"It just occurred to me, Darryl—what are you doing here?"
"Keeping watch."
"You had any sleep since your shift?"
"No, I—"
"You're supposed to be resting up for your next shift."
"But—"
Hank raised a hand. "I appreciate the heads-up you've just given us, but you're gonna be no damn good on your own shift if you don't get some shut-eye."
"But she got by these guys."
"She got by you too—on her way out. And she'll get by you again if you're not sharp." His expression turned stern. "Now get off the street and get some rack time. We know what she looks like now, so she won't give us the slip again. But if I see you around here during your off hours, I'm cutting you from the surveillance detail."
Darryl waved his hands. "Okay, okay. Just trying to help you out."
Hank gave him a thin smile. "We both know who you're helping, but that's okay. I'd be the same in your place. Now get out of here."
Darryl did just that. But he didn't like it.
"May I see it now?"
Jack looked down at the trembling fingers of Naka Slater's outstretched hands… and hesitated.
Again that strange urge to keep it for himself.
Setting his jaw he pushed the rolled rug into Naka's hands and felt a pang of loss tinged with relief to be rid of it.
"All yours."
Naka took it and dropped into a crouch with the bundle across his thighs. His hands shook as he unrolled the rug. He gasped when he saw the sword.
"It's true! You have found it!" He caressed the hilt. "And I see someone has added a tsuka and a tsuba." He looked up at Jack. "You?"
Jack gathered he meant O'Day's handiwork. He shook his head.
"That was done by the previous owner. Now—"
"Perfect!" Naka said, gripping the handle as he rose. He dragged the fingertips of his free hand across the filigree of holes. "It is just as they said it would be."
"They?"
An alarm bell rang in Jack's brain. Naka was acting like this was the first time he'd ever seen the katana.
The guy didn't answer. Instead, he gripped the handle with his second hand and swung the sword in a vicious arc.
Jack was already backing away, already reaching for his replacement Glock. Now he leaped away, but the tip of the blade caught his left deltoid. He knew he'd been cut—felt the edge part skin and muscle—but felt no pain.
When he looked up Naka was already into another swipe. Jack raised the Glock as he fell backward. No time to aim so he pointed the barrel in Naka's general vicinity and pulled the trigger. The shot caught the bastard in his outer thigh.
As Jack landed on his back he saw Naka spin and lurch away toward the street. He raised the pistol for another shot but decided against it. This was hardly an ideal shooting stance, and if he missed just as a car was passing…
What was this? Try-to-kill-Jack-with-the-Gaijin-Katana Day?
He rolled to his feet—and now he felt the pain. His left deltoid felt as if it had been sliced open. He looked. Yeah, it had. Only now he was feeling it.
God damn, that hurt.
And then from the street he heard a horn blare and tires screech, and a heavy thump—like a body against sheet metal.
Damnedest thing Darryl had ever seen.
Tired as he was, he hadn't been able to sleep. So he'd gone out wandering the city, hoping he'd eventually need to crash, but that hadn't happened. Somehow he'd wound up in the West Eighties outside this bar he'd never heard of. Why this particular bar, he didn't know. Almost as if he was on a string and the place had reeled him here.
So there he was, checking it out as maybe a good place to grab a brew and trying to figure out those dead plants in the window. He was just reaching for the door when he heard this loud bang! Darryl had done some hunting in his day and knew a gunshot when he heard one. And he'd just heard one.
And then this chinky guy comes stumble-running out of the alley next to the bar, crosses the sidewalk, and keeps on going between two parked cars right smack into the path of a delivery truck. The driver tried to stop, but he was clipping pretty good, so no way. Even if he'd been going slower—no way. The chink tried to stop but, again, no way.
Ba-boom!
As the chink went flying, his arms flapping at crazy angles, something flew out of his hand—long, metallic, propellering through the air. It landed point first with a shoonk! on the hood of a nearby Volvo wagon. No, not on the hood—through the hood and into the engine compartment.
Darryl took a few steps to check it out.
Be damned. A sword. And obviously a sharp one. What kind of blade can cut through a steel car hood like it was paper? One of those Jap swords like in the samurai movies, only this one—
"Fuck me!"
This one's blade was all crudded up with little holes, just like the drawing Hank had shown him.
… if anyone sees it, bring it to me… I want it.
He glanced around. All eyes were on the scene of the accident, and the folks who weren't just standing and gawking were rushing to help.
Great.
Just as he yanked it from the hood he saw a guy step out of the alley and check out the accident. He was holding his left shoulder and something dark was seeping between his fingers. Had he taken the bullet? And was he looking for the sword?
Keeping a tight grip on the handle, Darryl did a quick turn, positioning the blade along the length of his body to shield it from the guy. Then he began quick-walking east toward the park, unbuttoning his outer shirt and pulling it around the sword. It didn't hide it completely, but at least he didn't look like some nutcase ready to start chopping up pedestrians.
He'd duck into the park, wrap it in his shirt, then hightail it downtown to show the boss man what he'd found.
What was going on with his luck? Maybe not luck. Almost seemed like something was guiding him.