Hakata Tonkotsu Ramens Volume 6 Chapter 3

Top of the Third Inning “...Ahh, my head.”
No matter how much of a hangover he suffered from, he had to work. After all, he was a professional. Lin headed to Nakasu on foot while bracing his throbbing head.
He had demanded Genzo to give him work. His client was a Chinese criminal group. The members consisted of Chinese and second and third generation men. They were gaining profits by smuggling drugs from traditional opium drugs to new kinds of drugs developed by underground organizations. Lin was not looking forward to this job, but he preferred doing it instead of having nothing to do at the office.
There was an old tenant building on a poorly lit street at a corner in Nakasu. A Chinese restaurant was on the first floor, but Lin was summoned to the mahjong club on the next floor. The group members were situated around the center mahjong board. They all looked rough with some puffing smoke and others gulping down canned beers. They looked like any other group who liked to play mahjong, but the mahjong club was shut down for the day, and there were no other guests inside.
One of the men with slit eyes addressed Lin when he saw him come in. “You're Xianming Lin?”
“Yeah,” Lin nodded. “I am.”
“I heard you're a skilled hitman.”
The man spoke with a bit of a Chinese accent. “More or less,” Lin replied.
“Sit.”
Lin was prompted to it in an open chair, but he sat down on the mahjong table instead.
“...Ahh, my head hurts.” Lin asked while pressing a hand against his forehead with a grimace. “Hey, do you have any drugs?”
“Drugs?” The Chinese men all c.o.c.ked their heads. “You mean heroine? Or do you prefer cocaine?”
“No, not that type of drug. Something to alleviate pain.”
“Morphine?”
“No, I want just painkillers for headaches.”
“I'll give you this.”
One of the Chinese men handed him a container that was only two centimeters wide. A clear, see-through liquid was inside.
“This is a new morphine based drug an organization called Shou w.a.n.g developed for soldiers to use on the battlefield. Its immediate effects are better than standard ones. If you drink this, the pain will vanish.”
Lin could not settle to use morphine to get rid of his hangover. “...Thanks.”
Lin took the drug but put it in his pocket. He at least came to know the range of drugs the group dealt.
“So, who should I kill?”
Lin got to the main topic, his head still aching.
“The Noma Group.”
One man answered him.
“The Noma Group?”
“They're a j.a.panese mafia in f.u.kuoka.”
The moment the Noma Group was mentioned, everyone's complexion changed. “They hurt our friend!” “We can't forgive them for this!” “They're dead!”
They screeched.
“...Don't yell so loud; it's making my head pound.”
Lin muttered, hand pressed against his brow.
“So it's fine if I kill all of the Noma guys then?”
“No,” the man shook his head. “One of our comrades - Zhou - was kidnapped by them. We want him back.”
He turned to face one of his friends and stated, “this guy will show you the way there.”

According to them, the man Zhou had been confined in a music studio on Oyaf.u.kou Street. One of the men who was with Zhou found their hideout by tailing the Noma Group's men.
Lin got in the car with his Chinese escort, and they headed over there.
“There it is.”
After they drove down a narrow alley off of Oyaf.u.kou street, his guide spoke up as he parked the car on the side of the road.
“Zhou was taken to the fourth floor of that building.”
“The fourth floor? Got it.”
Lin got out of the pa.s.senger's seat. He had instructed the man to stay behind, but the other had insisted in tagging along. He must be worried for his comrade. Lin warned him they could encounter the Noma Group here but otherwise let him do as he pleased.
They took the emergency stairs to get to the fourth floor, and when they got there they examined the floor from the door. They could see the door to the studio just down the hallway.
“...Someone's here.”
After a few minutes, the door opened and two men came out from inside. They were probably henchmen from the Noma Group. They locked the door and were about to leave. “Stay hidden until I give you a signal.” Lin ordered the guide and stepped out into the hallway.
They were just two people, regardless if they were yakuza or not. Lin decided to face them head on.
“This is odd...I thought it was this building…”
Lin approached the two men while pretending to be a lost woman.
The men watched Lin, weary for a moment.
“Ah, I'm sorry. Do you have a moment?”
When Lin called out to them with a smile, they must have believed he was an average person as the two let their guard down. “I'm looking for this place.” Lin took out his smartphone, and they leaned over to look at the screen.
Lin grabbed the back of one of their heads and kneed him.
The man grasped his head and collapsed to his knees. Lin mercilessly kicked him in the face as he writhed in pain. The man's head struck against the wall before he slumped to the ground.
One man down. There was one more to go.
Lin turned to face the other gang member. He swiftly dived at the man while he was still taken off guard and sunk his fist into his solar plexus. The man groaned and collapsed, folding over his comrade's body.
“And the key is...ah, here it is.”
Lin fished through their pockets while they were unconscious and took the key to the room.
He signaled the guide down to come over.
They opened the door and entered inside the room. A man was lying on the ground in the center of the silent studio.
“Zhou!” The guide's eyes widened when he saw him. He shouted and quickly rushed over to the man's side. “Zhou! Get a hold of yourself! Zhou!”
“...It's pointless.” Lin reached for the man's wrist, checking his pulse, and muttered. “He's dead.”
The body was still warm. He must have just been killed. They were a moment too slow.
The corpse was in a horrific state. He seemed to have been thoroughly beaten. His face was greatly swelled up, and he had bruises all over his body.
Lin suddenly recalled. That's right, didn't Martinez say he had a job where he tortured a Chinese man? There's no way, he shook his head. Martinez could not have been correlated with this.
There was a sheet of paper laid out on Zhao's stomach, pinned by a knife. The paper read: ‘go back to your country, you f.u.c.king c.h.i.n.ks.'
It was a provoking note. The Noma Group must have expected the other members of their group would come here.
“Hey,” Lin sternly ordered the other man who was lying over his dead friend's body, grieving. “We can't stay here long. We need to hurry.”

