By the Sword

  He put the katana in first, making sure its cutting edge was facing away. He followed it, folding his knees against his chest and sliding the door closed. He waited, listening, Kel-Tec ready.

  4

  Hideo had noticed that the security shutter was unlocked, so he instructed Goro to raise it. The lights were on within. He pushed on the door and it swung open.

  “Mister O’Day?” he called again. “Are you in there?”

  No answer.

  Kenji slipped past him and entered the store. He took two steps and stopped. He glanced back with a surprised and concerned expression, then hurried forward. The two other yakuza followed. Hideo hesitantly brought up the rear, sensing that something bad waited ahead.

  He was right. One quick look at Mr. O’Day, a flash of the hilt of a dagger distorting his mouth and the bloody point of its wavy blade jutting from the back of his neck, was all he could take. He turned away and struggled to hold down his breakfast of natto, nori, and miso soup.

  He succeeded, then managed to say, “The katana—does anyone see the katana?”

  As they began looking, Hideo noticed people passing on the street. No one glanced in, but sooner or later someone would.

  “Hurry!”

  Goro and Ryo rolled the body away from the rear door. Kenji stepped through and turned on the lights.

  “Takita-san! Come see!”

  Hideo gingerly stepped over the corpse and peeked in the room. He gasped at the dozens of gleaming blades racked on the walls. He knew little about katana, but sensed this was a magnificent collection.

  Unfortunately each blade appeared to be in perfect condition. And there on the floor lay the rug he had seen O’Day carrying from Gerrish’s apartment building—empty.

  He glanced again at the front of the store. Madison Avenue was becoming busier and busier. Only a matter of time before someone stopped in for a look.

  The katana was not here. O’Day had killed Gerrish to get it, and now someone had killed O’Day. This blade was leaving a trail of corpses in its blood-soaked wake. How was he going to find this latest killer?

  Wait. Hadn’t he seen a security camera on one of the walls? He stepped back in to the front area and yes—a camera mounted near the ceiling. A chair sat conveniently in place below it. He climbed upon it to get an idea of where the wire might go. He tugged on it and—

  It came free.

  Only a gentle tug to pop it out of the wall. Hideo found himself looking at the clean-cut end of a coaxial cable, devoid of any connector.

  No! A prop!

  In a fit of rage he tore the fake cam from the wall and hurled it across the store, spewing curses as it flew.

  Hideo hated O’Day then. He deserved to be dead. He had left Hideo with no record of what had transpired here.

  He jumped to the floor and hurried to the front door where he scanned the street. No traffic cams in sight. He cursed again, this time under his breath.

  Then he turned to Goro. “Turn out the lights inside and lower the shutter.” To Kenji: “Call the car.”

  As he waited he reviewed his options but saw no way to rescue this. He must find one. Must. His own honor as well as Yoshio’s depended on it. He could not return to Tokyo and report failure to Sasaki-san.

  5

  Hearing the security shutter clang shut and the store go silent, Jack eased open the sliding door and unfolded himself from the cabinet. Good thing he wasn’t claustrophobic.

  He reholstered his Kel-Tec and fitted the pieces of the Glock into his pockets. Even though it was ruined, he couldn’t very well leave it behind. He looked around to see what had caused the crash and the cursing. In the dim light seeping around the edges of the shutter he noticed the security cam lying smashed on the floor. When he stepped closer and saw the dead-end cable, he understood.

  O’Day…scamming to the end…everybody, including Jack.

  Okay. Alive and in possession of the katana. All he had left to do was get out of here and return the sword to its rightful owner. No, wait—that would be the museum in Hiroshima. Then again, the rightful owner would be the family of the man who had owned it last—probably vaporized in the A-bomb blast.

  A torturous provenance. He’d go with the Hirohito he knew.

  He began a search for something to wrap around the sword. In the back room he found a dusty throw rug that did the trick. But first he used it to wipe the kris’s handle, and anything else he had touched.

  He slipped up to the front door and peeked through a quarter-inch gap between the wall and the shutter track just in time to see the boss man and his three yakuza pals getting into a black Lincoln Town Car.

  Jack waited until it had moved off, then adjusted his cap and shades for maximum coverage before lifting the shutter just enough to allow him through. He straightened and let it drop again. A quick look around showed nobody particularly interested in him. It also showed the Lincoln waiting to make a left onto 29th Street.

  He stood watching it, wondering who the hell they were.

  The light changed and the car started to turn, but stopped halfway. For a second Jack thought one of them had spotted him, then realized it had stopped because it couldn’t go any farther. Twenty-ninth was backed up.

  As he watched it inch around the corner, he realized a pedestrian could run circles around them. Hell, an arthritic snail could leave them in the dust.

  If traffic stayed jammed, maybe…just maybe he could follow them to whatever they were calling home.

  He gave them a lead of half a block or better, then followed. Cautiously. They were crossing the lower end of Murray Hill and he didn’t see many places to hide. Whenever the car stopped—and that was often—he did the same and found a doorway or used an unloading van as a screen.

