By the Sword

by F. Paul Wilson

  Menck turned from the window and headed for the door. “You get Hank while I get out.”

  Darryl grabbed his arm. “Hey. We’re Kickers, man. We stick together. I’m gonna go find Hank. You want to face him later after you ran out on him, fine. Not me.”

  Menck looked at the ceiling, then said, “Fuck. All right. Let’s find him.”

  Darryl peeked out the door. Nothing moving. The main staircase was only a few dozen feet down and across the hall.

  But the hall was the last place Darryl wanted to be. He wanted to stay in this tiny room till morning, till he and Menck were the only ones left in the building, then sneak away.

  But Hank was the man, the boss, the primo Kicker. Darryl had to find him.

  “Okay. Let’s go!”

  Repressing a whimper of terror, he hurried across the hall in a crouch and into the recess of the stairway.

  Made it.

  With Menck close behind he ran up the first flight but stopped at the bottom of the second. A couple of guys lay sprawled on the stairs. Dead?

  Then one of them said, “Darryl? That you?”

  A Kicker. He hurried up to them. He didn’t know their names, but knew they were hurt.

  “Where’s Hank?”

  The guy jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Still looking.”

  Hank alive. Okay. Now to find him.

  “How is it up there?”

  “I think we got the floor to ourselves now. How’s it downstairs?”

  Don’t ask, Darryl thought, but said, “Quiet. Hey, I’m gonna find Hank. You guys sit tight.”

  “Like we have a choice?”

  He motioned Menck to follow him. They found dead Kickers at the top of the steps and dead monks in the smoky hall, but no sign of Hank. He coughed and looked around. Smoke was pouring from one of the doors down the hall.

  “Hank?” he said softly. A little louder: “Hank?”

  Someone stepped out of a door near the other end of the hall and waved them forward. By the time they got there, Hank and half a dozen other Kickers, including Jantz and his chainsaw—his very bloody chainsaw—were gathered outside the door, waiting.

  “What’s burning?” Hank was saying, waving at the smoke as they came up. He smiled at Darryl and Menck. “Hey, guys. We pretty much own the floor, but we need reinforcements.”

  Menck shook his head. “We’re it, I’m afraid.”

  Hank’s eyes widened. “What? What happened?”

  Darryl gave him a quick rundown about the killer monks and the arrows and the hit men.

  “Silencers?” Hank said.

  “Yeah.” Darryl looked around. “Where’re the others?”

  Hank looked at him. “Crazy fucking monks.” He shook his head. “Shit.”

  “My sentiments exactly,” Menck said. “This whole night has turned to shit. Let’s get out of here.”

  Hank shook his head. “Only two more rooms to search. She’s got to be in one of them.”

  He started across the hall with everyone following him. He kicked open a door, then stepped back.

  “Finally!” he said.

  Darryl looked over his shoulder and saw Dawn lying on the floor. Four candles burned around her, and on the floor before her lay a Japanese sword. Darryl couldn’t tell if it was the sword because it was sheathed in a curved scabbard.

  Hank checked behind the door through the hinge space before stepping in. He went straight to the sword and half pulled it from its scabbard. Darryl saw the moth-eaten metal and knew they’d found it.

  “Bingo,” Hank said.

  He slammed it back into the scabbard and tossed it to Menck. He knelt next to Dawn and scooped her up in his arms, then hoisted her over his shoulder where she hung like a rag doll. When he turned to them, his face was grim.

  “They better not have hurt this baby.”

  Or what? Darryl thought. They’re all dead.

  But he said nothing.

  “We’re going home,” Hank said when he reached the hall—which was smokier than ever.

  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 kat
ana 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.r />
  “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.