Page 38 of Assassin Anonymous

So I gamble a little. It’s a hell of a gamble because he’s positioned himself so that even if I get the shot off, the drag and weight of his body will take the katana clean across my carotid artery, which I suspect will give like wet tissue paper.

“Watashi…wa karera…to issho ni imasen?” I respond.

I’m not with them.

I hope that’s what I say. My Japanese isn’t great.

“American,” he says.

“I’m here for Sakai.”

The man pauses and I wonder if this is the moment. I tense my finger on the trigger a little—not so much as to alarm him, but enough maybe it’ll give me an edge. If I step back and…

The sword comes off my throat. He’s still holding it up, but it’s lower now. I bring my gun down in response.

“I am also here for Sakai,” he says.

“I don’t know if that makes this a lot more complicated, or a whole lot easier.”

The man looks around the roof, making sure we’re still alone. I’ve been listening for the telltale sounds of cars and voices that would indicate we have company. Nothing.

“Who do you work for?” he asks.

“An interested party,” I tell him. “That’s the best I can tell you. How about you?”

“I am here to settle a debt,” he says.

I want to laugh, but he’s still holding a sword in my general direction. “Look, buddy, I don’t care which one of us kills Sakai. All I have to do is make sure he’s dead before I leave. You can have him. But I spent a better part of my morning setting up some cool traps and shit, and I’d hate to see them go to waste.”

The man leaves his fighting stance, drawing himself to full height, still a head shorter than me, and sheathes his sword.

“I must be the one to deliver the killing blow,” he says.

“You don’t have to negotiate for anything,” I tell him. “I agree to your terms.”

We both look around the roof, unsure of what to say next. I’ve never worked with anyone who wasn’t Agency before, and never with another professional. Usually I just get a bunch of dummies for backup who can’t spell their last names without peeking in their underwear.

“So what do I call you?” I ask.

He stares at me for a few moments. This is like talking to a cat. Is he going to nuzzle me or scratch at my eyes? I get it, I’m on guard, too. Then he peels up the bottom half of his mask to show me his face. He’s older than I would have expected.

“Kenji,” he says.

“You got a stage name?” I ask.

He squints his eyes and tilts his head. “Stage name?”

“Yeah, like a nickname. Code name. Whatever.”

He nods. “The Baku.”

“Oh, man,” I say, bursting into a smile, and then feeling a little sheepish for it. “I’ve heard of you. Baku is a demon that devours nightmares, right? That’s cool. Wasn’t there this big Yakuza dustup in Osaka two years ago? You walked into a room of thirty men, unarmed, and walked out without a scratch?”

He gives a small smile. “There were a few scratches. And it was twenty-four.”

“Well, these things always get bigger in the retelling.”

“What about you?” he asks.

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