despite the hour, each standing with stick-up-the-ass rigidity. A despised lieutenant and five brothers Nanashi had never met. Both facts made everything much easier. Not that it would’ve been particularly hard on him in the first place. The Heron Clan had always treated him more as a favored dog than beloved family. His contempt and fear and the pulsing vodka flames helped. The smoldering disdain in the actress’s eyes helped even more.
Kada appraised the situation with the imperious demeanor of a visiting Daimyo, his own sunglasses held between thumb and forefinger, tapping against his thigh. He raised an eyebrow. “I am surprised to see you here, little brother.”
“How many more are outside?” Nanashi said, bowing curtly; a dip that barely satisfied protocol but allowed him to keep his eyes on the Sadist.
“There were a couple of guys in the yard. We took care of them. The Dragons are punks. Has this bitch given you any trouble?”
“No. I meant how many more men do you have?”
The blond hesitated, studying the room more closely. He slipped on his shades. “Just us. I don’t need an army to collect a woman.”
Nanashi raised the gun and shot him in the face.
Who taught you to fight? Muzaki said. He and Nanashi were on a beach in the gray light of dawn. Surf packed the sand and glazed it with pebbles and dead starfish. A frigid breeze blew from the water. Muzaki wore an old, elegant suit. He was whole again. The shine in his eyes seemed too lustrous. The curve of his smile too wide. Who trained you to kill?
Nobody, Nanashi said. In the distance, amid the driftwood and the swirling ebb and flow of the tide lay a dark blot.
--Once it began, Nanashi committed to his art with the dispassion and precision of clockwork machinery. He was all gears turning and springs uncoiling as he half crouched, free hand at midsection level, poised in a claw, gun arm stabbing forward. He swung the revolver, swung his entire body with pendulum smoothness and drilled the pair flanking their fallen leader. Three bullets, three down, but he missed with the fourth, while the fifth only clipped a man’s shoulder and the survivors dove for cover. Two had pistols and the last wielded a sawed-off shotgun--
They don’t teach you to kill in the dojo. Not in modern times.
Nobody taught me.
You burst whole from Jupiter’s aching skull. A prodigy. A shark.
One day I picked up a knife. Later, I picked up a gun. I was also pretty quick to learn to peddle a bike and quite handy with a tit. They kept walking without stretching their legs and the distant blot squirmed and grew.
Muzaki said, I was lost as a young man during a shipwreck, out there. I suppose you know the story. Ring announcers have told it for decades.
--the shotgun gave Nanashi anxiety. He decided to kill that enemy next. The Akita had the same idea. It pounced on the guy, jaws locking onto his abdomen, shaggy body wrenching side to side in a frenzy that went straight back to the days of caves and saber tooth cats. The shotgun boomed and guts unspooled everywhere--dog guts, man guts, a jet of commingled guts, a sluice of seared blood and viscera. The man fired again, screaming in terror and agony, then he stopped screaming and the dog stopped growling. Shotgun guy was the one Nanashi had clipped and now he wondered if the slug had severed something important because the end came too quickly. Oh, but who was he to argue with the gods of death? A pall of smoke rolled over the room and Nazareth kept saying now somebody was messing with a sonofabitch. The house stank of burning hair, of burning blood, of scorched silk.
Crack, crack, crack went the popgun automatics accompanied by tiny spurts of flame from behind a potted plant and an overturned sofa where the yakuza had taken refuge. A bullet kicked loose carpeting near Nanashi’s polished shoe. Another bullet burnt past his ear and pinged through the metal drapery. Nanashi flung the revolver and palmed the stiletto
Kada appraised the situation with the imperious demeanor of a visiting Daimyo, his own sunglasses held between thumb and forefinger, tapping against his thigh. He raised an eyebrow. “I am surprised to see you here, little brother.”
“How many more are outside?” Nanashi said, bowing curtly; a dip that barely satisfied protocol but allowed him to keep his eyes on the Sadist.
“There were a couple of guys in the yard. We took care of them. The Dragons are punks. Has this bitch given you any trouble?”
“No. I meant how many more men do you have?”
The blond hesitated, studying the room more closely. He slipped on his shades. “Just us. I don’t need an army to collect a woman.”
Nanashi raised the gun and shot him in the face.
Who taught you to fight? Muzaki said. He and Nanashi were on a beach in the gray light of dawn. Surf packed the sand and glazed it with pebbles and dead starfish. A frigid breeze blew from the water. Muzaki wore an old, elegant suit. He was whole again. The shine in his eyes seemed too lustrous. The curve of his smile too wide. Who trained you to kill?
Nobody, Nanashi said. In the distance, amid the driftwood and the swirling ebb and flow of the tide lay a dark blot.
--Once it began, Nanashi committed to his art with the dispassion and precision of clockwork machinery. He was all gears turning and springs uncoiling as he half crouched, free hand at midsection level, poised in a claw, gun arm stabbing forward. He swung the revolver, swung his entire body with pendulum smoothness and drilled the pair flanking their fallen leader. Three bullets, three down, but he missed with the fourth, while the fifth only clipped a man’s shoulder and the survivors dove for cover. Two had pistols and the last wielded a sawed-off shotgun--
They don’t teach you to kill in the dojo. Not in modern times.
Nobody taught me.
You burst whole from Jupiter’s aching skull. A prodigy. A shark.
One day I picked up a knife. Later, I picked up a gun. I was also pretty quick to learn to peddle a bike and quite handy with a tit. They kept walking without stretching their legs and the distant blot squirmed and grew.
Muzaki said, I was lost as a young man during a shipwreck, out there. I suppose you know the story. Ring announcers have told it for decades.
--the shotgun gave Nanashi anxiety. He decided to kill that enemy next. The Akita had the same idea. It pounced on the guy, jaws locking onto his abdomen, shaggy body wrenching side to side in a frenzy that went straight back to the days of caves and saber tooth cats. The shotgun boomed and guts unspooled everywhere--dog guts, man guts, a jet of commingled guts, a sluice of seared blood and viscera. The man fired again, screaming in terror and agony, then he stopped screaming and the dog stopped growling. Shotgun guy was the one Nanashi had clipped and now he wondered if the slug had severed something important because the end came too quickly. Oh, but who was he to argue with the gods of death? A pall of smoke rolled over the room and Nazareth kept saying now somebody was messing with a sonofabitch. The house stank of burning hair, of burning blood, of scorched silk.
Crack, crack, crack went the popgun automatics accompanied by tiny spurts of flame from behind a potted plant and an overturned sofa where the yakuza had taken refuge. A bullet kicked loose carpeting near Nanashi’s polished shoe. Another bullet burnt past his ear and pinged through the metal drapery. Nanashi flung the revolver and palmed the stiletto
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