Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Two Months Before the Wedding
O‘ahu, HI
I’d always been a collector of rare and antique weapons.
Long before I attended my first arms deal, Kayl, Aloiki, and I joined our class on a school field trip to the Ka Hale Mo?olelo Ho?okolokolo o Ali?iōlani, or the King Kamehameha V Judiciary History Center.
The only reason it was exciting for any of us was because it was an excuse to miss regular classes.
By the time we were ten, we already knew all about Kamehameha, the Warrior King who united the Hawai‘ian islands under one kingdom.
There was a festival each year in June, so our youthful asses who thought we already knew everything there was to learn in the world had no interest in paying attention to teachers, guides, or any other information presented to us on this trip.
But while Aloiki and Kayl spent the day being kolohe, or goofing around, I found my passion. The artifacts displayed—like pololu, or spears, and newa, or shark tooth clubs—were beautiful. The giftshop had toy versions of them, poor replicas made to appease tourists. They did nothing for me.
I was twelve before I managed to save up enough for my first mea kaua, a traditional Hawai‘ian weapon. I had created my own prior to this, but my craftsmanship was severely lacking. The leiomano was a short-range weapon, almost like a paddle or a flat club, with shark teeth around the edge for slashing. Some are made from bone or koa wood, but the one I purchased was made from a sea turtle shell. While the law had various rulings between possession and carry, I had no intention of letting anyone of authority know of my new prize. I did not agree with poaching animals to use their unique attributes for our needs, but even my grandparents hadn’t been born yet when my leiomano was built, so I did not have an issue with the fact that it was made from a sea turtle shell.
Unlike shark teeth, which were a dime a dozen around my home, it was rarer to find an intact sea turtle shell, but my ancestors would have respected the life they took to create the weapon, as profit would not have been their goal.
Aloiki and Kayl were the only people I ever showed my purchases to.
My best friends thought the mea kaua was cool, but they didn’t understand my fascination with them or share my desire to learn their history.
That pedigree was important to me. But their reaction to my growing collection hinted at what others would also think, and I couldn’t keep doing small, part-time jobs to save up for new piece or pieces.
Not if I wanted to be serious about my collection.
I was fifteen when I sold my first firearm. I didn’t mind guns, but I didn’t see the beauty in them the way I did mea kaua. And while I still had a growing collection of traditional weaponry, both personally and for retail, it became very apparent to me that modern weapons was where the money lay.
I started out small, island hopping to learn the players and the operations. Around this time, I’d already walked away from my parents. Aloiki’s parents had also just died, and I felt a responsibility to help with Kalea while Aloiki took over the family farm.
Kahoku Hikialani was an activist. But he wasn’t just some activist around these parts, he was the activist. Kahoku stood for home, for our way of life.
Many people revered him, more feared him.
Aloiki was very angry after his father disappeared from his mother’s funeral, so it was understandable that he would seek an outlet for that anger.
Kahoku gave him that, channeling Aloiki’s natural fighting talents to protect our land.
Along with keeping our home safe from poachers, pollution, and any disrespect towards our sacred lands, he went after those who would harm our people. Including drug dealers, arms dealers, and human traffickers.
When Aloiki introduced me to Kahoku, we struck a deal. He would supply me with any confiscated weapons his people came across and I would warn him about any mass deals on the islands. Sometimes I even had my own guns returned to me by him, making the transaction a win-win for me.
The Pacific Ocean was huge. Over five thousand miles across that terrified even major navies.
In World War II, the United States attempted to cross it, and it took them three years and an untold amount of fuel.
It’s a vast, open space of death. If the sea didn’t kill you, the weather would.
There was a reason Japan only crossed as far as Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941.
The Pacific just was not worth crossing.
Which was where I came in.
Overall, Hawai‘i had a low rate of (registered) gun owners.
For some, I was a storage unit, holding their weapons until they could arrange passage either east or west of my island.
