Read [Thomas Caine #1] Tokyo Black for Free Online Page B

even the Japanese punk rock music blasting from the shop’s speakers could drown it out.
    In the rear of the shop, the gang’s leader, a Japanese man in his late twenties, lay face down on a table. He was shirtless, and his body was already covered with ink, a mix of various tattoo styles. His thick black hair was pushed up into a sweeping, shiny pompadour. A tattered black leather jacket hung off a chair next to him. The name “Sonny” was stitched across the back in bright red letters.
    The jacket, tattoos, and hairstyle were the hallmarks of the bosozuku, the speed tribes. These motorcycle and street racing youth gangs served as a breeding ground for future yakuza. Sonny was a senpai, the head of the gang known as the Crimson Scorpions.
    Sonny grunted as the needle buzzed back and forth. The red patch of ink beneath his skin grew darker and darker. He actually found the pain of the needle relaxing, in a strange way. Like a hard shiatsu massage, it hurt, but it was a welcome pain. His head lolled on the table as the artist continued working on the elaborate scorpion shoulder tattoo. The deep bass of the shop’s punk music, the pulsing, painful warmth of the needle … after a long night of drinking and partying in the Roppongi bars, he nearly fell asleep.
    As Sonny’s thoughts turned to dreams, he let his mind wander to the future. He pictured his eventual transformation from a bosozuku senpai to a yakuza kobun. At twenty-nine, Sonny was old for a bosozuku. Government crackdowns on the yakuza families had lowered the demand for new members. Enrollment opportunities were limited, but Sonny knew his turn would come soon.
    He’d turned the Crimson Scorpions into the most respected gang in the Kanto region. He had prioritized their profitable activities: stripping stolen cars for parts, theft, low-level street drugs, and muscle for hire. He ran the gang like a business, making sure his members contributed to the bottom line and stayed out of trouble. Honor and pride had their place, of course. But it was the money he brought to the table that would secure his position in the yakuza.
    The door to the tattoo shop swung open with a jingle, but Sonny paid it no mind. He was still contemplating his future: a life of flashy suits, sports cars, and beautiful girls at his beck and call. He dreamt of drinking sake from the cup of his oyabun, and earning the respect and admiration of his brothers. Ignoring the common men who called him “burakamen” … outcast. He had friends and relatives who had joined the yakuza. He was aware on some level that his dreams were fantasies, that the life had its hardships as well. Blood, tears, and loss were no strangers to those who moved up in the gangs. But, for now, he was content to dream.
    Lost in his thoughts, Sonny paid no attention to the enormous man who’d entered the parlor. Clad in a black suit, his massive size eclipsed nearly all the light from the shop’s front windows. Two other men, dressed in identical black suits, flanked him.
    Bobu.
    The artists were so engaged in their work, no one even looked up as one of the men began lowering the shades of the parlor windows. Bobu surveyed the store, his milk white eye finally settling on Sonny. No emotion whatsoever crossed his features as he approached. His associates drew Glock 19 automatic pistols tipped with silencers. As they made their way to the back of the store, they opened fire.
    The silencers turned the explosive shots into loud but muffled coughs. One of the tattoo artists, a girl with purple hair wearing a tattered concert t-shirt, looked up and gasped. She watched as her coworker, only a few feet away, collapsed to the floor in a crumpled, bloody heap. The tattoo artist barely had time to register what was happening before the gun coughed again. A bright red hole burst open between her eyes.
    Wrenched from his daydreams, Sonny’s head shot up just in time to see a half-naked, mohawked patron sprint for the front door.