A Bob Lee Swagger eBook Boxed Set: I, Sniper, Night of Thunder, 47th Samurai

by Stephen Hunter

  “Sir, my arm?” he said.

  “Shut up,” said the raider, or perhaps meant to say, but somewhere between the Sh and the ut, Kondo got leverage, hit the man with a left-handed dragon punch out of the most basic aikido text, knocked the man to the snow, then drove a palm into his temple with a thud, not knowing whether he’d killed him or not.

  He felt the man collapse with a groan.

  He snatched up the man’s sword, a good utilitarian cutter, and went to the wall. He was over it in a single bound, lay on the other side, breathing hard, waiting to see if anybody had followed him.

  No.

  He stood, naked but for the robe, and ran barefoot through the snow. He found a nearby house, broke a window, and entered. He raced upstairs to face a scared man and his wife in bed. “You stay there or I’ll kill you. Now, I need some clothes. And a cell phone.”

  Nii got the door open and stepped into the white room. All was dark. To the left he recalled a light switch and, not thinking clearly, popped it. The room leapt to view, all its detail brilliantly exposed—the knotted bed, the television, the painted white window, all of it, white, white, white. But where was the child? A bolt of panic knocked through him, then fear: he could not fail. He ran to the bed, pulling it apart to find nothing, dropped low and looked under it, saw nothing. Then he thought to touch the sheets, found them warm.

  She’s hiding, you fool! he thought.

  He raced to the closet, pulled it open, finding nothing. That left only the bathroom. He ran to it, pulled the door. It was locked from within. That’s where she was!

  “Little Girl, open the door! You will be in big trouble if you don’t open the door! Little Girl, do what I say, damn you.”

  The door was silent and still.

  Outside, the din of fighting rose to a still higher pitch, the grunts, the shouts, the cries of being struck, the thud of strikes. A part of Nii yearned to join the battle. But he had duty.

  “Little Girl! Little Girl, I am getting mad!”

  But the child said nothing.

  “All right,” he said, “you’ll be sorry.”

  With that, he drew back and with his katana began to cut at the door, which, being a cheap and typical modern product, quickly splintered under the assault. He watched it dissolve with three or four great whacks, and when a ragged gap had been cut through it large enough for his shoulder and arm, he reached in, found the lock, and popped it.

  Then he heard someone shout, “Back off, fatso.”

  He turned, furious, and found himself confronted by what appeared to be an actual Mutant Ninja Turtle. Donatello? Or maybe one of the others. Leo? Raph? That is to say, his antagonist was unusually tiny and thin, dressed all in black, and had a single eye protruding from a mask.

  Suddenly the turtle reached up and flicked off its heavy eyepiece and as the thing flew away, it pulled the hair loose and the hair cascaded free, a dark torrent, long and beautiful, and Nii realized he was facing a woman.

  “Bitch!” he screamed at her.

  Susan leapt through the door; her night vision goggles captured exactly what lay before her. To the left were big rooms, and from them rose the racket of battle, a humming, throbbing fusion of grunts that men made involuntarily as they came together and tried to dominate each other. Before her on the right, a short stairway led up to a hallway, while below it, at this level, another stairway led to bedrooms and the like.

  Down which hall? Certainly the top one; they wouldn’t put a prisoner, even a small child, at ground level. Up she went in one bound, Swagger just behind her. They were met at the top by three men, but they weren’t combatants. They were fleeing in panic, so Susan and her companion stepped aside as the three—cooks possibly, or accountants, hard to tell as they were in pajamas—raced outside to be secured by raiders.

  But suddenly two men came at them from the left, and they were yakuza. Beside her, Swagger leapt forward, evading a cut, and clocked one with his elbow hard, sending that boy to the floor in a heap, and was then so close he had no room for swordplay and instead grappled, rolling against a wall, kneeing his opponent, slamming him several times hard against the wall.

  “Go, go,” he shouted.

  Susan peeled off from the struggle, kicked in the first door, found the room behind it empty, sped down the hall to another, kicked it, another empty one, then heard screams and shouts from ahead.