“Kishiharsan.”
A man beside Kishihara addressed him as he was about to drink his liquor at the high quality club he frequented. Kishihara scowled, as his time playing with the beautiful hostesses got interrupted. He replied, reclining back in his seat. “What is it?”
His subordinate whispered in his ear. “It's about the Chinese man's body we left in the studio.”
“...Don't talk about anything that'll ruin the taste of the alcohol.”
“The body is gone.” The subordinate continued on, regardless of his warning. “It seems his comrades had come to retrieve him.”
It went exactly as they planned. “So they did come? They were faster than I expected.”
“Two of our men were injured when they did. Fortunately, it was not life threatening.”
“That's good to hear.”
“It's not. I believe the attack was done by a professional based off of how efficient it was done. Should we take any measures against this?”
The torture had relayed to them that the Chinese man Zhou swore his friends would seek retribution. That they would hire a hitman and kill the entirety of the Noma Group. They were close with their comrades. The Chinese group must be furious after seeing what horrible atrocities they did to Zhou's corpse. Kishihara could vividly see they would go in a frenzy and hire a hitman and devise a counter attack against them.
“There's no need for concern. I already made measures ahead of time.” Kishihara smirked. “We hired our own hitman.”

Afterwards, Lin carried the body to the car with the help of the sobbing man and returned to the Chinese men's hideout. He carried Zhou, wrapped up in a vinyl sheet, to the Mahjong club and laid him on top of the Mahjong table. The other Chinese members surrounded the body. They all were silent when they returned. They were simultaneously dejected and immensely enraged.
“Kishihara had his henchmen kill him.”
“We can't let the Noma Group b.a.s.t.a.r.ds get away with this.”
 “Let's kill Kishihara.”
“We'll kidnap Kishihara this time.”
“Yeah, that sounds good.”
“Let's do it.”
Lin remained silent and watched them from the corner of the Mahjong club. It seemed they collectively decided to get revenge.
“We're going to abduct Kishihara. Help us.”
The man with the qualities of a leader ordered Lin.
“Sure, I don't care. As long as you pay me for it.” Lin consented. He then asked them. “So, how are you going to capture this Kishihara guy?”
“We'll s.n.a.t.c.h him when he's moving about with a van.” One replied.
“We have to watch his home.” Another man piped in. “That would be the easiest way to do it.”
“So where's Kishihara's place?”
All the Chinese men fell silent at Lin's question. No one seemed to know where their enemy lived. So how do you plan to attack Kishihara? Are you guys all talk? Lin sighed. They were troublesome clients.
“I'll look into it, so you better pay me extra for it.” Lin called an informant he was well acquainted with after telling the group that. “...Ah, h.e.l.lo? Enokida?”
‘Hey,' Enokida replied and asked. ‘Did you make up with Banbsan?'
Now that he had mentioned it, I completely forgot about him.
However, that did not matter at the present moment. Lin snapped back. “Now's not the time for that. I have a job for you. I need you to find where the Noma Group's Kishihara lives at. Immediately.”
Bottom of the Third Inning Alejandro Rodrigez was around sixteen years old when he first met Ramiro Sanchez - the boss of the Veracruz cartel.
The boy Alejandro had many brothers and grew up in a poor family. He pa.s.sed the entrance exams to get into a major academy in the capital of the Dominican Republic, Santo Domingo, and spent his days immersed in baseball as a hatchling for the major league. Alejandro's dream was to become an MLB player to support his family, much like half of the boys into baseball in the Dominican Republic had.
However, Alejandro's dream was immediately crushed.  He had met numerous monsters in the academy. They had so much talent beyond his own that it was not even comparable. He felt no matter how much he tried, he was no match against them. He could not compete against them. An ordinary person like him would not be called out to any major league group. He would struggle just to get into 3A.
Alejandro, having reality shoved in his face, had dropped out of the academy. And he continued to fall further in a matter of time. In less than half a year, he had been reduced to a mere thug in a gang, hanging around in the back streets of Santo Domingo. The arms he had trained to swing a bat were used for violence against people, and the legs he had trained to swiftly run to bases were used to shake the police off his trail. The money he sent to his poor family was money he stole from tourists on the streets.
He spent his days in desolation when one day one of his friends in the same gang as him told him a breakthrough in how he could make the big bucks. The boss of a Mexican drug cartel was visiting Santo Domingo for a business deal and was enlisting new recruits for his organization. Alejandro let that information digest. Mexican drug cartels made easy money in dollars with Uncle Sam as their patreon. If he got into the cartel, he could possibly live better than he had been up until now. That was what he thought.

