Page 126 of Kotori
The gunshots come from three directions at once.
Muzzle flashes strobe through industrial darkness as hidden shooters emerge from behind machinery and broken equipment. Bullets spark off the concrete around my feet as I dive for cover behind a rusted conveyor belt, kevlar stopping one round center mass that would have punched through lung and heart.
"Kill him!" Hiroshi screams, voice high with pain and desperation. "Kill them all!"
So much for neutral ground and traditional honor.
A sawed-off hunting shotgun roars behind me.
Buckshot tears through my shoulder, spinning me around as white-hot agony explodes down my arm. The katana clatters away across broken concrete as I stumble, vision graying. My right arm hangs useless. I roll behind a steel support pillar as automatic weapons open up, bullets chewing chunks from rusted metal. Hiroshi's "witnesses" have shed their formal positions, revealing themselves as what they always were. Killers waiting for their moment.
I draw my M9 left-handed as a gunman rounds my cover. Put three in his chest before he can adjust aim. He drops hard, dark clothing soaking up blood and factory dust.
Takeshi appears from the shadows, pistol barking as he engages targets with professional calm. Nagumo and Watanabe emerge from their positions, turning what should have been formal combat into a running gunfight among rusted machinery.
A Tanaka soldier appears to my left, pistol raised. I tackle him before he can get a clean shot, driving us both into the debris. The gun goes flying as we roll, grappling in the dirt like animals.
He's younger, stronger, but I've been killing men since before he was born. My thumb finds his eye socket and presses until it pops wetly. He screams, thrashing. I get my good hand around his throat and squeeze until he stops moving.
"Behind you!" Takeshi's warning saves my life.
I roll right as bullets spark off concrete where my head had been. Come up in a crouch to see two more shooters advancing with professional calm. The first shot from my M9 takes the leader center mass, staggering him. The second catches his partner in the thigh.
The wounded one tries to return fire despite the blood streaming down his leg. I close distance fast, putting the barrel against his temple. Pull the trigger. Brain matter paints rusted machinery as he drops.
Takeshi's shot drops the last gunman with surgical precision. The man crumples behind a broken conveyor belt, rifle clattering across the factory floor now painted with modern violence.
Suddenly the factory floor is quiet except for the ringing in my ears and the wet sounds of dying men.
I stand swaying in the sudden silence, shoulder screaming with pain, blood loss making everything tilt at strange angles.The ground around me is painted red, bodies scattered among broken machinery and industrial debris. The air hangs thick with smoke and the copper stench of spilled life.
"Status," I call, my voice sounding strange and distant.
"Watanabe's down," Nagumo reports, voice tight with grief. "Clean headshot. He didn't suffer."
Watanabe. Twenty-eight years old, married last spring, wife expecting their first child in the new year. Dead because he followed his oyabun into hell.
"You?"
"Took one in the leg but I'm mobile." Nagumo's face is pale but determined.
"Takeshi?"
My lieutenant appears from behind a steel support beam, pistol still ready. Blood streaks his face from flying debris, but his eyes are clear and focused.
"Six down, boss. But you're bleeding badly."
I look down at my shoulder. Oh, right, my arm. The spreading red stain, darkening, blood dripping steadily onto concrete. My right arm hangs useless, fingers barely responsive.
Interesting. Should probably hurt more than it does.
"Where's Hiroshi?"
We find him crawling toward the factory's rear exit, leaving a blood trail like a wounded animal. His katana lies abandoned in the debris, but I can see the tanto still sheathed at his side. His formal clothes are soaked crimson from the gash on his sword arm and other wounds taken during the firefight. He looks smaller somehow, diminished by defeat and the proximity of death.
I retrieve my grandfather's katana, testing its edge against my thumb. Still razor sharp. Perfect for what comes next.
"Hiroshi." My voice cuts through his labored breathing. "Look at me."