For others, I was a broker, taking a cut of the sale I arranged between two outside parties.
For a few, I was a finder, willing to track down, and sometimes appropriate, the weapon in question.
On occasion, I was called in as an authenticator, because even in gunrunning, there was fraud.
I wasn’t a major runner. Major crime organizations like The Yakuza, The Company, B14, and The Triad still held the majority of the power in the underground, and for the most part, we didn’t bother each other.
I didn’t have a hand in identity theft, cybercrimes, or the flesh trade, and as long as we each stayed in our lanes, there was an uneasy, unspoken truce.
Which was not the case for today.
Four men were chained to the wall before me.
Though I lived in Hale’iwa, which was on the northern part of O’ahu, I had a number of storage spaces throughout the islands and even some underwater places for more high-profile clients.
I’d been called to Kauai after my employees caught a break-in in progress.
Since donning my Royal Bastards cut, I’d had more eyes on my business than usual.
None of my employees wore the cut, and I wanted to keep it that way.
The club might take a share now, but I did not want the bullseye on my employees that was now on me.
Many of my security were locals who went about their day-to-day lives, while also keeping an eye on my inconspicuous hiding places.
Strangers might be able to make their way around big cities unnoticed, but not here.
Unlike in the movies, not all “bad guys” came rolling up in a black SUV wearing black outfits and waving guns around so the audience could easily figure out they were up to no good.
But locals? They were better than any high-priced, overpaid security company any day. I paid them what they were worth too, and they always knew they could call on me if they needed anything. I also checked in on many of the elderly, offering home repairs and groceries.
I had standard employees, too. People who did regular inventory counts, cleaned products, and got shipments ready.
The men before me had gang ties, likely scouts. I did not mind them checking out my business or even knowing the ins and outs of the club. I took issue with them entering my warehouse.
I spun the pāhoa a?u between my two pointer fingers, ignoring the pinch of the blade. The swordfish dagger was one of mine, and I never cleaned it off. I wanted my enemies to see the crimson staining the bone.
“You know, I’ve been doing a lot of research on Japanese folklore recently,” I told them in an easy tone.
“And I learned something. The common phrase ‘see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil’ actually originated in Japan. It’s the names of the Three Wise Monkeys, Mizaru, Kikazaru, and Iwazaru. Did you know that?”
They trembled, none of the four daring to shake their heads.
I had a grenade jammed into each of their mouths, the pins attached to a string one of my men held.
If one of them jerked or tried to escape their binds, they’d end up pulling the pin on themselves.
The lever might be jammed by their mouths, but panic had a tendency to outweigh common sense.
But because I had no intention of dying today if one of them decided to pull some kamikaze bullshit on me, all the grenades were duds.
“Then what you likely don’t know is that there’s a fourth monkey, Shizaru.
Do any of you want to guess what his name means?
” I paused, though I didn’t really expect them to answer.
“‘Do no evil’. And I hate to tell you this, boys, but you’ve been very evil today.
Let’s start with you,” I pointed the tip of my pāhoa a?u at the man furthest on my left. “Who do you work for?”
His dark eyes widened, pleading with me. Unfortunately for him, I was not a telepath.
“No answer? Pity for you.” One of my men stepped forward to pry the thug’s mouth open. I pulled the grenade from between his teeth. Having nowhere else to put it, I balanced the grenade on the shoulder of the bound man to my right. “Hold that for me, will you? Mahalo.”
The thug’s mouth still pried open by my man, I reached inside and pulled out his tongue. A quick swipe of my blade took the appendage. His screaming continued as I carved 言わ猿 (Iwazaru) into his chest.
Not wanting to waste any of my product on something as mundane as leaving a message for those who wished to spy on me, I held my hand out behind me.
One of my men stepped forward to hand me the nail gun.
I placed the amputated tongue to the thug’s forehead, lifted the nail gun, and pulled the trigger.
It might not kill him right away, but it would get the job done.