The location was at an abandoned warehouse in a bad part of Santo Domingo. When Alejandro arrived there were other young people from gangs like himself, bringing the number of people present more than ten. Only good-for-nothings applied for the job, hoping to get into the drug business.
After a couple of minutes, Don Ramiro Sanchez came in, accompanied by several of his subordinates. He had a short build yet he carried the presence befitting someone as a boss of a drug cartel. He wore a white suite with a tawdry patterned undershirt and a white ten-gallon hat on top of his head. He wore a gold wrist watch on his right hand and a matching golden necklace around his neck that shone lasciviously. His eyes were covered behind dark sungla.s.ses and had a magnificent beard with a cigar hanging from his mouth, creating the perfect image of head of a drug dealer.
“We're shorthanded, so we're always looking for capable people to work for us. I would like to have all of you work with me.”
The gangsters' eyes lit up at Don Ramiro's words.
“However, before you can join,” he added. “I believe a test to determine your worth is in order.”
Don Ramiro then sent a signal to his men to hand out AK-47, which were a.s.sault rifles called cuerno de chibo. The lackeys followed his orders, and one of the men with a S shaped tattoo on his arm brought in a man. The man was in shabby shape like a prisoner of war. His right eye was swelled up, he had a cracked front tooth, and his face was covered in blood as though he received multiple beatings.
Ramiro glanced over to the man and stated. “This guy is a traitor of our organization. He was a snitch who sold our comrades out to the police.”
He then ordered them.
“You guys take turns to beat him up. You can hit him anywhere, including his head and his torso. You can hit him as many times as you like. Just don't hold back.”
Ramiro's test was to hurt this man.
The test began immediately. And as instructed, everyone got in a line and took turns beating up the man. Ramiro watched, enjoying the scene.
The man was already in horrible shape. His breathing was feeble as well. Alejandro could not watch his suffering any longer.
“You're up.”
Alejandro's turn had come around.
He met the man's gaze. He was pleading with those eyes, begging for them to stop and to spare him.
If this man continued to be pummeled, he could die. And even if he fortunately survived, only more cruel torture at the hands of the drug cartel members awaited him.
Alejandro pitied him. He felt empathetic towards this tormented man.
Alejandro went to put him out of his misery. He approached one of Ramiro's subordinates nearby and took the man's handgun that was strapped onto his waist.
I'll release you from this h.e.l.l.
Alejandro pulled the trigger, shooting the man right between the eyes.
There was a gunshot, and for a moment the area grew tense.
The man was instantly killed. He died without pain.
That was the first time Alejandro had killed someone. However, he strangely did not feel any guilt. Rather, he felt he did what was right. He had saved the man's soul. G.o.d would surely forgive him.
Yet that could not be said for the drug cartel. Ramiro's henchmen surrounded Alejandro, all of them holding their rifles up to him. Several AK-47s were pointed at him. The men were waiting for Ramiro's order to pull their triggers.
“...I believe I said, golpéalo. Not mátalo.”
Don Ramiro noted. He questioned Alejandro in a small voice.
“Why did you shoot him?”
Alejandro had disobeyed Don's order. If he did not make a good enough excuse, he would be pelted with rifle bullets and left with holes all over his body. He would be executed in an instant.
However, if he used this opportunity to his advantage, he could possibly gain Ramiro's favor.
This was a bet.
“I wanted to test my shooting arm.”
Alejandro smirked. Internally he felt like peeing himself he was so afraid, but he kept up his bluff in front of the Veracruz drug lord.
“So, señor Sanchez. How long are we going to keep playing around?”
Don Ramiro frowned. “...What did you say?”
“Is your cartel looking for kids who are good at boxing?” Alejandro questioned back. “You can't be, right?”
What you guys are looking for are cold and capable people who could carry out any order whether that be murder or something else without hesitation. Isn't that right? Don Ramiro. Alejandro gazed at Ramiro head on, trying to appeal to him.
Don Ramiro stared at Alejandro as though evaluating his worth. Those few seconds of silence felt awfully long.
Fortunately, the Veracruz drug lord was reasonable. He smirked and nodded.
“...Yeah, you're exactly right.”
Don Ramiro's laughter resounded through the midst of the tense atmosphere.
“You're an interesting brat. I like you!”
After he laughed for a while, he crouched down next to the body Alejandro had shot and examined its face. He looked at the bullet wound between the man's brow, pleased. “Your aim was on point too. You don't have a bad shooting arm, and you've got guts. I feel like you'll be of great use.”
Ramiro then turned back to face him.
“What's your name?”
Alejandro gave his name. “Alejandro Rodrigez.”
“Come with me, Alex. As of today, you're my familia.”
Ramiro turned on his heel as he lit a new cigar.

