F. Paul Wilson - By the Sword

The world knew that Jeremy Bolton was dead, but didn't know Hank's connection. It had been a big story last month when his body was found and identified by DNA. Dawn had known him as Jerry Bethlehem—still presumed alive—but the rest of the world knew him as Jeremy Bolton, the famous Atlanta Abortionist Killer from almost twenty years ago. Only the same handful of people who knew the brother relationship knew that Jeremy had been living as Jerry.

Hank was pretty sure he knew who was behind his death.

Mr. Everyman: mid-thirties, average height, average build, average-length brown hair, average nose, nothing-special brown eyes, dressed in nondescript clothing. He'd dogged Hank's trail, pretending to be a reporter, even mugged him in broad daylight.

Jeremy had described a guy just like him worming into the edges of his life.

An agent of what his father had called the Enemy. That had sounded a little bit crazy to Hank, a little bit paranoid. But then Daddy had disappeared.

Now Hank believed: They were out to ruin Daddy's Plan to change the world. Dawn's baby was the key to the Plan, and the Enemy was out to kill it. Kill it. Hank had to find Dawn first.

That had been Dawn on the phone. Had to be.

Is his name Jerry?

She was the only one who'd connect those flyers with Jerry.

Which meant she didn't know he was dead. Maybe he could use that…

And maybe not.

"Oh, here's Darryl," Menck said, pointing to a lean, scruffy Kicker waiting by the stairs. "He wants to talk to you. Says it might be important."

"Yeah?" Hank knew Darryl. One of his flyer posters. "Send him over."

Darryl approached and squinted at him. He always squinted, even at night.

"Hey, man. A little weirdness happened today. Might be somethin, might be nothin."

"Shoot."

"I was hangin this flyer by Blume's when this Arab chick comes over and starts asking me about it."

"Arab?"

"Well, she was wearing that veil thing they wear."

Hank nodded. He didn't know much about rag heads, but knew the veil meant Muslim, not necessarily Arab.

"What was her problem?"

"Well, for one thing, she was all shook up. I mean, her hands were shaking, man. Asking all sorts of questions about who was looking for her and what we intended to do with her if we found her."

Hank felt his insides begin to tighten.

"What she look like?"

Darryl shrugged. "Well, with the veil thing with that big scarf wrapped all around her head and shoulders, who could tell?"

"You must have seen her eyes. What color were they?"

Darryl shook his head. "Wearin shades, man. The only thing I could see was her forehead and her hands."

"What color—dark or light?"

"See, that's the thing that got me curious. Arabs got dark skin, right? Hers was real pale."

Hank felt his saliva evaporating. "Did you see any of her hair?"

"Like I said, she was covered up pretty good, but I was suspicious, so I went to take a peek under her veil and some guy dressed like a chauffeur pushed me away. Told me not to touch her. Even called me 'sir.' "

"Chauffeur?" Oh, hell, could it be the Enemy? "What'd he look like? Brown hair and eyes, average height?"

Darryl shook his head. "Nah. Tall and skinny, but a no-nonsense type. I wasn't gonna raise no ruckus with him."

"Chauffeur means a car. Did you—?"

"Scope the plates?" Darryl grinned and pulled a folded flyer from his pocket. "Sure did. Big black Mercedes. Number's right there."

Hank let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Here was their first break.

"What time was this?"

Darryl shrugged. "Around four, maybe?"

He turned to Menck. "When did that call come in?"

Menck checked a sheet in his hand. "Four-oh-seven."

Dawn. She thought Jerry was still alive so she'd worn a Muslim veil to hide from him. After leaving Darryl, she'd called here.

Yeah, it was her.

But a chauffeur?

He clapped Darryl on the shoulder. "Good work, my man."

Darryl grinned and squinted, then headed for the door.

Hank turned to Menck, who was in charge of the Be-on-the-Lookout sheet that every Kicker was supposed to carry in his or her back pocket. Only one thing on the sheet now: a picture of Dawn.

"We need an updated BOLO list. Add that everyone should be on the lookout for a pale-skinned girl in a Muslim veil. They see her, don't get near, just tail her."

Menck nodded. "Got it."

Hank pulled a piece of paper from his shirt pocket. "And find a way to add this."

He handed him a crude drawing of the dream blade—the best he could manage from memory, but it gave the general idea. He'd written "sword blade" below it.

Menck looked at him. "What the—?"

"Just do it. And put down that if anyone sees it, bring it to me. And if you can't bring it, tell me about it. I want it."

A long shot— very long—but who knew? One of his Kickers might be passing a junk store or antique shop and see it in the window. Worth a try.

As Menck moved off, Hank felt his elation fade. Dawn's shock at seeing the flyer meant one thing: She'd been out of town the past few weeks.

He looked around at the phone bank and wondered if maybe all this was a huge waste of time. If she'd just got back into town, where from? Had the Enemy gotten her an abortion? Had she been spending the time recovering?

Hank wanted to scream. If she killed the kid, she killed the Plan. And for that, he'd kill her. It wouldn't bring the baby back, but it would be the right thing to do. And he'd enjoy it. Oh, how he'd enjoy it.

Hideo Takita sat in first class and stared at his laptop screen. The face staring back looked very much like his.

Yoshio, his twin, had flown this same route less than two years ago. Sent by the board to investigate the mysteries surrounding someone named Ronald Clayton, a man who had died in the crash of JAL Flight 27 on his way to meet personally with Sasaki-san and the entire Kaze board.

Nobody met with the entire Kaze board.

But rumor had it that Clayton had developed a world-changing technology so revolutionary that the country—or company—controlling it could call the tune to which every other nation around the globe would have to dance.

Yoshio's failure caused Hideo loss of face within the company. Had he succeeded he might have raised Japan to first among nations and Kaze to first among economic powers.

Hideo switched to another face, one of a number of photos Yoshio had sent back during his investigation. This one had Arabic features. Hideo knew his name: Kemel Muhallal. He also knew he was dead.

He clicked the arrow to proceed with his grim slide show. The next face was Caucasian: Sam Baker, an American mercenary. Also dead, his corpse found along with Muhallal's and three other bodies in the rear of a panel truck abandoned in the Catskill mountains. Two of those other bodies were mercenaries hired by Baker.

The fifth had been Yoshio, the victim of a bullet into the back of his head.

Another click and up popped a blurred photo of the mystery man. Yoshio hadn't known his name, but had labeled him " ronin ." The ronin was missing. Perhaps he was dead too. And perhaps he was alive, the one responsible for executing Yoshio.

Execution… the manner of his death showed that he had allowed himself to be captured alive. And that meant he might have talked. Hideo knew that no form of torture could make Yoshio give up Kaze secrets, but still… bushido lived on in Kaze Group.

Hideo stared at what he could see of the face. The photo had been shot at an angle and the focus was poor. A very forgettable face. Not the face of a killer. But what then did a killer look like? Yoshio had killed in the service of Kaze. And Yoshio and Hideo, while not identical twins, had often been mistaken for each other.