Victor O'Reilly - Rules of The Hunt

The gaijin did not look to be presenting much of a problem as an opponent, but his behavior was upsetting. His method of retreating meant that it was hard to keep the appropriate striking distance away. And this ridiculous conversation was just distracting. It upset the dignity of the occasion. Hitai found it irritating, and it was hard to clear his mind as he had learned to do.

His object was to make his mind like water: a reflection in water is the symbol of a clear, calm mind in harmony with its surroundings – the highest level of training in a martial art. The gaijin 's behavior was the mental equivalent of throwing pebbles into that water. Hitai could not focus.

"Yes, it is so," said Kei. "The classic Japanese sword, the katana, reached perfection at a time when Europeans were fighting with crude lumps of steel – and then how do you improve on perfection? Instead, the emphasis changed to perfecting the use of the sword. One hundred and twenty draws and a thousand cuts per day was normal for a warrior's training. It is only through constant practice that perfection is achieved, and that warrior and sword become as one."

"I have to admit, Namaka- san," said Fitzduane, "we're a sloppy lot in the West by comparison. Instead of settling on perfection, we keep on trying out new things. It makes for a disorderly but creative society. Take the rapier, for example. At one stage, some models were all of five feet long – rather difficult to wear on social occasions. Of course, trial and error produced a more acceptable result. But then we all switched to the gun. What do you do with degenerates like that? Fickle. No staying power."

Kei Namaka was nonplussed. The gaijin was playing with him. Hitai glanced toward Kei in a silent plea that this nonsense be stopped.

Fitzduane stepped back three paces, and as the two yakuza stumbled in surprise at this totally unexpected move, he executed one ferocious thrust which pierced the neck of the man next to him and continued without pause to sink its point deep into the second yakuza 's eye.

Kei gave a bellow, and Hitai turned back to his opponent and drew his katana with incredible speed and slashed in a reflex at where Fitzduane had been. The blade caught the second yakuza as he fell away, mortally wounded from the sword in his eye; after cutting through his spine, it severed his right arm.

Fitzduane, who had little time for style over substance when his life was on the line, left his rapier in the first yakuza 's neck and grabbed the man's Uzi. The strap would not come away, so he cocked it and fired it while still attached to the yakuza 's body.

The weapon hammered and Hitai's weapon shattered as the first rounds hit it. It did not seem quite the occasion for restraint, so Fitzduane fired again, and Hitai sprouted red flowers as he shot backwards into the second yakuza master swordsman.

The Uzi jammed. Fitzduane pulled his rapier out of the dead yakuza 's neck with some effort and met his new opponent as he advanced. The yakuza delivered a series of slashing blows in a vertical cloverleaf arrangement that effectively prevented anyone from getting near him. It was an aggressive defense, because the man advanced as he deployed this flashing perimeter.

Fitzduane scooped up Hitai's damaged katana and used it to parry the yakuza 's blade, and as he did so thrust his rapier into the yakuza 's stomach. The man sagged forward onto his knees.

Fitzduane whirled to meet any possible attack from Kei Namaka, and was stunned to see that neither he nor Goto had moved.

Kei just stood there, the ax in his hands, enjoying the spectacle. Then Fitzduane moved forward and the ax was a blur in his hands. There was a fountain of blood, and the yakuza 's head flew across the room. The headless body slid to the ground, as Kei watched, mesmerized. Then he looked at the dripping weapon. "Superb," he said. "The balance, the craftsmanship, quite superb."

"Namaka- san," said Fitzduane, "clearly you did not eat enough fish as a child. There can be too much of a good thing. Put that weapon down."

Kei looked across. The gaijin had moved again. Now he was by the small table where his belongings had been placed and there was something in his hands.

"Don't disappoint me, Fitzduane- san," he said. "Let us fight man to man."

Fitzduane looked at the carnage around him and then at Kei. "Don't be ridiculous," he said. "The familiar Calico was now in his hand. The exploding ex had been a nice idea, but he did not relish being in the same room when it went off. Metal fragments traveling at high velocity had no discrimination.

"FIGHT ME, GAIJIN!" Kei roared, and charged at Fitzduane, the ax held high above his head.

This is the man who arranged to have me killed and who nearly killed my son, thought Fitzduane. Still, there was deep regret, as he squeezed the trigger of the Calico and 10mm red tracer winked across the room, smashed effortlessly through the ornate samurai armor, and tore the magnificent body of Kei Namaka into shreds.

The remains that had been the chairman of the Namaka Corporation crumpled, and streams of crimson spread out across the seamless wooden floor.

"Namaka- san," said Fitzduane to himself, "we gaijins have our weaknesses, but we know – we truly know – about the business of killing. And there is scant glory in it."

In a far corner of the room, the new security chief of the Namaka Corporation crouched. Under the samurai war helmet, he was white-faced and shaking with fear.

Fitzduane walked across to him, the Calico loosely trained on the terrified man. "Goto- san," he said mildly, "are you sure you are on the right career path?"

Goto shook and could not speak. The gaijin had killed five armed men in less than a minute, and he was certain it would soon be six. He had taken the job of security chief after Kitano's abrupt demise to consolidate his power in the Namaka keiretsu, but had never dreamed he would be much more than an administrator. The reality of violence made him sick.

"Goto- san," said Fitzduane. "If you don't want me to add to your normal quota of body apertures, you're going to get up and show me how to get out of here."

The terrified man did not move.

Fitzduane straightened his aim so that the Calico was pointing directly between Goto's eyes. "Please," said Fitzduane dryly.

The only reason they were not dead, Chifune reflected, as heavy automatic fire cracked inches overhead and drew splinters from the base of the tower, was the thin double line of sandbags about two feet high and eight feet long behind which they were sheltering.

She could not at first figure out what the bags were doing there, since the layout in no way constituted an emplacement, and then realized that they were probably used in high winds to help secure the skids of parked helicopters.

The bags had been filled with a thin, high-quality sand, unfortunately, and as the gunfire ripped open the bags, the sand was flowing out at an uncomfortably fast rate. In a matter of minutes they would be well-equipped to build sand castles but devoid of cover. They were going to have to do something very soon.

Oga was lying on his back, his Heckler and Koch MP5 pointed up at the top of the tower. From time to time, a head would appear and someone would try to shoot down, but Oga's accurate snap-shooting in semiautomatic mode to conserve ammunition kept the situation under control. He was talented at this sort of thing, observed Chifune. It was more than standard airborne training.

"How is your CQB, Sergeant- san?" said Chifune. She was referring to Close Quarters Battle training, the highly specialized skills acquired for hostage training or close-in counterterrorist work.

Oga fired twice rapidly at a silhouette appearing over the tower parapet and red mist stained the air. "Rusty, but coming back to me," he said. "They say it's like riding a bicycle. When you get older, you can still do it, but your joints creak."