But the Order did not yet possess it.

    Controlling his voice, Toru said, "You have done well, but two tasks remain: Take possession of the katana, and see that no one can connect you or the Order to it."

    "Yes, sensei."

    Toru studied the younger man through the eyeholes of his silk mask.

    "You have been trained in the fighting arts, and you are so proficient that you have trained others. But you have never used them for anything like this. Are you capable of killing?" He raised a hand as Tadasu opened his mouth. "Think well on this. It is crucial. If you are not sure, I will send someone along to see it is done."

    His dark eyes flashed. "I will need no help, sensei. I can do this."

    Toru studied his determined expression for a few heartbeats, then nodded.

    "I believe that you can and that you will."

    He bowed. "It will be an honor to so serve the Order."

    Darryl checked his watch—4:40. Man, he was tired. Had to give it up and catch some Z's. Needed to be rested for the red-eye shift at midnight.

    Okay. Give it another twenty and quit at five, grab a couple of brews and hit the hay.

    He watched a cab pull up, saw the door open and a gal get out. Seemed the right age, short brown hair, shades. He was about to write her off when he took another look. Something familiar about those shades. Just like the ones Dawn had been wearing—he knew 'cause he'd got a couple of close looks when he'd seen her in that Arab getup. He took a closer look at her face and—

    Fuck me! It's her!

    He watched in shock as she kept her head down and hurried inside. He shook it off and checked the cab as it passed, memorizing its number. Then he hurried over to the van. He was going to give the guys inside a bit of pure hell. And then who did he see standing there, leaning in the window, but Hank himself.

    Perfect.

    Hank smiled at him as he came up to the van.

    "Hey, Darryl. What's—?"

    "She got out!" He pointed to the guys in the van. "She got past them! Me too!"

    Hank's smile vanished. "What are you talking about?"

    "I just saw her get out of a cab and go inside."

    "Bullshit!" said one of the guys in the van—Darryl didn't know his name. "We been watching like hawks."

    "Yeah? Well, your hawks need glasses because I just saw her. Lucky for us she was going back in. But that means she was out, 'cause you can't go in 'less you been out."

    "You're crazy!" said another one of the van guys.

    "Whoa! Whoa!" Hank said. He was staring at Darryl. "You're sure?"

    "Sure, I'm sure. You were right about her changing her hair color, Hank. But she cut it too. It's short now—kinda spiky and dykey, if you know what I'm saying."

    Hank looked worried. In fact his face had gone dead white. "How'd she look?"

    "I just told you."

    "No, I mean her health. Did she look well?"

    What was he getting at?

    "How so?"

    "I mean, did she look like she'd just had surgery or something?"

    "No. She was moving pretty good."

    He looked relieved. "Okay. But where could she have gone?"

    "I've got the cab number, if that's of any use."

    Hank laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "Darryl, my man, you're invaluable!"

    Darryl felt a warm glow envelop him. Hank Thompson thought he was invaluable. How great was that?

    He shrugged. "Just trying to help the evolution."

    "Well, you're doing a great job." He pulled a small notepad from one pocket and a ballpoint from another. "Here. Write it down. I'll have Menck grease the driver's palm with a few bucks and we'll know where she came from."

    Darryl wondered why that was so important and what Hank was worried about, and then it hit: the baby. Was he worried she'd gone out and had an abortion?

    Darryl was about to ask just that when he realized Hank was staring at him again.

    "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.