  She raced to a room whose door was already open and from which bright light flowed like water. She ducked in and beheld a strange sight, amplified by the night vision goggles, though it was completely illuminated already. A large man was brutally cutting a closet or a bathroom door to ribbons in a frenzy, his blade splintering the thin wood. He was screaming, “Little Girl, come out. Little Girl, you must obey me or I will hurt you. Little Girl, you must cooperate or I will be very, very angry.”

  Susan stepped in.

  “Back off, fatso,” she commanded.

  He turned to her, his face bunched into a sweaty rage.

  He was large and green.

  Then she realized she was still wearing her night vision goggles, and she tore them off, feeling a slight snare of pain as one of the straps caught in her hair.

  Her womanhood seemed to enrage him even more.

  “Bitch,” he screamed.

  “Cow,” she replied.

  Swagger found himself in a room with six men, evidently some kind of security guard for the upper floors. He flailed about, driving them back. Now they faced each other, one on six, in the relatively close confines of the small room.

  Oh, shit, he thought, wondering if he had a chance against six.

  Without willing it, he went into full aggression mode, going quickly to jodan-kamae, right side, and stepped forward, ready to issue from on high, feeling that pure force was the only solution to this tactical problem.

  It was, but not in the way he imagined.

  His war posture, the ferocity of his fighting spirit—“The moon in the cold stream like a mirror”—and his eagerness to cut people down immediately melted the will of his opponents. Six katana dropped quickly to the floor, and the men fell to their knees, wishing to offend him with their lives no more.

  This was fine, it was even an ideal outcome, for at this point killing seemed pointless, but it left him with the problem of administering to six prisoners. He ran to them, reaching in his pocket for the yellow plastic zipcuffs and discovered—shit!—only four.

  He worked around behind them until he ran out of zips. It was two-handed work and he had to wedge the Muramasa katana between his arm and body.

  With each man, he shouted, “Kondo Isami?”

  Each man looked at him with fear redoubled in his eyes and his face yet paler by degrees. If they knew Kondo, it was only by reputation.

  Ach! The assault clock continued to grind on, the seconds falling away, as Bob struggled with these boys, of no consequence but still men who couldn’t simply be released. At any moment they could have turned on him, the six on one, and knocked him down and killed him. But there was no fight at all left in them, and after still more time, he had them all neutralized, four in the restraints, two tied in their own obis, not that such binding would hold but it was symbolic of surrender.

  He pushed the first one out, pointed down the hall, and marched the small parade to the stairway, from which the front door was visible. Possibly, outside, the fighting had died down, as the din wasn’t so loud. He pointed again, watched them file out to their fates.

  Suddenly he heard screams, male and female, signifying the coming together of two warriors at death-speed.

  One voice was Susan’s.

  Outside, suddenly, it was over.

  The blades stilled, the grunts died, the spurts of harsh breath rising like steam, all finished. Only the snow continued its drift downward, settling in increasingly delicate piles on the brick courtyard.

  Everywhere Fujikawa looked, the men had ceased to be opposed by the enemy. Some of the enemy were down with
red smears across them or lay still in large puddles, where blood and snow had fused to slush. More, however, were on the ground, either tied or obligingly raising hands to be tied.

  “Secure them,” he yelled pointlessly, for that process was already happening.

  “Snipers?”

  The snipers were still perched on the walls, hunting for armed targets in the house.

  The calls came quickly.

  “Sniper one, clear.”

  “Sniper two, I have nothing.”

  “Sniper three, all quiet.”

  “Sniper four, no targets.”

  “Secure the compound,” the major yelled, again more ceremoniously than to real effect, for his well-schooled men had already begun to spread out and hunt for the hidden, the missing, the escaped.

  He watched as Tanada came around toward him.

  “Secure, Major,” said Tanada.

  “Yeah, here too. Sergeant Major Kanda?”

  The sergeant major, who’d had a fine old time laying about with a bo—a four-foot-long stout fighting stick—stood up from securing the yaks he’d clobbered solidly.

  “Yes sir?”

  “Get a head count.”

  “Yes sir.”

  The sergeant major ran off to consult with various squad leaders.

  “I can’t believe it went so fast,” said Tanada.

