case and let his eyes drink in the sight of the agreed upon two million in yen. When he closed the case and looked up, the dark green dress was on the floor, forming an uneven circle around Crystal’s high-heeled shoes.

Even a seasoned man-whore like Yoshida couldn’t help but feel jolted with excitement. This was too good to be true. A total of four million yen to transport five hundred black market blowfish livers, which was barely a punishable crime, and sex with a beautiful, African-American female? The guys back home are not going to believe this story.

Your employer is an excellent businessman, Yoshida said. If he were going to have sex with Crystal and still have time and energy for the prostitute that was expected to show up in less than an hour and a half, he’d have to hurry.

Crystal turned her back to him, stepped away from the dress and walked seductively towards the bedroom. At the foot of the bed, she slipped off her thong and let it fall to the floor. Then, she spread her feet and bent over, placing her hands on the edge of the bed. Her ass was firm, round and the most delicious shade of chocolate brown.

He noticed two bulges in his pants and remembered the gun in his waist. So as not to alarm her, he removed the gun and tossed it onto a nearby ottoman.

What was that? she asked.

Nothing, he lied, as he walked into the bedroom and positioned himself behind her and dropped his pants.

She felt his hands grabbing her ass, and casually extended her arm back to him, offering a condom from her hand.

Of course, Yoshida conceded, graciously. He used both hands to and began fumbling with the condom wrapper and his erection.

By the way, Crystal interrupted in perfect Japanese, I’m my own boss. Yoshida-san.

Before he realized that he’d been called by his real name, Crystal stood up and swung her elbow out behind her, striking him in the temple with serpentine precision and follow through. Yoshida was unconscious before he hit the floor.

She stood over the smuggler, triumphant and empowered. It wasn’t the first time she’d knocked someone out, but it had been the first time she had assaulted an international criminal. Still, this was no time to gloat or forget that she had work to do.

Falling on one knee, she grabbed Yoshida’s chin in her right hand and a fist full of his hair with the left, and broke his neck with the ease a farmer would mercy kill a lame animal. Then, she rolled him over and retrieved the thong that Yoshida had fallen on.

***

She slipped back into her dress and made her way to the suite door, just outside sat the tray that Yoshida placed there after he finished his steak. Under the tray was the laptop computer that she left there before she knocked on the door. She glanced around; making sure no one saw her, before she snatched the computer up.

Back inside, she hummed to herself as she rifled through his things. The search of his clothes, the dresser drawers, his jackets and luggage revealed several wallets. Altogether, there were four different sets of identification in the smuggler’s possessions, and each fake identity was accompanied by two matching credit cards.

All very common Japanese names, this is perfect, she said under her breath, before shooting a mocking glance in the direction of Yoshida’s lifeless body. Domo Arigato, Yoshida-san.

She sat down at the desk and opened the laptop. Her eyes were filled with an ungodly determination as she furiously typed, until the image of a yellow frog sitting on a large green leaf filled the screen.

There you are, she said as if talking to a child she adored. Now, my pet, you and I are going to change the world.

Crystal, not her real name, laid the 8 credit cards out on the desk in front of her. She grabbed card that looked the newest, with minimal wear, and proceeded to shop online.

***

Almost an hour later, another attractive young lady in a black mini dress and red fuck me pumps approached the Hilton’s front desk and asked for Mr. Tanata. Gerald, the stand-offish night shift clerk, informed the woman that Mr. Tanata had been called away suddenly, but left her an envelope.

The woman carefully took the envelope from Gerald and peeked into it.

She was relieved to see that she hadn’t been stiffed out of her three grand.

Anyone ever tell you that you look like that actress from the eighties? Gerald asked.

The look-a-like rolled her eyes and stomped off.

As long time hotel employee who recognized a pro when he saw one, Gerald smiled to himself. Some guys get to have all the fun, he observed under his breath before turning to greet another guest.

Chapter One

The New Network

March 17th 2020 6:57p.m.

Bridgette tried her best to be pleasant. She knew Claire, her regular make-up artist was going to take the night off, but she didn’t expect the fill-in to be quite so talkative. The young Korean girl, after professing to be a big fan of hers, continued to drone on about her weekend excursion to Montauk with her new guy friend well after Bridgette thought her make-up should have been finished.

