By the Sword rj-12

by F. Paul Wilson

  Darryl didn't know if he'd ever heard sweeter words. But they still had to get by the hit men.

  Hank nodded to Jantz. "You and the others take point, see if we're clear ahead. Darryl—you and Menck cover the rear."

  As Jantz and the rest moved off toward the staircase, Hank reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a pistol. He handed it to Darryl.

  "Know how to use this?"

  Darryl had done some hunting in his day, but with a rifle, never a pistol. Still, with all the shit that was going down here, he wasn't about to let a gun slip through his fingers.

  "You betcha."

  He took it. A snub-nose, six-shot revolver. He didn't know what caliber, and didn't care. All that mattered was that it fired when he pulled the trigger.

  Down the hall, flames were licking from one of the doorways, and the smoke was getting worse. Jantz and the rest were already at the stairs. Hank started after them with Dawn. Darryl and Menck followed Hank.

  "All we gotta do, man," he whispered to Menck, "is make it through the front door and we're home free."

  Menck had the sword on his shoulder like a rifle. "We ain't there yet, my man. Not until—"

  His words cut off in a gurgle. Darryl whipped around and saw Menck's mouth wide open and his arms spread like he was belting out the last note of a song. But the sword was flying through the air, his eyes were bulging, and it looked like he had a second mouth under his chin, wide open, and spitting blood.

  And behind him, a shadow in black, pulling a bloody knife away from Menck's throat.

  "Fuck!" Darryl shouted, raising the pistol and firing as Menck's knees gave way.

  The Jap's head jerked back in a spray of red and he went down.

  I hit him! Darryl thought. God damn, first time I ever shot a pistol and I hit the fucker!

  But Menck—poor Menck was a goner. Menck was gone.

  "What the fuck?" Hank had stopped and turned. He looked at Darryl, then Menck, then Darryl again. "Shit! Keep moving!"

  Leave Menck—just like that?

  "But—"

  "We can't help him. Cover me, Darryl." He looked around. "Hey, where's the sword?"

  He pointed toward the dim smoky hall behind them. "Back there somewhere. Want me to—?"

  "Leave it for now. We'll send somebody back. Just cover my ass till we get out of here."

  Darryl did just that, walking backward, gun swinging left and right, all the way to the stairway. They found Jantz waiting at the bottom with the two wounded and the rest.

  Hank said, "Jantz—the sword's still up there, in the hall. Take someone and go get it. Don't worry. Nothing moving up there. The rest of you come with me."

  As Jantz and another Kicker hurried upstairs, Darryl peeked up and down the hall, then longingly at the entrance directly across from them. Twenty feet of exposure and they were outta here.

  He thought he saw a flicker of movement in one of the doorways but it didn't repeat.

  He motioned to Hank and the others behind him. "All clear. Let's move!"

  Holding his breath, waiting for the silent bullet that would end everything, he scurried across the hall and into the entrance recess.

  Made it!

  The rest made it as well. He held the door for Hank and Dawn, then started for the cars. They all stopped when they saw the bodies. All the guys who had been wounded in the first attack were dead.

  "Shit!" Hank said. "Shot down like dogs."

  Darryl couldn't look. He made a beeline for the cars.

  "Find us some wheels and make tracks," Hank said behind him. "Jantz can follow."

  Don't have to tell me twice, Darryl thought.

  It must be on the second floor, Hideo thought. If it is here at all.

  No—no negative thinking. The caller had been correct about the Kakureta Kao, and he would be correct about the katana as well. They simply had to find it. Only a matter of time.

  He stood in the last room at the end of the first-floor hallway with Kenji and Ryo. They had run into no more opposition since Goro's death. Now it was time to move upstairs. Who knew what they would find there?

  He was stepping out into the hall when he caught a flash of movement by the main stairs. Monks or members of the rival cult, he could not say. He stepped back and motioned the yakuza to be still.

  And then he clearly heard someone say in English: "… the sword's still up there, in the hall. Take someone and go get it. Don't worry. Nothing moving up there. The rest of you come with me."

