“The DNI tells me I am to issue your equipment immediately,” she said.
“Arigato gozaimasu.” Quinn accepted his case with both hands and a slight bow. It was large, at least five inches deep, and it had some heft to it.
“You are welcome.” Mrs. Miyagi’s lips perked into just the hint of a smile, the first Quinn had seen of such sentiment in the mysterious woman. “Palmer San said I should watch what I say around you.” There wasn’t the slightest trace of a Japanese accent in her words. Her teeth and her emotions vanished as quickly as they had appeared. “Now, if you gentleman will please open your cases, I will explain your new weapons.
“New weapons?” Thibodaux rubbed his big hands together. “I like the sound of that.”
Quinn snapped the latches and raised the lid on the brushed aluminum case to find a pair of Kimber Tactical Ultra II pistols chambered in ten millimeter. The Kimber was built on the venerable 1911 design some operators felt had to have been revealed by the Almighty to John Browning.
Nestled between the matched handguns was a custom Glock in .22 caliber with a threaded barrel, Gemtech silencer, and a box of subsonic ammunition. There were extra magazines and a variety of concealment holsters for each weapon.
Miyagi waved an open hand over the contents of both cases. “The Director leaves the choice of sidearm up to each of you, since that is a personal issue. He makes you the gift of these pistols and reminds you that you are no longer constrained by the need to carry NATO-approved ammunition. The ten millimeters are for times when immediate stopping power is required.”
“I can’t think of a time when it’s not.” Thibodaux smiled. He peered down the sights of one of the Kim-bers with the broad grin of a boy on Christmas morning. As a special agent with OSI, Quinn was accustomed to carrying a pistol wherever he went, both in and out of the United States. Thibodaux only carried a weapon when he was overseas or in training, and in the Marine Corps that was customarily a rifle.
“When silence is paramount”—Mrs. Miyagi smiled serenely as if she’d done her share of specialized pistol work—“the .22 caliber Glock fitted with the Gemtech should serve you very well. From my experience with the Director, it is my belief that you will employ this system far more often than you will the Kimber.” She turned to Quinn, studying him for a long moment. “I understand you often use a blade in such circumstances.”
“I have on occasion.” Quinn nodded, wondering how much this woman knew about him.
With his particular skills and the broad range of opportunities to put them to use in Iraq, Jericho had learned to utilize the weapon that got the job done. In the beginning, he’d never set out to kill a man with a knife, but it had happened more than once. Quinn had discovered the method to be supremely effective and silent. The aftermath of blade work had the added benefit of throwing a psychological headlock on others among the enemy camp who came upon the bloody scene. It also gave him a reputation that made other OSI agents steer clear of him at parties but jump at the chance to work with him in the field.
Mrs. Miyagi bowed slightly, folding both hands in front of her waist. “Would you permit me to see your blade?”
Quinn drew the CRKT Hissatsu killing tool from his waistband. Modeled in the style of an ancient Japanese dirk, it was one of the few knives on the market that wasn’t meant for double duty as a letter opener, or camp tool. The long, slender blade had no other job than the quick penetration of vital organs where it could inflict the most lethal damage.
“A knife?” Thibodaux tilted his big head, unconvinced.
“Why not?” The enigmatic woman peered through narrowed eyes. “Sicarii Zealots in first-century Palestine killed in broad daylight with a short sword known as a sica. The Fidaiin, most feared of the ancient assassins, always used a dagger to work their acts of terror. Even Spartans, whom you Marines revere so much, were renowned for their use of a short sword.”
“Short being the operative weakness,” Thibodaux said.
“Ah,” Miyagi said, scolding the Cajun. “When a Spartan youth once complained to his mother that his sword was too short, the warrior mother told her boy the weapon would be long enough if he would only step forward.”
Thibodaux sighed. “Touché,” he said, giving Quinn an I-told-you-so look.
Her history lesson over for the moment, Mrs. Miyagi turned her attention back to Quinn, who was grinning ear to ear at Thibodaux’s mental thrashing. “Very nice,” she said, drawing the twelve-inch blade from its Kydex scabbard. “I’m sure it has served you well.”
Quinn tipped his head, agreeing but saying nothing.
Mrs. Miyagi examined the Hissatsu under the natural light streaming in from her dining-room window. “Do you know of the ancient swordsmith Masamune?”
“I do indeed,” Quinn said. “Some feel Masamune was the greatest of all Japanese sword makers during the late thirteenth century. Leaves floating down a river toward his blade were said to have sensed the sharpness and veered away in the current. While other weapons were sharp, Masamune swords held a certain mystical power — discerning about what they cut.”
“You know your history.” Mrs. Miyagi gave an approving smile. She held the Hissatsu flat, across both hands. “Many years ago I was given a Masamune dagger — much like your blade. It is called Yawaraka-Te…”
“Gentle Hand, like the legend of the river and the leaves,” Quinn mused. It was so typical for the Japanese to give an instrument of death such a serene name.
“Yawaraka-Te now rests in your Halliburton case, under the guns,” Mrs. Miyagi said. “I make it a gift to you.”
Quinn caught his breath. A pair of pistols was one thing, but a centuries-old blade forged by a Japanese master was a heavy burden. He may have saved the Director’s grandson, but this woman didn’t know him at all. For her to give him a sword that for all practical purposes was a Japanese national treasure was unthinkable. Still, he could see from the set in Mrs. Miyagi’s jaw to refuse it would be unthinkable.
“Do I get a cool knife?” Thibodaux peeked under the corner of the foam insert inside his aluminum case.
A mischievous sparkle formed in Mrs. Miyagi’s bottomless brown eyes, flashing at Quinn. He nodded, understanding her meaning without words passing between them.
She pushed the Hissatsu toward the Cajun. “Blades are far more powerful when they come to us as a gift. Quinn San wants you to have this one.” Offering him Jericho’s knife with both hands, she changed the subject. “Now, there is much to do. Please put that away and follow me.”
Thibodaux slumped, shoving the present in his aluminum case. “I told you she didn’t like me,” he whispered. “But hey, thanks anyway for the pigsticker, beb.”
Quinn was severely tempted to look under the pistols in his case. He longed to touch the eight-hundred-year-old blade. That would be rude though, so he let it wait.
Mrs. Miyagi stepped out to her front porch and motioned toward the circular driveway. “The Director authorized a second BMW Adventure, identical to yours, Quinn San, but for the color.”
Thibodaux all but vaulted onto the red and black GS. Except for the color it was the twin to Jericho’s gunmetal bike, complete with Touratech aluminum cases.
Mrs. Miyagi ran her hand over the huge gas tank on Quinn’s motorcycle. “The Shop made a few adjustments while you slept. A little more travel in the front suspension… tuned the engine to coax out an additional ten horsepower to your original one oh five… and added run-flat tires.”
Sitting astride his new bike, Thibodaux tipped back and forth on the center stand. He looked like a giant kid on an electric pony. “I’ll bet they shoot rockets or some—”