  Major Fujikawa looked at his watch. It had taken seven minutes.

  “Any sign of Miwa or the child?”

  “Swagger-san and the American woman are inside.”

  “Get them some help, fast.”

  “Yes sir.”

  His rage flared: kill, smash, crush. All his anger turned chemical, the chemicals went to his muscles, which inflated with strength and resolve.

  He would cut her in two. He would destroy her.

  He ran at her and she at him. His sword was high, and he meant to unleash hidari kesagiri, diagonal cut, left to right, exactly as all those nights ago he’d seen his oyabun perform it on the Korean whore, and he visualized it more clearly now: the progress of blade through body, the stunned look upon the face, the slow slide as the parts separated.

  Agh! He let fly and felt the blow form itself perfectly and issue from above with superb speed and violence as driven forward by the grunt, which propelled oceans of air from his lungs.

  She was quick, the little bitch, and he missed her by a hair as she slid by.

  But he recovered in a split second. Improvising brilliantly, he snapped his left hip outward and felt it smash into the running woman, who was so light that its momentum flung her through the air. She struck the wall with a satisfying crash. She must have hit it midspine, for her arms flew out spasmodically, the sword in her hand flipped away, her face went dull with momentary shock, as she began to slide down the wall toward unconsciousness.

  Now, the end.

  Tsuki, thrust. He—

  “No!”

  It was English. He halted.

  “Daddy’s home.”

  He turned.

  It was the gaijin.

  It was the source of his humiliation; he had a rare chance to erase a failure. His warrior heart swelled with pleasure.

  “Death to the gaijin,” he said, “then the child, then this whore.”

  “The reason you are fat,” the gaijin said, “is that you are full of shit.”

  Nii rushed the man, sword high, issuing from on high, and cut a large slice in the universe, though alas the gaijin wasn’t in it.

  He spun, went to a cocked position, and thrust forward at the man.

  With both hands, he drove the sword forward to impale his opponent’s opened body and nothing halted him as he plunged onward and onward, waiting for the resistance, when at last the sword’s point passed through the flesh. The point and the blade it led must have been very sharp for the flesh didn’t fight it a bit, he just kept on going.

  Then he noticed he had no sword.

  The second thing he noticed was that the reason he had no sword was that he had no hands. The gaijin had cut them at the wrist, both, neatly and nearly painlessly, going into what Yagyu called “crosswind,” specifically designed against kesagiri, and culminating in the direction “cut through his two hands.” The gaijin had been the faster.

  The blood did not fizz and spray. Instead, far still from coagulation, it squirted out in pitiful little spurts, each driven by a beat of his heart. He looked at them and wished he had a death poem.

  He turned to smile bravely, and then the world cranked radically to the right and went to blur and he had a sense of falling but no sense of body. Then his eight seconds ran out.

  Bob stepped back from the carnage he had wreaked.

  The fat one’s body lay in the bed, where it had emptied a great red tidal wave across sheets and blanket. The head had bounced and rolled somewhere else.

  Then he picked up Susan, who moaned as she came to.

  “Oh, Christ,” she said.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “Where’s the child?”

  “The bathroom.”

  Bob turned, went to the bathroom, reached in the gap, found the lock, unlocked it, and entered.

  “Honey? Honey, are you here? Sweetie, where are you?”

  “Tin Man, Tin Man,” cried the girl in broken English.

  “Here I am, sweetie.”

  He ran to Miko, who crouched in the bathtub, and picked her up and squeezed her hard, feeling the tiny heart beat against him.

  “Will the Giant Monster hurt me?”

  Swagger spoke no Japanese. He just said, “It’s all right. They’re all gone.”

  “Oh, Tin Man.”

  “Now listen, sweetie. I’m going to take you out of here, all right? Everything is going to be just fine.”

  The child spoke in Japanese, but then Susan was there.

  “Don’t let her see anything,” Susan said.

  “I won’t.”

  Susan spoke in Japanese. “You have to make us a promise.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I will carry you. But I want you to close your eyes very tight and press your face against my chest until I tell you it’s okay. It’ll just be a minute or so. Can you do that for me? Then we’ll get some ice cream. I don’t know where, but we’ll get some ice cream.”