  His heart leaped. Still up there… The katana was almost within his grasp.

  He repressed the urge to lead a charge down the hall. Better to learn how many they were, and how well armed.

  He peeked again and saw a knot of them—some scurrying, some limping, one carrying a woman—cross the hall and disappear through the entrance.

  Take someone and go get it. Don't worry. Nothing moving up there. The rest of you come with me.

  Hideo could take that only one way: Deal with these two remaining members of the rival cult and the katana would be his.

  He stepped out into the hall and motioned the yakuza to follow. They passed a bloody chainsaw lying on the steps, and found the second floor full of smoke. To his left he heard a cough and a hoarse voice.

  "Where is the fucking thing? I can't see shit."

  He pointed the yakuza in the direction of the voice. They disappeared into the smoke. Hideo heard cries of surprise, a number of phuts, cries of pain, more phuts, then silence. When he arrived at the scene he found the yakuza standing over a pair of bodies.

  Now to find the katana. The smoke would make it more difficult, but they had time.

  "He said it was in the hall. Search the floor and—"

  He caught a hint of motion in the flickering light from a nearby doorway. He pointed the yakuza toward it and the three of them approached with caution. The man downstairs had said there was "nothing moving" up here, but he could have been wrong.

  They moved opposite the opening and peered in. Hideo blinked at the sight of a bearded old man holding the katana by its handle and calmly examining the blade. He waved it in the air, then glanced at them. Hideo flinched when he spoke in archaic-sounding Japanese.

  "Despite all it's been through, the balance is still excellent."

  The yakuza had their pistols pointed at him but didn't fire as they might have with anyone else. Hideo understood. Something about this man. Though old, he possessed a powerful-looking frame. But that wasn't it. He had a… presence that seemed to fill the room and pour out into the hallway.

  "Give me the katana," Hideo said, "and you shall live."

  He didn't know why he'd said that. A feeling he had… as if the world would be a poorer, darker place with this man's passing.

  "This? Masamune-san made it for me, but I don't think I want it."

  Wondering what he meant by that absurd statement, Hideo gestured the yakuza into the room and followed.

  "A wise choice. I am a man of my word. If you will hand me the sword, we will take our leave and—"

  Something hard jammed against his left ear and a voice said, "I'd like to have something to say about that."

  The yakuza whirled and reacted with shock. As they aimed their pistols the voice said, "Uh-uh-uh. Hair trigger. One twitch and his brains will Jackson Pollock the wall."

  Hideo knew Kenji's English was good enough for him to understand, but he didn't know about Ryo, so he translated.

  They turned as one and retrained their weapons on the old man who still held the katana poised before him.

  "Looks like we've got a John Woo situation here," the voice said.

  Hideo was almost sure now that it was the ronin. A slight turn of his head confirmed it.

  "Who is John Woo?" the old man said.

  "Never mind."

  But Hideo knew what he meant, and he was wrong. He felt sweat gathering on his brow and under his arms. His knew his life depended on convincing the ronin of the futility of this.


  "This is not the standoff you think it is," he said. "We were sent to return the katana to Japan."

  "By whom?"

  "That is not important. What matters is that we were charged with the task and we will see it through no matter what the cost. If you do not hand over the katana within the next few seconds, they will kill your friend and then—"

  "And then that'll be the end of you."

  "You must understand that they do not care about me. They will kill your friend and you will kill me and they will kill you. So you see, no matter what happens here, the katana will be returned to Japan."

  "Perhaps there's been enough killing, Jack," the old man said.

  Jack… the ronin's name was Jack.

  "Listen to him, Jack. With age comes wisdom."

  The old man said, "Should we give it to him?"

  Jack said, "I kind of promised it to someone else."

  Hideo shuddered. "Then what happens next is on your head."

  The muzzle pressed harder against his ear.

  "And in yours."

  The old man sighed. "You don't leave me much choice. No more killing. I wish I could say the same for bloodshed."

  Hideo was sagging with relief when he saw the blade of the katana flicker—or seem to. And then he heard Kenji and Ryo grunt and drop their guns.

