By the Sword

  He wiggled the mouse and looked for Google Earth on the desktop but didn’t see it. Checked the program list—not there either. Didn’t have time to download it, so he went to Flashearth instead. He typed “staten island, ny” into the little search box and was immediately rewarded with a satellite view.

  And yeah, the cabbie had been right—the Fresh Kills landfill was visible from space. He coned down until he found the roof of a rectangular building sitting in an empty area with a clear view of the mounds. Had to be it. He put the crosshairs in the center of the roof and copied the latitude and longitude coordinates down to the second. Then he closed Explorer and rejoined the Kickers.

  Now…how to get the word out? He couldn’t stand here and shout it, because then they’d want to know how he knew. He needed anonymity—like phoning it in. Problem was he didn’t have a number for Hank or the Lodge or any Kicker for that matter.

  But he knew his own.

  He edged over to a side table in the foyer and slipped his TracFone from his pocket. After memorizing a number from his call history, he erased everything and thumbed the volume to max. Then he slipped the phone onto the table and headed for the door.

  Once outside, he hurried up toward Allen Street. After cadging some change from an all-night bodega along the way, he found a pay phone. He called his TracFone.

  Nearly a dozen rings before someone picked up.

  “Yeah?”

  “Hey, I know who raided your place and I know where you can find them.”

  “The fuck is this?”

  “The guy who’s gonna help you get even with those ninja pricks. I’m gonna tell you zackly where they are, so listen up.”

  Jack heard the guy yelling away from the phone. “Hey, everybody shut the fuck up! This could be important.” Then he came back to Jack. “Whatcha got?”

  “Write this down: They’re hiding on Staten Island and I can give you the exact coordinates of where they are.”

  “Coordinates?”

  Jeez.

  “Yeah. Numbers you can plug into a car’s GPS and it’ll take you to their front door. Got a pen and paper?”

  Jack heard the guy yelling for paper. After a few seconds he came back. “Okay. Shoot.”

  Jack gave him the coordinates and made him repeat them.

  “How do I know you ain’t pullin my chain?”

  “If I’m lyin I’m dyin. Check with Hank. Suggest he send one guy out there. If he finds a buncha Japs in a two-story building, that’s the place. Then you can send out a raiding party for some payback—and Hank’s sword.”

  “The sword’s there?”

  “Guaranteed.”

  Jack hung up, then started dialing again.

  Might as well make it a party.

  4

  Hideo awoke with a start. Someone was knocking on his door. He leaped from his bed and opened it to find one of the night security men standing there.

  “Sorry to bother you, Takita-san, but someone is on one of the special-use phones asking for the man who wants the katana. I wasn’t sure—”

  Hideo pushed past him and ran for the stairs. He’d used one of Kaze’s pay-as-you-go phones to call the number on the flyer; whoever it was had used that number to call back.

  This could be important.

  He found the phone sitting apart from the others. He snatched it up.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi. Are you still interested in that ugly, beat-up old katana?”

  He recognized the voice. The same as yesterday, the one who set up the meeting in that park. Hideo had suspected he might be the ronin, working for the previous owner, but had no way to tell. The voice sounded similar to the man he’d faced in the Gerrish apartment, but not so easy to tell over a cell phone. When no one approached the clerk they had set up with a decoy katana, Hideo suspected that the ronin had spied the trap and stayed away.

  “It is possible, yes.”

  “I know where you can find it.”

  “Why would you wish to tell me? You no longer want it?”

  “Let’s just say priorities have changed, and maybe I’d rather see you with the blade than the Kakureta Kao.”

  The unexpected Japanese words stunned Hideo into silence.

  Kakureta Kao…he hadn’t heard them mentioned in a long, long time. How did this gaijin know about them?

  “The Kakureta Kao no longer exist.”

  “Wrong. They’ve got a temple on Staten Island, and in that temple is the crudded-up katana you want so badly. Here are the exact coordinates of the building.”

