A Lonely Resurrection

I was three meters away, the cover provided by the garbage bins had thinned too much for me to go any further. I hunkered low, waiting.
    Five minutes went by. I heard the strike of a match, then saw a cloud of blue smoke waft out from just beyond a stack of the containers. Whoever was waiting there wasn’t Murakami. Murakami wouldn’t have done something so stupid.
    I eased the pepper spray back into a pocket and slowly extended the baton to its full length, tugging at the end to ensure the components were locked in position, gripping it in my right hand. I watched the smoke rising from in front of me and timed the inhalations and exhalations. I waited until I knew he was inhaling, when his attention would be somewhat distracted by the pleasure of sucking in all that tasty nicotine. In, out. In, out. In. . .
    I leaped out from where I was crouching and shot forward, the baton arm curled past my neck as though I was trying to scratch my opposite shoulder, my free hand up, defending my face and head. I covered the distance in an instant and saw the man as soon as I cleared the edge of the garbage containers just behind him. It was one of Murakami’s bodyguards, wearing a black waist-length leather jacket, with shades and a wool watch cap for light disguise. He’d heard the sudden sound of my approach and was in the midst of turning his head toward me when I burst into his position.
    His mouth started to drop open, the cigarette dangling uselessly from his lips. His right hand went for one of the coat pockets. I saw everything slowly, clearly.
    I stepped in with my right foot and whipped the baton into the side of his face. His head ricocheted left from the force of the blow. The shades flew off. The cigarette shot out of his mouth, tumbling like a spent rifle cartridge, followed by an explosion of teeth and blood. He staggered back into the building and started to slide down the wall. I stepped in close and brought the butt end of the baton up under his chin, arresting his descent.
    “Where’s Murakami?” I asked in Japanese.
    He coughed up a mass of blood and dental matter.
    I patted him down while he gagged and tried to collect himself. I found a Kershaw knife like Murakami’s in his coat and a mobile phone in a belt clip. I pocketed both.
    I pressed hard with the baton. “Where is he?” I asked again.
    He coughed and spat.
“Naka da,”
he said, the words deformed by his injuries. Inside.
    “Where’s your other man?”
    He groaned and tried to reach for his face. I shoved the baton up into his neck. He grimaced and lowered his arms.
    “Where’s your other man?” I asked again.
    He sucked and wheezed.
“Omote da.”
In front.
    Made sense. That’s the coverage I would have used.
    I brought the baton down and jabbed its tip into his solar plexus. He doubled over with a grunt. I stepped behind him, brought the baton across his windpipe, and jammed a knee into his spine. I arched back, pulling him backward with the baton and pushing forward with my knee. His hands flew to the steel to relieve the pressure but it was already too late. His larynx was crushed. He struggled silently for another half minute, then sagged back into me.
    I eased him down to the ground and looked around. All quiet. I pulled off his cap and coat and slipped them on. I hunted around on the ground for the shades—there they were. I pulled them on, too.
    I dragged the body as deeply as I could into the shadows, then picked up his still-lit cigarette and stuck it in my mouth. I slammed the baton onto the pavement to close it, slipped it in one of the coat pockets, and palmed the pepper spray.
    Unlike the back of the building, the front offered no perpendicular streets and thus fewer vantage points. There was really only one good spot there, I knew: the alley alongside the building directly across the street.
    I walked around to the front of the building, the shades and hat on, the cigarette burning. I kept my head down and my eyes forward, the same posture these guys would have been using to avoid witnesses and cameras.
    I saw him across the street as soon as I rounded the corner. He was dressed like his recently deceased partner. I made my way directly to his position, moving fast, confidently. The shades we were wearing were great for light disguise, but were hell on night-vision. He thought I was his partner. He stepped out of the shadows as though to greet me, perhaps unsure of why I had abandoned my post.
    When I was three