  The shock of wondering why was replaced by the horror of realizing that they were dropping hands along with the guns.

  "Good Christ!" Jack said.

  Kenji and Ryo started screaming then, each gaping at the spurting stump where a hand had been. They dropped to their knees—first Ryo, then Kenji—and knelt there squeezing their wrists to stanch the flow.

  Hideo looked at the old man who was again calmly examining the blade, now slightly smeared with red.

  "Quite an edge. Masamune-san certainly knew his trade."

  Hideo was still trying to comprehend what had happened. He hadn't seen the katana move. Could this old man have struck so swiftly that the blade had seemed only to flicker?

  Hideo slowly slipped his hand inside his coat, edging toward his pistol. But the ronin grabbed his wrist.

  "Don't be stupid now."

  He reached in and pulled Hideo's weapon from its holster.

  "H and K," he said, holding it up. "Nice."

  He dropped it, then stepped away. Hideo turned to face him.

  "What now? Are you going to execute me like you did my brother?"

  The ronin looked puzzled. "What?"

  "You killed my brother."

  "Your James Cagney is lousy. Do you mean Yoshio?"

  Hideo closed his eyes. He did remember.

  "I'm his brother."

  Jack smiled and said, "Despite the fact that he once had a gun pressed against the back of my head, I liked him."

  "Then why did you kill him?"

  "I didn't. A man named Baker did. He's dead."

  "How? You?"

  Jack shook his head. "I sure as hell tried, but someone beat me to it." He stared at Hideo. "So, do you and your brother work for the same organization?"

  Hideo stiffened. "What did he tell you?"

  "Nothing. Just curious. He died trying to unravel a secret, and I knew he wasn't doing it for himself."

  Yoshio had died in the course of duty. His honor was intact.

  Jack said, "Did you happen to come across an eighteen-year-old girl in your travels?"

  "I saw a man carrying a young woman out of the building."

  He looked at the old man. "Dawn."

  Hideo did not care about the girl. To restore honor to his family name he needed what the old man was holding.

  "I must have the katana."

  Jack shook his head. "The owner hired me to find it. He gets first dibs."

  "I could make a case for being the rightful owner," the old man said, still holding the katana. "I'm the gaijin who gave Masamune-san the short sword to refashion into something more graceful."

  "I kind of suspected that," Jack said.

  The old man stared at the blade, then shook his head. "But by the time I returned to pay him and claim it, he was dead and the blade was gone." He shook his head. "Time passes too quickly sometimes."

  Hideo glanced at Jack and saw calm acceptance in his expression. Surely the old man was mad—claiming to be seven hundred years old—but the ronin too?

  Then again, feeling the old one's presence, he might be telling the truth.

  He shook himself. What am I thinking?

  "Well," Jack said, "if you didn't pay for it and never took possession, I can make as good a case for you not being the rightful owner."

  The old man sighed. "I suppose so."

  Hideo looked over at the yakuza. Kenji still knelt, but Ryo lay on his side. Both looked pale and weak and ill. But by applying constant pressure, they had stopped the blood loss from their wrists. They would survive, but they were of no use to him now.

  Hideo did something then that he'd never done in his life: He dropped to his knees and folded his hands in supplication.

  "Please give me the sword. My family honor depends on it."

  Jack's expression hardened. "You and your goons were ready to Swiss-cheese me at Gerrish's place. Instead of gabbing I should be kneecapping you. Shove your family honor, pal."

  He bent and picked up the scabbard, then tossed it to the old man.

  "We need to get back to the city."

  He kicked Kenji's and Ryo's pistols—still gripped in their hands—into the hallway, then did the same with Hideo's.

  Without a word, the old man sheathed the sword and handed it to Jack, then walked out of the room. The ronin followed, leaving Hideo on his knees.

  "Don't do anything stupid."

  Hideo rose on wobbly legs. He had failed Sasaki-san. He could not return without the katana. And he could not stay here.

  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… duc
king… 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.

  9

  "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?"