  When they finally reached Fifth Avenue, Jack saw the problem: mini gridlock. On the far side of Fifth, the street opened up, but the avenue itself was backed up. Could be an accident, or construction, or simply the daily perversities and vicissitudes of Manhattan traffic. Didn’t matter. Once their car crossed Fifth, they’d be gone.

  But wonder of wonders, the left-turn blinker came on. Hope sparked. This might work out after all.

  Staying out of sight on Fifth was easy—more lanes of traffic, more pedestrians. The Town Car stayed in the center fire lane as it made its downtown crawl, which told Jack that it wasn’t intending to turn for a while.

  After more than twenty slow blocks, they came to Washington Square Park. The car seemed aimed to pass through the famous arch when it flowed right onto Waverly Place. The car stopped before a massive, granite-fronted townhouse where the four got out and hurried up the front steps through a columned portico. They entered as if they owned the place.

  He had a feeling they didn’t, but maybe their employer did. He wondered who that might be. Some sort of Japanese crime organization? How else to explain the yakuza? Seemed that someone in that deep-pocketed organization—had to have elbow-deep pockets to afford a place like the one on Waverly—was a katana collector as well, and had somehow learned that Gerrish had stolen the Gaijin Masamune.

  Jack was sure Abe could learn who owned it. He’d ask him to find out.

  Just for curiosity’s sake.

  Because Jack had no intention of seeing any of that crew again. He’d contact Naka Slater ASAP, hand over the sword, collect his fee, and then it would be arigato, sayonara, and good riddance to the cursed thing.

  6

  Darryl’s eyes burned in the bright midday sunlight but he kept constant watch on the comings and goings at the Milford entrance.

  Even though his shift didn’t start again till midnight, and he needed some shut-eye real bad, he couldn’t stay away from the hotel.

  With good reason: He had a big investment here.

  Hank had set up two twelve-hour shifts of three guys each in a side-door panel truck, noon to midnight, and midnight to noon. They’d found a parking space across from the front entrance and camped there. The plan was to spot her
and follow her and one way or another pull her into the van without being seen. In the event they were spotted and reported, the van had been fitted with stolen license plates.

  Darryl had taken the first red-eye shift with two other Kickers. Hank had told them that Dawn would probably dye her hair, so give every chick in her age group—not just the blondes—a close look.

  And just to make sure she was really registered, he’d called the hotel and asked for Dawn Pickering. Darryl had figured she’d register under a phony name but Hank had said no way. Maybe before 9/11, but not since. The hotel wouldn’t tell him the room number but had put him through to Dawn Pickering’s phone. He’d hung up just as it started to ring.

  Yeah, she was there, all right.

  Smart guy, that Hank.

  He scratched his left shin. Been itching him since last night. Had something bit him?

  He pulled up his pants leg for a look and saw a purplish blotch on his skin. He tried to rub it off but it was in his skin. Weird. And ugly. Must have bumped it in the truck. He’d spent twelve hours straight in that thing watching the entrance with no sign of Dawn. And even though he’d been relieved a couple of hours ago, he couldn’t seem to let go.

  He didn’t know the guys on the noon shift, didn’t know how sharp an eye they’d keep out for the girl. After all, what did they care. Yeah, Hank said she was important to the future of the Kicker Evolution, but what did that mean in everyday terms? Not much.

  If she slipped by them they’d be like, Oh well, fucked up, we’ll get her next time.

  Different for Darryl. That babe meant five grand in his pocket. He wasn’t about to let her slip away.

  7

  Hideo was having no luck. He wanted to grab his keyboard and bat it against the desk until it shattered into a thousand pieces, but he resisted that dubious pleasure. He must appear to be in control of himself and the situation—the rapidly deteriorating situation.

  Despite his best efforts, he had been unable to find a traffic cam with a view of the Bladeville doorway. He also had searched the Manhattan Webcam sites available on the Internet but still no luck.

  So he decided to go to the source: Check police records on the Hawaiian Islands for a report of a stolen sword. That would lead to the owner and give Hideo a starting point.

  But no such report existed on any of the islands. The possibility of a thief like Gerrish buying it seemed too remote to consider. Which left Hideo with a number of unpleasant prospects: The owner was either dead, or did not know the sword was missing, or did not legally own it.

  He rubbed his sweaty palms on his trousers. What was he going to do? He had to report back to Sasaki-san’s office within the next twelve hours. What was he going to say? Certainly not that he had hit a dead end. Certainly not that he had run into a man who matched one of the pictures his brother had sent back—that would only remind them of Yoshio’s failure and perhaps wonder if this brother might not be headed along the same path.

  No, he must sound optimistic: Through his diligence he had already had two near encounters with the katana. Perhaps add that he had missed it by scant minutes each time and hint at how he wished he had been assigned this mission sooner. Had he arrived in New York even half a day earlier, he would have the katana by now and be flying it home. He believed this to be true, and hoped it might mitigate any ire in the home office about his lack of success to this point.

  What he dared not say was that he had run out of leads. The two men he had connected to the blade were dead. His encounter with Yoshio’s ronin had been a one-in-a-million chance coincidence. He could not count on another.

