He staggered out into the hall. The ronin and the old man had disappeared into the smoke but he heard their footsteps on the stairway. He found his pistol and hefted it. His first impulse was to stick the barrel in his mouth and pull the trigger. But he didn't know if he could do that.
Perhaps later he would find out, but as for now…
He hurried for the stairs. He would have the katana or die trying.
He was down the first flight and rounding the bend when he came to a sudden stop as he felt something jab against his chest. The ronin stood before him with the muzzle of his pistol pressed over Hideo's heart.
"I warned you about being stupid."
Hideo's pistol was down, against his thigh. He began to raise it.
"Don't," the ronin said. "Your brother was a good guy, a brave man. I'm sure you're just as brave, and I know you think you're doing what you have to do, and I respect that, but you're trading brave for stupid now. Do that and this can end only one way."
Hideo didn't stop the upward movement of his weapon. Honor demanded he resolve this, one way or another.
He heard a sudden, almost deafening sound as something smashed into his chest, half turning his body as it tumbled backward. He landed on his shoulder, then flopped onto his back where he stared at the cracked ceiling and listened to the death cries of his punctured heart.
"Aw, jeez," he heard the ronin say. "Why'd he have to do that?"
The old man said, "I think he was using you to do something he couldn't do himself."
"Swell."
The voices faded away, the ceiling faded to black, quickly followed by everything else.
Shiro had been drifting in a twilight of consciousness, vaguely aware that he should be up and doing something… but not knowing what… and even if he knew, he lacked the will to rouse himself from the twilight.
And then he started at the sound of a shot and came fully awake.
Raising his head sparked an explosion of pain, and with it the memory of what had happened.
… cutting the throat of the man with the sword… the katana tumbling away into the smoke… the pistol pointed at his face… ducking… the crushing impact against his head…
He struggled to his hands and knees, then, using the nearest wall for support, made it to his feet. His eyes stung from the smoke. He coughed, sending another jolt of pain through his head. He touched his scalp and felt the wet, congealing blood there. He did not know how badly he was wounded and did not have time to worry about himself.
Where were his brothers of the Order, where was the sound of battle?
He stumbled down the hallway in a fruitless search for the katana, going from room to room, finding dead brother monks in some, others slumped on the floor, and flames… flames coming from the scroll room.
"Sensei!"
He hurried toward the room and found much of it aflame. The scrolls—destroyed, gone forever. Holding an arm across his face, he braved the heat and stepped inside. Where—?
He found Akechi-sensei on the floor, and gagged when he saw the ghastly wounds where his limbs had been severed from his body, his belly opened. He fought the urge to drop to his knees and sob and die alongside his teacher.
But such a luxury was denied him. Vengeance called.
The Kickers… one of them had carried a chainsaw… they did this. They slaughtered his brothers and destroyed the Order.
No… not completely destroyed. Shiro remained.
He turned to the shelves on the far side of the room. The flames had yet to reach the vials there.
The ekizu.
Fighting the heat, he grabbed a vial and ducked back into the hall.
The blue glass felt hot but not too hot to hold. He prayed the ekizu hadn't been ruined. Because tonight he intended to let the Kickers feel the full fury of the Black Wind.
"You get the feeling we were set up?" Darryl said as he drove them across the Manhattan Bridge.
Hank looked at him and realized he did have that feeling, had sensed it soon after they'd walked into the place. He simply hadn't pinned it down.
He glanced back at Dawn, stretched out on the rear seat, still unconscious—was she ever going to wake up?—then out the rear window at the two cars carrying the few survivors of the three dozen or so Kickers who'd started out earlier.
What a catastrophe.
"Yeah, I kind of do. But who? And why?"
"The guy who called and told us where we could find the sword."
"Yeah, but who is he?"
"One of those Enemies you talk about?"
The Enemy… out to destroy the Plan. But they'd be after Dawn, and the last thing they'd want to tell him would be where to find her.
"No, not them." He shook his head. "I don't understand any of this. What did those sicko monks want with Dawn? And those hit men. Who were they sent to hit? Us or the monks?"
"I think they were looking for the sword."
"The hit men? Why the hell—?"
Darryl shrugged. "Don't know. But didn't you tell me that sword's called a katana."
"Yeah."
"Well, while I was hiding, I heard one of the hit men say it twice. Didn't understand anything else in their jibber-jabber, but I know I heard that word."
"They must have been the ones behind those flyers."
"Maybe. Still, three bunches of folks all after the same thing winding up in the same place at the same time… if that don't smack of a set-up, I don't know what does."
Darryl might not be the brightest bulb in the box, but Hank had to admit he had something there.
"Whatever, the important thing is the Kickers came away with Dawn and the sword."
"Hope so. Hope we didn't lose Menck and the others for just half the prize."
Hank's neck tightened. "What do you mean, 'half'?"
Darryl looked in the rearview. "Well, I ain't seen no sign of Jantz."
"We had too much of a lead, that's all."
"Hope so."
So did Hank.
Hank eased Dawn onto the bed and pulled a sheet up to her neck.
He figured the basement was still the best place for her, so he'd called ahead to have a bed moved in from upstairs.
He stared down at her and shook his head, thinking, You've been one hell of a lot of trouble, girl. Thirty-some guys just died for you. Hope to hell you're worth it.
"What do we do now?" Darryl said.
Hank turned and saw him standing there with Ansari.
Good old Darryl. He'd hung in there. He'd always seemed like a loser, but the guy had guts.
"We heal our wounds and go on like before. One thing we won't have to worry about is those crazy Jap monks."
"But what about the hit men?" Darryl said.
Good question. Hank didn't have an answer, but figured he should look like he did.
"They come here, they'll be on our turf, and we'll know how to deal with them." He frowned. "Where's Jantz? He should be here by now." He pointed to Ansari. "Go upstairs and check. If he's here, have him bring me the sword."
As the door closed behind Ansari, Hank jumped at the sound of a strange voice.
"I don't think you'll be seeing the katana again."
Hank whirled and found himself face-to-face with a stranger.
"Who the fuck are you?"
The guy looked young, slim, maybe five ten, with Latino-ish skin. He was working on a mustache. Reminded Hank of Prince, but not so foppish or faggy. He wore a long-sleeve black shirt and black pants. Seemed like a guy going for either the Latin lover or the Zorro look.