And that was how Alejandro - Alex - had become Ramiro Sanchez's subordinate. Ever since that day he had killed many people as Ramiro's right hand man and ascended to become a terrifying being as Veracruz's executioner. However-

He felt like he had a long dream.
Martinez woke up, wrenching his heavy eyelids open.
“You awake?”
He heard a voice nearby.
He spotted Ricardo sitting on a pipe chair in his blurry vision.
“...Where am I?” Martinez asked, unable to focus on anything.
He seemed to be in an apartment somewhere, but there was no other objects besides the chair. It was a tasteless room.
“This is one of the DEA's hideouts.” Ricardo answered him curtly. “How are you feeling?”
“...Awful.”
His head was throbbing. He had been knocked unconscious and was asleep for a couple of hours.
“Ahh, s.h.i.t, I'm dizzy. Why'd you randomly hit me? Don't go for the head. There's nothing to protect it, so it hurts.”
“Because you got premature baldness.”
“I told you this is shaved.” Martinez grimaced from both his sharp headache and the rude comment.
“You're looking pretty good there, Alex.”
“Don't call me that.”
He had expected his past bill to come around eventually, but it had arrived sooner than he antic.i.p.ated. Martinez was prepared for the worst situation he currently found himself in the moment he reunited with Ricardo after nine years.
Will I be arrested or executed?
He was being left alive for now. However, he was unable to move freely. He was in a chair with his hands cuffed behind him. Both his legs were also tied to the chair.
“Hey, is this all really necessary?”
“It wouldn't be good if you escaped.”
“I won't run or hide.” Martinez snorted. “Get rid of these.”
“No.”
Ricardo objected and rose to his feet. He slowly sauntered over to him.
“I have a lot of questions for you.” He stood in front of Martinez and ordered. “Answer honestly.”
“Fine. You can ask me anything. Like my measurements.”
“Cut it with the pointless chatter. Or I'll put a hole in your tongue.” Ricardo put a hand over his gun for show and began his interrogation. “What are you doing now for work?”
“I'm a chiropractor. I'm doing honest work now.”
“Don't lie to me,” Ricardo spat. “And why would a respectable person meet up with the Noma Group?”
“I didn't.”
“You met them at the studio in Oyaf.u.kou.”
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
The moment he c.o.c.ked his head to the side, Ricardo's fist swung at him. It hit him on the right side of his face, making the chair almost tip over. Martinez managed to stop from falling over with one foot and shouted. “That hurt! What was that for!?”
“You should be happy I only punched you, you d.a.m.n h.o.m.o.”
There was a cut in the inside of his mouth. There was a metallic tang. After he spat blood onto the floor, Martinez replied. “...Okay. I'll answer honestly.”
“You should've done that from the beginning, you idiot.” Ricardo cursed. He was foulmouthed as ever.
“Presently, I take on torture work.”
“Torture?” Ricardo snorted when Martinez told him that. “That's the perfect job for a s.a.d.i.s.tic s.h.i.t like you.”
“I'm not really a s.a.d.i.s.t.” Martinez shrugged. “Any standard s.a.d.i.s.t isn't fit as a professional torturer. It's a refined craft and delicate occupation. It's a job kind hearted gentlemen do.”
“I don't have the time to hear your lecture on torture. Continue on from what you were saying before. Kishihara from the Noma Group hired you for something, right?”
“...Yeah, he did.” Martinez knew what would happen if he lied. He felt bad for his client, but he decided to be frank with him. “He asked me to torture a man and get information out of him.”
“Who was the man?”
Martinez stated. “A Chinese guy from a drug dealing group.”
Notes:  Most of Martinez's past revealed in this chapter is all you need to know to read the gaiden chapter from the Extra Games novel: Helper . If you want to be extra safe that you read all of his backstory in the cartel before reading, wait until after the fourth inning, but it's not really necessary. The gaiden specifically follows how Martinez began torture work and what happened after he left the cartel.
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Translation: Kaede726
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Editor: Voissane
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