  All he could do was ask his ancestors for help and guidance, and pray that they or fate would drop something in his lap.

  Until that happened, he must appear to be in control and homing in on the katana. The only course open to him at the moment was to find the previous owner—the one from whom Gerrish had most likely stolen it.

  That meant tracing Gerrish’s movements from the time he landed on the Hawaiian Islands until the time he boarded Northwest flight 804 out of Maui.

  At least then he would have a goal. He could look busy, be busy, all the while knowing he’d set himself a nearly impossible goal.

  And then two seemingly unrelated facts collided and clung: If the previous owner of the katana had no legal claim to it, might he not have followed the blade to New York and hired a local to find it? Yoshio had termed the mystery man a ronin—and ronin had been known to sell their services.

  He straightened in his seat. Here was another avenue of inquiry—a daunting task but one he must pursue: Seek out someone in this city who hired out to solve problems that needed to remain hidden from the authorities.

  An urban ronin.

  8

  Delivery was scheduled for ten o’clock tonight. Naka Slater did not want to take possession of the katana in a public place. Said he needed to examine the blade before he forked over the rest of Jack’s fee.

  Fair enough. Were positions reversed, Jack would have demanded the same.

  He’d decided on the alley next to Julio’s. It was convenient, he was familiar with it, and meeting there wouldn’t necessarily connect him to the bar.

  After cutting the call, he stood in his front room staring at the rolled-up rug lying on his round oak table. It seemed to call to him.

  Shrugging, he unwrapped it and took a two-handed grip on the handle. He knew next to nothing about swords, but the katana’s balance was so perfect it seemed to want to move of its own accord. He carried it to the center of the room where he lurched into an improvised sword kata that probably looked a lot more like John Belushi than Toshiro Mifune.

  He felt a twinge of regret that he’d called Naka Slater. It felt good in his hands, so good that he didn’t want to set it down. Heirloom or not, collector’s item or not, object of murderous desire or not, he wanted this on his wall, not some rich plantation owner’s. He could give back the advance…

  He forced himself to put down the sword, telling himself not to start down that slippery slope. He’d made a deal to find and return it. He’d accomplished the first half, now to complete the job.

  He stared down at the sword where it lay on the dirty old rug. Something entrancing about the pattern of holes in its blade. Almost hypnotizing.

  What the hell.

  He picked it up and began swinging it again.

  9

  “He has the katana, sensei!” The familiar voice was bursting with joy. “He will deliver it tonight!”

  Only a supreme effort of will prevented Toru from leaping to his feet and shouting Banzai! For once the meaning would be literal—possession of the katana guaranteed the Kakureta Kao a thousand years.

  But the Order did not yet possess it.

  Controlling his voice, Toru said, “You have done well, but two tasks remain: Take possession of the katana, and see that no one can connect you or the Order to it.”

  “Yes, sensei.”

  Toru studied the younger man through the eyeholes of his silk mask.

  “You have been trained in the fighting arts, and you are so proficient that you have trained others. But you have never used them for anything like this. Are you capable of killing?” He raised a hand as Tadasu opened his mouth. “Think well on this. It is crucial. If you are not sure, I will send someone along to see it is done.”

  His dark eyes flashed. “I will need no help, sensei. I can do this.”

  Toru studied his determined expression for a few heartbeats, then nodded.

  “I believe that you can and that you will.”

  He bowed. “It will be an honor to so serve the Order.”

  10

  Darryl checked his watch—4:40. Man, he was tired. Had to give it up and catch some Z’s. Needed to be rested for the red-eye shift at midnight.

  Okay. Give it another twenty and quit at five, grab a couple of brews and hit the hay.

  He watched a cab pull up, saw the door open and a gal get out. S
eemed the right age, short brown hair, shades. He was about to write her off when he took another look. Something familiar about those shades. Just like the ones Dawn had been wearing—he knew ’cause he’d got a couple of close looks when he’d seen her in that Arab getup. He took a closer look at her face and—

  Fuck me! It’s her!

  He watched in shock as she kept her head down and hurried inside. He shook it off and checked the cab as it passed, memorizing its number. Then he hurried over to the van. He was going to give the guys inside a bit of pure hell. And then who did he see standing there, leaning in the window, but Hank himself.

  Perfect.

  Hank smiled at him as he came up to the van.

  “Hey, Darryl. What’s—?”

  “She got out!” He pointed to the guys in the van. “She got past them! Me too!”

  Hank’s smile vanished. “What are you talking about?”

  “I just saw her get out of a cab and go inside.”

  “Bullshit!” said one of the guys in the van—Darryl didn’t know his name. “We been watching like hawks.”

  “Yeah? Well, your hawks need glasses because I just saw her. Lucky for us she was going back in. But that means she was out, ’cause you can’t go in ’less you been out.”

  “You’re crazy!” said another one of the van guys.

  “Whoa! Whoa!” Hank said. He was staring at Darryl. “You’re sure?”

  “Sure, I’m sure. You were right about her changing her hair color, Hank. But she cut it too. It’s short now—kinda spiky and dykey, if you know what I’m saying.”