  The man read them off twice and Hideo wrote them twice.

  “You are sure this—hello? Hello?”

  The connection had been cut.

  Hideo stared at the coordinates, seeing them as either a gift from Heaven or a trap. He’d set a trap for the ronin—and he was now sure that was he on the phone. So was the ronin returning the favor with a trap of his own?

  And his mention of Kakureta Kao…could that be true? The sect reportedly had been wiped out in World War II. But it served no purpose for the ronin to lie about such a thing. In fact, how could he even know about them unless…

  …unless they were back.

  He turned to his computer and opened Google Earth. He punched in the coordinates and found himself looking down at the roof of an isolated rectangular building.

  Could it be?

  Assuming the ronin had told the truth, what was Kakureta Kao doing here in New York? But more importantly, did the sect have any connection to Kaze? It seemed unlikely, but Kaze Group’s tentacles were pervasive, and had a long reach.

  The safe and sensible thing to do was to gather information before he and the yakuza paid a visit to this building.

  He glanced at the clocks on the wall—one for New York and one for Japan. It was still midafternoon in Tokyo. He should call the home office just to be sure.

  5

  Dawn shrank back against the wall. She’d have totally pushed herself through it if possible.

  “Wh-who are you? What do you want with me?”

  The ninja types had removed their scarves or headpieces or whatever and now they looked like young Asian goths. Three of them remained in the room with her. They could have been NYU grad students at some East Village club, except they didn’t seem to speak English, or were pretending they didn’t. Each was taking a turn swinging the cruddy sword she’d seen with Hank. Why they’d be so happy with a piece of junk was beyond her.

  She remembered the growing horror of the ride through Brooklyn and then across to Staten Island as she realized that these men hadn’t been sent by Mr. Osala—they had no idea who he was.

  They’d brought her to this strange building out near the landfill and stuck her in this candlelit room on the second floor. She didn’t know how long she’d been here, but she hadn’t had a second alone. She had to go to the bathroom but didn’t have the nerve to ask.

  “Tell me—please! What am I doing here?”

  One of them glanced at her, then went back to chattering in Japanese with his friends.

  Back still against the wall, she slid-sank to a squat and buried her face in her trembling hands.

  What had happened to her life? She couldn’t call it a nightmare—more like a series of nightmares, each more terrifying than the last. She’d been scared at that Kicker place, but this was downright terrifying.

  And then she sensed movement in the room and heard the guys saying something like, “Akechi-sensei.”

  She looked up and saw a tall, thin figure at the door, wrapped in a hooded blue robe with a red silk mask over its face. The young ones bowed and scraped as he glided into the room. He stopped before her and stood with his hands folded inside his long sleeves as he stared at her. The black eyes through the holes of his mask were the only sign that she faced a human. Otherwise he could have been some sort of alien monk.

  She tried to rise but her legs wouldn’t support her.

  Why was all this happening to he
r? She hadn’t been the best person, but she hadn’t been bad. Certainly hadn’t been evil.

  Why me?

  The monk spoke in a high-pitched voice. His English was heavily accented but she understood him.

  “You are with child?”

  Was that what this was all about? The baby? The baby again? Was everybody crazy? Had the whole world gone insane? What was it with this baby?

  She’d show them.

  “Me? Pregnant? No way. I’m a virgin. I’m saving myself for the right man.”

  The monk whirled and machine-gunned some gibberish at the younger ones. Their bland expressions turned concerned—especially the tallish one who stepped forward. He looked like he’d just been told his dog was dead.

  He bowed and the two of them exchanged a few words, then the monk pointed a long finger at the doorway and gave an order. The other two hurried out while the tall one stayed behind.

  They spoke in low voices, as if afraid she might eavesdrop. Fat chance. Arigato and konichiwa—picked up at a hibachi restaurant—were the extent of her Japanese.

  And then one of the other young ones returned, yammering away. Everyone stepped aside as some sort of high-sided, wooden, wheelbarrow-like cart rolled through the door, propelled from behind by the third young one.