When the stage manager appeared and lit a fire under the makeup artist’s ass, Bridgette had to stifle a sigh of relief. Many of the anchors at MXFBN enjoyed being showered with accolades by the crew, staff and random people in the cafeteria, but Bridgette was not one of those people. She was about the work, and that meant guarding her mental space whenever she could. It was unfortunate that people mistook that for being a diva, but as a young, attractive black female appearing on TV every day, she knew scrutiny and people jumping to erroneous conclusions came with the territory. Well, that and all the teen boys on social media openly speculating on how awesome it would be to do her.

Minutes later she calmly ignored the middle-aged cameramen stealing glimpses of her curves as she walked across the soundstage and let the audio assistant clip two wireless transmission packs to the back of her skirt, run a black wire through her blouse and clamp the lav mike on the end of the wire to her lapel.

There were some script changes, the stage manager warned as she took a seat behind the desk. Under the studio lights, her make-up felt too heavy. The stage manager was calling out that it was five minutes to show time, so it was too late to worry about it now. She scanned the hard copy of the script and sighed.

The audio assistant came to the desk and handed her a fleshtoned bud about the size of a pea and she promptly slid it in her ear. Everything OK, Bridgette? her producer asked from the control room via the earpiece. You look a little perturbed. Piper Jennings was a typical Ivy League news producer and a living television stereotype; in her late thirties overly aggressive and perpetually single.

I’m good, Piper, Bridgette responded. Her answer filled the earpiece of Piper’s headset as the news producer watched her on the monitor wall. As customary, Piper sat in the back of the control room, right behind the director in the front row. Is this the new lead? the director asked with a quick glance over his shoulder.

Sure is! Piper answered. We got confirmation from the FBI half an hour ago.

Bridgette took a deep breath. When she first arrived two years prior, a fresh young thing with a strong correspondent’s reel from her time in Chicago, the network was very different. Hosts like Rochelle Minnow and Lyon Donnell had free reign to fashion the direction of their shows. Now, with a Republican president in the White House yet again and FAX News somehow beating them in the ratings, new management was brought in to right the ship. Soon, the human resources department exploded with activity as severance packages were compiled and a purging commenced. She watched as one by one, they were escorted out of their offices and banished to the purgatory known as talk radio. Surprisingly, Reverend Sal Harpton was the last to go. He stopped by the office she’d inherited from Donnell to kiss her on the cheek and wish her well.

As she watched the forever outspoken and controversial civil rights leader exit she remembered a distinct feeling of loss. She remembered thinking that she was being spared because the new management sensed that she was too young and too hungry to piss away a shot at her own show over something as mundane as principles.

The stage manager shouted another warning. In less than a minute they’d all hear a pre-recorded announcement and dramatic music. As the director barked orders in the nearby control room, cameras glided into position across the studio floor. The viewers would see a stylized graphic open with bright, inviting colors and flying letters, before dissolving into one of the same letters superimposed over a wide shot of the studio.

This is ‘Straight Talk’ with your host Bridgette Aries.

Simultaneously, a red light flashed and the stage manager pointed at her. She was on:

Good evening. It’s Tuesday, March 17th, 2020 and I’m Bridgette Aries. Later in this hour, I’ll be interviewing former senator Rue Bachman. But first, our top story.

The home audience watched a graphic flash and fly across their screens. Bridgette turned to a different camera.

The National Freedom Association, or NFA, is the radical organization that is claiming responsibility for yet another attempt on the life of former President Garret Hussein. This marks the twenty-third day since the last attempt on either Garret Hussein or a member of his immediate family has taken place at the hands of this terrorist organization. With more on that story, we go live to Pat Fielding in DC.

The control room cuts to a shot of Pat Fielding, a forty-ish Caucasian reporter stood quite upright with the Washington Monument at his back:

Thanks, Bridgette. At a press conference held earlier today, FBI Director Ted Noonan and Secret Service Director Henry Gaines confirmed that they had received communications from the National Freedom Association claiming responsibility for this latest attempt to attack former president Garret Hussein. Director Noonan had this to say…

The segment cuts to a pre-recorded statement from Noonan:

"All of our agencies are working in tandem to put an end to this quickly. In fact, many of the FBI’s resources will be remanded over to the Secret Service, and that includes access to personnel, additional surveillance technologies and weapons. Director Gaines and I