By the Sword

by F. Paul Wilson

  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…ducking…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?”

  “The guy who called and told us where we could find the sword.”

  “Yeah, but who is he?”

  “One of those Enemies you talk about?”

  The Enemy…out to destroy the Plan. But they’d be after Dawn, and the last thing they’d want to tell him would be where to find her.

  “No, not them.” He shook his head. “I don’t understand any of this. What did those sicko monks want with Dawn? And those hit men. Who were they sent to hit? Us or the monks?”

  “I think they were looking for the sword.”

  “The hit men? Why the hell—?”

  Darryl shrugged. “Don’t know. But didn’t you tell me that sword’s called a katana.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, while I was hiding, I heard one of the hit men say it twice. Didn’t understand anything else in their jibber-jabber, but I know I heard that word.”

  “They must have been the ones behind those flyers.”

  “Maybe. Still, three bunches of folks all after the same thing winding up in the same place at the same time…if that don’t smack of a set-up, I don’t know what does.”

  Darryl might not be the brightest bulb in the box, but Hank had to admit he had something there.

  “Whatever, the important thing is the Kickers came away with Dawn and the sword.”

  “Hope so. Hope we didn’t lose Menck and the others for just half the prize.”

  Hank’s neck tightened. “What do you mean, ‘half’?”

  Darryl looked in the rearview. “Well, I ain’t seen no sign of Jantz.”

  “We had too much of a lead, that’s all.”

  “Hope so.”

  So did Hank.

  10

  Hank eased Dawn onto the bed and pulled a sheet up to her neck.

  He figured the basement was still the best place for her, so he’d called ahead to have a bed moved in from upstairs.

  He stared down at her and shook his head, thinking, You’ve been one hell of a lot of trouble, girl. Thirty-some guys just died for you. Hope to hell you’re worth it.

  “What do we do now?” Darryl said.

  Hank turned and saw him standing there with Ansari.

  Good old Darryl. He’d hung in there. He’d always seemed like a loser, but the guy had guts.

  “We heal our wounds and go on like before. One thing we won’t have to worry about is those crazy Jap monks.”

  “But what about the hit men?” Darryl said.

  Good question. Hank didn’t have an answer, but figured he should look like he did.

  “They come here, they’ll be on our turf, and we’ll know how to deal with them.” He frowned. “Where’s Jantz? He should be here by now.” He pointed to Ansari. “Go upstairs and check. If he’s here, have him bring me the sword.”

  As the door closed behind Ansari, Hank jumped at the sound of a strange voice.

  “I don’t think you’ll be seeing the katana again.”

  Hank whirled and found himself face-to-face with a stranger.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  The guy looked young, slim, maybe five ten, with Latino-ish skin. He was working on a mustache. Reminded Hank of Prince, but not so foppish or faggy. He wore a long-sleeve black shirt and black pants. Seemed like a guy going for either the Latin lover or the Zorro look.

  And then suddenly his face changed. It didn’t rearrange itself, just…changed. Almost like a shift in the lighting. But his eyes…whatever they’d been hiding behind was gone and now they were bared for all to see.

  Hank had seen eyes like those in his dreams, black holes spiraling down into a place where light was a legend, a myth.

  “For now, you may call me Rafe.”

  “Well, listen, Rafe. You’ve got no business here.”

  “Yes,
I do. I’m taking the girl.”

  “The fuck you are!” Darryl said.

  Hank watched him start to pull the .38 he’d lent him from his pocket, but it never made it out.

  “What the—?” he said.

  He seemed to be frozen. Hank reached to grab the gun but couldn’t move anything but his head.

  What’s going on?

  “You…” Darryl said, looking at Rafe. “You were out back of that building tonight. You’re the one I saw.”

  The man nodded. “I must thank you and your followers for a most gratifying and satisfying evening. The slaughter was quite tasty.”

  What was he talking about?