  And in the cart…another masked monk in a blue robe, but this one had no legs and—oh, Christ! She hadn’t noticed it at first, but now she could see candlelight flickering off the rear walls of his empty eye sockets. He was missing his eyes too!

  His cart stopped before her. He thrust a gnarled hand in her direction and clutched at the air just inches away.

  Was he trying to touch her? No way!

  She frantically crabbed away across the floor but the cart followed until she was backed into a corner. She tried to make herself smaller but his hand kept coming closer and closer…

  And then the fingertips grazed her skin and like a sprung trap the hand clamped down on her forearm.

  Dawn screamed and tried to pull away but the monk’s grip was like iron. She twisted and thrashed but still could not break free.

  What was he doing? Was he going to grope her?

  But just as suddenly as he’d grabbed her arm, he released it and waved his hand in the air, jabbering at the top of his voice.

  Whatever he said, it seemed like good news to the others, because the young guys started jabbing their fists in the air and the standing monk’s eyes glittered with happiness.

  What had the eyeless one said?

  As if reading her mind, the tall one stepped closer and leaned over her.

  “You may lie to me. You may lie to the others. But you cannot fool the Seer.”

  Seer? What was he talking about?

  “I don’t—”

  “You are not a virgin and you are with child. You carry the infant we seek.”

  “Seek for what?”

  “That is none of your affair.”

  His right hand darted out and she felt a sharp sting in the left side of her neck. She flinched and slapped at his hand. As he withdrew it she saw a sliver of wood between his thumb and forefinger. It looked like an oversize toothpick with a blue stripe.

  “What—?”

  “You will rest now.”

  “But…”

  Her lips stopped moving and her eyelids suddenly weighed a ton each. Before they closed she saw one of the young ones approach with Hank’s sword. Was he going to cut her with it? She knew she should be afraid but couldn’t manage it.

  But no worry about that. He laid it at her feet and bowed. And then all the young ones cheered.

  She gave up the fight against her eyelids. As she let them close she felt herself drifting. She wanted to ask what they wanted with the baby…what were they going to do with it…or to it?

  Ice pierced her chest. To it? They weren’t going to hurt it, were they? They couldn’t…

  Listen to me, she thought as her senses fled. Yesterday afternoon I was totally going to abort it and now I’m worried someone’s going to hurt it. I am so messed up…so-so-so messed up…

  6

  Hank pressed his palms against the temples of his throbbing head.

  God damn!

  His sutured scalp would heal and the headache would eventually go away, but the humiliation…suckered like that…knocked clean out and lying in bed while the katana was stolen and poor Haber was murdered right there in Hank’s bedroom.

  Shit! He was the leader here, yet he hadn’t put up any sort of fight and had to be half carried down here to the basement all rubber-legged and bloody-headed in front of everyone.

  How would he ever live that down?

  “Hey, boss,” a voice said as a hand holding a cell phone appeared a few inches from his nose. “Andy’s on the phone for you.”

  Andy…?

  Oh, right. He’d sent him out to check out that cockamamie call about Dawn and the sword being somewhere out on Staten Island. He took the phone.

  “This is Hank. Bullshit, right?”

  “Uh-uh. I’m ninety-nine percent sure we’ve got the real deal here.”

  Hank straightened. “No kidding. What makes you think so?”

  “First off, the building’s right where he said it would be. Second, it’s walled in and there’s some guy dressed like a samurai standing guard. I sneaked up and peeked at the building and could swear I heard a girl scream inside.”

  Dawn…what were they doing to her?

  All right. Japanese guys after a Japanese sword. He didn’t know why they wanted it, but he didn’t have to. Maybe they considered it a sacred object or something. Didn’t matter. It made some sort of sense.

  But Dawn? What the hell could they want with Dawn? And if they hurt that baby…

  “Good work, my man. You stay there but stay out of sight. We’re on our way.”

