“Hey, Jordy,” his wife said. She sounded hoarse. Her cold was getting worse. “How’s my man?”
“I’m fine,” Winters said. He gathered his jacket and moved toward the doors as they hissed open. “You’re sick. Why don’t you call in today?”
“I do feel like crap, baby,” she said. “But you know I can’t call in. I don’t qualify for OT if I take a sick day this pay period and heaven knows we need the money, honey.”
Jordan pushed his way along the packed platform, ducking and dodging the endless tide of morning commuters. He could smell the relatively fresh air of Market Street rolling down the stairway above as he passed the ATMs in the ticketing lobby.
“We don’t need the money that bad,” he lied. “I can pull an extra shift this weekend if I have to.”
He worked his way toward the escalator and what his buddies on the night shift called the “world of the day-worker.”
“I’d better not… ” Her voice wavered.
After fourteen years of marriage, Jordan knew that slight hesitation meant he had her. “It’ll be worth it to spend the day with you.”
“That would be nice,” she said, sniffling.
He sweetened the deal. “I’ll stop by that Czech bakery you like before I catch the bus and get you a couple of kolache. That’ll put meat on your bones.”
She giggled. He loved it when she giggled.
“It’s settled then. I…” He paused, one foot on the escalator, cursing under his breath. He’d loaned his last ten bucks to Cal at work.
Jordan pushed back from the escalator and through the crowd, past the guy playing his saxophone in front of an open case, toward the bank of three ATMs along the white tile wall. Most people were coming to catch the train so it was easier now that he’d turned around and wasn’t a salmon swimming upstream.
“Oh, Jordan… you really think I should?”
“No question about it.” He felt the thrill of getting to spend a few precious moments with his wife — even if it meant feeding her soup and fruit kolache.
With a new spring in his step, he made his way to the ATM just as the headlight from the next city inbound beamed out of the tunnel. Brakes squealed above the din of frenzied commuters, desperate to catch this particular train as if it were the last one on earth. Hundreds of people shoved and jostled their way from the stairs and escalators, flinging themselves into the bowels of the packed station.
Jordan chatted happily with his wife as he put his card into the slot, thankful to be going home.
“You just get better.” He began to punch in his PIN. “I’ll be there—”
A blinding flash of heat and light shoved the words back down his throat.
The initial blast all but vaporized Jordan Winters and everyone else within five meters. Commuters were blown from their expensive loafers and high heels. Their bodies, some intact, some in mangled bits and pieces, hurtled across the tracks in front of the oncoming train.
Above, at ground level, passersby felt Market Street rumble under their feet. A blossom of inky smoke belched from the dark stairwell, carrying with it the screams of the dying and the smell of the dead.
CHAPTER 3
Jericho Quinn had been steeped in conflict for most of his life. He’d made a conscious effort to excel at boxing, jujitsu, blade work, and the all-out brawl. The most accomplished fighters would call him an expert — and still, three against one was something he took seriously.
No matter what Internet self-defense gurus taught, a violent encounter against multiple attackers was no simple application of a few snazzy techniques. The slightest mistake could nick a tendon or slice a nerve — and end his career. A larger error could end his life.
“Sticks?” Quinn walked forward, speaking Japanese in derisive tones, as a medieval samurai might speak to a dog. He gestured to the bats with his helmet. “You think to stop me with sticks?”
The apparent leader, wearing the tokko-fuku, brandished the knife but kept his feet rooted, not fully realizing the posturing phase was over.
Still ten feet away, Quinn suddenly changed direction, picking up speed before the uneasy kid to the right realized he was the intended target. The startled bosozoku had thought he was working as backup and hardly had time to raise the bat before Quinn bashed the helmet into his face and sent him staggering backwards in a tangle of feet and misgivings.
Quinn spun immediately, crouching to keep his center low and fluid. Tokko-fuku and the second helper moved in a simultaneous attack, slashing wildly with blade and bat. Quinn stepped under a crashing blow from the bat, swinging his helmet in a wide arc as he moved, connecting with Tokko-fuku’s jaw then the second man’s knee. The leader growled, caught only with a glancing blow. The second was driven to his knees.
Tokko-fuku wasted no time pressing his attack, slashing out with the knife in a flurry of blows. At least two landed with sickening scrapes against the crash armor of Quinn’s thick Transit jacket. A wild swing caught Quinn under the eye, slicing flesh but missing anything vital. In the heat of battle, it felt more like a punch than a cut.
Quinn advanced, pushing Tokko-fuku back with the swinging helmet. He didn’t have time for this. Drake was getting away.
To his right, the kid with the bum knee stumbled to his feet, yanking a pistol from his waistband.
Not wanting to alert Drake, Quinn snatched the suppressed .22 from the holster under his arm and put two rounds straight up under the kid’s chin as he stumbled past. The wide-eyed bosozoku clutched at his neck, full of the horrible knowledge that he was already dead.
“Fool!” Tokko-fuku attacked again before his partner hit the pavement. Blood and saliva covered his teeth, dripping from a pink sheen on his chin. He screamed at his surviving partner, who cowered on the ground. “Get in the fight!”
Amazingly, the frightened boy sprang to his feet. Brandishing the bat, he rushed at Quinn with a stifled yell. Quinn got off three quick shots with the Beretta. Perfect for quick, silent work, the diminutive .22 had little effect on a deranged boy trying to redeem himself in front of his peer. The bosozoku crashed in, knocking the little pistol from Quinn’s grasp and driving him backward. Quinn moved laterally, ducking a flurry of strikes with the bat. He kept the scared kid between him and Tokko-fuku long enough to draw Yawaraka-Te from the scabbard along his spine. Horrified at the sight of the Japanese killing dirk, the kid dropped his weapon.
There was no time for mercy in an uneven fight. Quinn extended the blade as he spun, drawing it across the kid’s throat in a wide arc on the way around to face Tokko-fuku.
Wasting no time, the bosozoku leader feinted with the blade, edge upward, intent on delivering ripping blows for maximum effect. Narrow eyes searched for an opening.
Quinn gave him one.
Dropping his left shoulder a hair, he dragged his foot as if he was about to stumble. Tokko-fuku fell for it, lunging forward with his arm outstretched. Quinn stepped deftly to the right, avoiding the blade and letting Yawaraka-Te windmill in front of him. Three of the bosozoku’s fingers came off in the process. His knife clattered to the pavement roughly twenty seconds after the fight began.
For the first time, Quinn stood his ground, letting Yawaraka-Te’s point float inches from the bleeding Tokko-fuku’s heaving chest.