  “Yes, Auntie. Will the Tin Man come?”

  “Yes, he will,” she said in Japanese, and to Bob said, “She thinks you’re the Tin Man.”

  She picked the child up and turned.

  “All closed now?”

  “Yes, Auntie.”

  Okada-san stepped from the bathroom and immediately saw two of her snipers, carrying their M-4s at the ready, standing there to escort her to the car, and then to wherever.

  “You did good, Cheerleader,” said Swagger.

  “So did you, Redneck,” she said, and carried the child out. Miko obediently kept her eyes shut and never realized that the room was no longer white.

  44

  EDO JUSTICE

  He reached the compound just as the buses that would take the raiders out of the area pulled in. He walked to Fujikawa.

  “What are your losses, Major?”

  “We got out clean. A few bad cuts, now stitched. A few concussions, sprains, a lot of bruises, that sort of thing. The worst was a trooper knocked unconscious by a cook, who escaped.”

  Swagger knew who that would be.

  “How many kills?”

  “Fifteen. Lots of wounded, though. Our people are stitching up the badly hurt yaks and getting plasma into them. They’re pretty goddamned lucky. Another yak crew would have let ’em die.”

  “Sixteen. I had to take a fat one down. Anyhow, it looks like you’ll be out of here before light.”

  “We have a last job.”

  He turned and gestured. Bob saw Yuichi Miwa, shivering in a kimono-bathrobe that exposed his scrawny old man’s chest, kneeling in the snow. Nobody was touching him or abusing him, but his face was down and grave.

  “Po
ssibly you don’t want to see this,” said the major.

  “I’ve already seen it.”

  “This is the old way.”

  “It’s the right way.”

  “The men think so. We voted. It was unanimous.”

  He nodded to Sergeant Major Kanda, who approached with what Bob recognized immediately: a red silk sword bag, neatly tied. Quickly, Major Fujikawa untied it, removed a blade in shirasawa that Bob knew intimately, as it was the blade his father recovered on Iwo Jima.

  Major Fujikawa approached the kneeling man.

  He spoke in Japanese, but Captain Tanada whispered the translation in Bob’s ear.

  “Miwa Yuichi, this is the sword Asano retainer Oishi used in the fifteenth year of Genroku to behead Kira, who had betrayed his lord. It’s the blade that was presented to Philip Yano by this American, and had become ancestral to the Yanos by reason of Major Hideki Yano’s last battle with it on Iwo Jima. It is the blade you murdered Philip Yano and his family to obtain, for reasons of career and ambition, you who have so much, who wanted so much more. I, Fujikawa Albert, of the First Airborne Brigade of the Japanese Self-Defense Force and former executive officer of Philip Yano, claim a retainer’s right by ancient tradition to avenge the death of my lord. I do offer you a choice. If you wish, you may use the sword to end your own life, and thereby, in samurai eyes, regain your good name and honor. If not, I shall execute you like a common criminal.”

  Miwa’s chest puffed importantly.

  “Do what you will. Just know you are killing a man of vision. I will say that the deaths of Yano-san and family were necessary. I fight to keep Japan whole and pure. I stand for the old Japan. I fight the foreigners, and Yano-san, as is well known, had sided with the foreigners. Now, you kill me. That is your way; I would not talk you out of petty vengeance that only attests to your smallness as men. But when I die, a part of Japan dies. Let it be said, I gave you my neck, and in nights far distant, many will regret what you have done and who you have killed.”

  The snow fell, drifting this way and that, covering all, cloaking all sound. The moment was silent. Even the prisoners, secured on the ground, watched with respect, acknowledging the ultimate meaning of the moment. The old man leaned forward, stretching his thin neck for not merely the ease of the executioner but also for his own ease, and the major set himself. He offered his blade for cleansing; a bottle of Fuji was emptied upon it, consecrating it. Then the major stepped into a fluid shinchokugiri, the straight vertical, and the polished blade sang in the cold air. The separation was almost bloodless. The head fell with the thud of a book hitting the floor. Then the body pitched forward, twitched, and went still. A red flow began to print odd patterns onto the snow.