  He snapped the phone closed. Suddenly his head didn’t hurt so bad. He’d just been handed a chance to redeem his cred with the Kickers—plus get back Dawn and the sword as well—and he wasn’t about to waste it.

  He jerked to his feet and immediately regretted it. The room tilted and did a three-sixty. He steadied himself with a hand on a table. When everything stabilized, he looked around. Darryl and Menck sat on the far side of the table, still looking dazed. A half dozen others milled around.

  “Listen up, everyone. We’ve found them and we’re going after them.” A cheer went up. After it died, he added, “Call every Kicker you know and put out the word: Anyone with a car, and anyone who can beg, borrow, or steal one, get it down here. The Kickers are going to Staten Island to kick some Jap ass.”

  More cheers, and then they got moving.

  Hank turned to Darryl and Menck. Under different circumstances he would have been screaming at them for being fuck-ups and letting some Japs get the drop on them. But since the same thing had happened to him, he held his tongue.

  “Listen, you guys probably should stay here. You’re banged up already and things could get rough out there.”

  Menck looked up at him. “You going?”

  Hank nodded. Of course he was going. He needed to be out with the troops on this one.

  Darryl said, “Then we’re goin too.”

  Not exactly what Hank had wanted to hear. He’d hoped they’d stay behind, nursing their wounds so he could be seen out there in the trenches ignoring his.

  “Yeah,” Menck said. “I need to be busting some of the heads that busted mine.”

  Busting heads…Hank couldn’t argue with that. What he’d really like to do was bust into this place with an AK-47 and mow down every one of the bastards.

  But no…no guns. In the first place, Hank discouraged guns among the Kickers and had banned them from the Lodge. Not because he feared or disliked them—he loved guns—but because New York was so anti-gun. Carry permits were nigh impossible to get. Get caught carrying, even a gun you legally owned, and you faced felony charges. Get caught with an illegal piece and you were in even bigger trouble. Hank di
dn’t think many of the Kickers would qualify for legal pieces.

  But he had a much more important reason for wanting them left home tonight.

  “All right, one more thing,” he said to the ones still present. “Get the word out: no guns.” Some disappointed groans and protests began. He raised a hand to cut them off. “I’m real serious about this. We don’t know what kind of confusion we’ll run into. We go in there with guns blazing, shooting up the place, we’ll most likely kill as many of our own as the bastards we’re shooting at. And worse, we’ve got no idea what the walls in that place are made of. If they’re just drywall, a wild shot can kill someone two rooms away, and that someone might be Dawn.” He smiled. “Or even worse, me.” This got the laugh he’d hoped for. “So pass the word: no guns.”

  “What if they’ve got guns?”

  “Both Darryl and Menck didn’t see any. They had knives and nunchucks. If they had guns, they would have brought them. Look, they think they’re ninjas or something. And ninjas don’t use guns. For our own safety, we can’t either. But put a bunch of knives, two-by-fours, chains, crowbars, baseball bats, maybe a few chainsaws into the hands of a bunch of pissed-off Kickers and these gooks won’t know what hit them.”

  A solid cheer this time.

  He clapped his hands. “Okay then. Let’s start gathering some head-busting equipment.”

  Hank would carry a crowbar, but he’d also take along the .38 Chief Special he kept hidden in his room. Just in case.

  And as for those Japs, the ones who survived tonight would curse the day they messed with Hank Thompson.

  7

  Jack watched the last of the fleet of cars, vans, and pickups roar off for Staten Island. Three of the Kickers who’d piled in had bandaged heads—Hank was one of them. The rest of them looked like a crowd of movie extras on their way to Castle Frankenstein. All they needed were pitchforks and torches to complete the picture.

  When the street was quiet, he stepped from the shadows and hurried toward the Lodge building. He ran up the steps to find the front door open and a couple of Kickers hanging around inside. They gave him suspicious looks and stepped toward him as he entered.