  Hank found his voice. “What do you know about the sword? Do you have it?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know who ended up with it. Most likely the corporate hireling from Japan. But no matter, now that I know it exists, I can find it whenever I need it. I would have stayed around until the finish but I was forced to follow you to keep an eye on Dawn.”

  “Are you one of the Enemy?”

  He laughed—a chilling sound. “You mean as in Enemy with a capital ‘E’? How typical of Jonah.”

  Jonah?

  “You’ve heard of my father?”

  “Heard of Jonah Stevens? I knew him. I knew him well. Too well.”

  “You’re not old enough.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Are you or are you not one of the Enemy?”

  He smiled a smile women probably would find sexy. “There’s no easy answer to that. No, I’m not the Enemy he was referring to—for that enemy is my enemy as well—but I certainly was not his ally.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “What makes you think you should? By the way, I was with him when he died.”

  “How? How did he die? The Enemy?”

  Was that why his father had stopped coming around? Hank had guessed that but never known for sure. He’d paid regular visits as Hank was growing up, telling him about the Plan, about his destiny, and then when Hank was around seven he stopped coming around altogether. The question of why had plagued him ever since.

  “Jonah was crushed in an elevator shaft. A slow, painful death. Took him hours to die.”

  “You were there? Didn’t you help him?”

  The man raised his eyebrows. “Help? Why would I do that? I’m the one who put him in there. I stayed to sup.”

  Hank let out a roar of rage and struggled to break free of whatever was holding him back, but couldn’t budge a muscle. What kind of power did this bastard have? Had he hypnotized them into thinking they couldn’t move? Had he drugged them?

  “What’s he talking about, Hank?” Darryl said.

  “Just shut up for a minute, okay?” He turned to Rafe or whoever he was. “Why? Why’d you kill him? What he ever do to you?”

  “He forgot his place. He began to think he could supplant me.”

  “‘Supplant’ you? Why would he want to do that? I mean, who the fuck are you?”

  “I am the One. Jonah forgot that. He conspired against me. You were part of that conspiracy.” He pointed to Dawn. “As was she, but most especially the child she carries. That was the ultimate goal—to concentrate his bloodline in a child he could use to replace me.” He smiled as he shook his head. “It never would have worked, but the very fact that he was thinking along those lines made him an unfit guardian. He was supposed to be my protector, but instead he plotted against me. I could not allow that.”

  An awful thought plowed into Hank like a runaway train.

  “You’re not going to hurt the baby, are you?”

  The man shook his head as he stared down at Dawn. “No. I sensed the child’s existence upon its conception, and I must say my first impulse was to eradicate it. But as I became aware of other things, I decided the child might prove useful.”

  Hank’s panic throttled down to cold unease. “Useful how?”

  “I can foresee a circumstance where the child might indeed act as the Key to the Future, though not quite in the way your father intended.”

  The Key to the Future…

  “You know about that? You were listening?”

  Another laugh, colder than the first. “You mean did I eavesdrop on his paternal maunderings? I didn’t have to. He told me. He told me everything before he died. Everything.”

  Hank wanted to rip his throat out but still couldn’t budge.

  The man added, “I also see that I might have use for you and your followers in the near future.”

  “In your dreams, asshole.”

  “Don’t be too hasty. Our ends coincide. I might prove as useful to you as you to me.”

  “Like how?”

  “Dissimilation…I believe that’s what you call it, correct?”

  Hank nodded, though he didn’t like his words thrown back at him. “Yeah. What about it?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to see everyone on the planet dissimilated—every man, woman, and child an island?”

  “That’s the idea,” he said slowly. “Break from the crowd.”

  Where was this going?

  “That works into my plans as well. I may be able to assist you toward that end. But not tonight.”

  Hank felt his gut twist as he watched the man step over to the bed and lift Dawn into his arms as if she weighed nothing.

  “Where are you taking her?”

  “Someplace safe—safer than here. A place she will not escape from again.”

  That shocked Hank. “She’s been with you? And she got away?”

  “An unfortunate lapse by one of my employees. It will not happen again.” He looked up, as if watching the sky through all the floors and ceilings overhead. “I suggest that if you want to be present for any future mass dissimilation, you leave the city at once. An ill wind is about to blow.”

  “Wind?”

  He smiled. “An ill wind that blows nobody good—except me. You’d best leave now.”

  Hank had no idea what this loon was talking about, so he shook his head. “No way.”

  Like he was letting this wimpy-looking dude or anyone else—no matter what his eyes looked like—tell him to get out of town.

  “As you wish.”

  And then the man carried Dawn out the door and up the steps to the first floor. Hank waited to hear some sort of commotion from above but all stayed quiet. Was everyone else in the building frozen too?

  Suddenly he was stumbling forward, able to move again. Free. He grabbed the .38 from Darryl’s hand and ran up to the first floor where he found the foyer deserted.

  “Hey, boss.”

  Hank started and turned to see Ansari strolling in. “Where the hell is everybody?”

  “Stayer thought he heard something on the roof so we went up. We found out how they got in: Scaled down ropes from next door. We never thought to keep watch on the roof.”

  “We will now.”

  “Damn right. Stayer’s up there doing the first shift. We’ll rotate till we can find a way to alarm that door.”

  Hank looked around. “You see anyone come through here who didn’t belong?”

  “Like who?”

  “Never mind.”

  The guy had slipped out with Dawn. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. He’d told them he’d take good care of her. He seemed as interested in the baby as Hank.

  I can foresee a circumstance where the child might indeed act as the Key to the Future, though not quite in the way your father intended.

  Hank wasn’t sure what that meant, but it sounded good. And the guy had been holding all the high cards when he’d said it, so no need to lie.

  Hank couldn’t help feeling an odd sense of relief. Keeping Dawn and her baby locked away and healthy had looked to be an almost impossible task. Now it was out of his hands.

  But once the baby was born—he and Jeremy had figured that would be next January—he’d go looking. His dreams had led him to Dawn, so he was sure they’d lead him to the baby. He didn’t want
to go one-on-one with that weird dude, but with a bunch of Kickers behind him…different story.

  He looked at Ansari. “Jantz ever show up?”

  He shook his head. “No sign of him, no call, no nothin.”

  Not good. He should have been here by now…unless he ran into the hit men.

  Oh well, his dreams had also led him to the sword…or rather the sword to him. It would happen again.

  The weird guy’s parting words came back to him: I suggest that if you want to be present for any future mass dissimilation, you leave the city at once.

  Get out of Dodge? Fat chance. This was Hank’s town now.

  11

  Shiro unfolded himself from the tiny space between three large potted trees.

  He’d stumbled as he’d swung onto the roof. Someone below must have heard because in less than a minute four Kickers arrived. They did a quick, cursory search and then spent the rest of the time looking at the ropes Shiro and his now dead brothers had left dangling from the neighboring rooftop.

  Finally three of them returned below, leaving the fourth as guard. He immediately set a chair by the door and lit up a cigarette. Shiro watched from his hiding place, waiting for his chance. From the way he was drawing and holding the smoke, Shiro suspected it was cannabis.

  Good. It would slow his response time, dull his senses, give him a false sense of well-being.

  After a while the sentry’s head drooped—just what Shiro had been waiting for. He padded up behind him, wrapped an arm around his head and dragged his tanto across his throat—just as he had done with the Kicker carrying the katana back at the temple.

  Leaving the gushing, twitching body in the chair, Shiro walked to the center of the roof and sat. He pulled the vial of ekisu from his pocket and removed the stopper. He raised it toward his mouth but stopped midway.

  He was afraid…afraid of what it would do to him…afraid of seeing the Hidden Face before he was ready.

  And yet, what had he to live for? His brother acolytes and the elder monks were dead, his sensei butchered, the sacred Kuroikaze scrolls turned to ash.