GhostWalkers 10 - Samurai Game

passed down to him all the fighting skills and way of life of the samurai. He was known as a master craftsman of sword making. He seemed a quiet, gentle man who led a family life. He had a good reputation from all who knew him, and yet the rumors persisted until the man was shrouded in myth, becoming a thing of legend.
    It was whispered in Japan that Mamoru Yoshiie earned his real living as an assassin. The yakuza were rarely spoken of, especially in polite company, and when it was implied Yoshiie had some association with them, that had been firmly denied by the yakuza itself. They left the man strictly alone and some said it was Yoshiie one went to if they were in trouble with the local crime lord. Sam doubted if any of it was true until he’d met Yoshiie’s adopted daughter and his sons. All three moved with the skill of a consummate fighter.
    “We were expecting at least two bodyguards to accompanyyou,” Sam directed his statement to Daiki. “We do have accommodations for them as well if you would feel more comfortable.”
    “Azami and Eiji are my bodyguards when we are installing software for a satellite as important as this one. We know that most companies do not want strangers living and working where sensitive material might be exposed. We endeavor to make our clients as comfortable as possible.”
    That made sense and it explained the way Azami’s eyes had continually swept the small airport and the roofs of the buildings, but it didn’t explain the way his body reacted so strongly to her.
    “Why are we waiting?” Azami inquired very politely.
    Sam couldn’t keep his gaze from shifting to the rearview mirror. Azami wasn’t looking at him—or Daiki. She peered through the tinted windows, obviously expecting trouble.
    “We know a man of Daiki’s stature has enemies,” Sam said, his tone very matter-of-fact. “We had men in position to cover anyone taking undue notice of your arrival. They’ll be here in a moment or two.”
    He kept his glaze glued to the rearview mirror, observing Azami’s reaction to the news. She turned her head slowly and met his eyes in the mirror. He felt the impact all the way to his toes. His blood went hot, rushing through his veins, flooding his groin with need. He kept his expression composed, but only with effort. She was potent, that sweet, demure-looking bodyguard sitting directly behind him. He had no doubt she could take off his head in seconds. So much for the intellectual, computer-nerd types.
    She inclined her head, regal princess to the peasant who had just scored. She had known his men were out there all right—she wasn’t in the least surprised—but she didn’t like them climbing into the SUV and seating themselves directly behind her and Eiji, neatly flanking them, taking away any advantage they may have had.
    Nico and Kadan both carried large, solid briefcases, clearly housing their sniper rifles. Neither tried to hide thefact as they slipped inside. Sam kept his eyes locked with Azami’s. She didn’t even turn her head or flick a glance toward the two men as they entered—and that was more the mark of a professional than anything else could have been. She was too sure of herself. Sam swore to himself. They were in real trouble, but he couldn’t figure out how or why.
    These were businesspeople. They were known throughout the international community as well as having been vetted by every separate military, CIA, and Homeland Security committee that could possibly investigate them. They were under intense scrutiny, just by the fact that they produced and sold high-resolution satellites. Their software and their satellites were considered the best in the world. How could every agency have made such a mistake?
    Sam wanted to doubt himself, he really did. The woman was the first one who had really intrigued him, both mentally and physically. Maybe it was the challenge, but deep down, he knew this woman’s destiny was tangled with his. Good or bad, they were somehow intertwined. He’d rather their relationship was positive, but that nagging radar of his wouldn’t shut up. Something was very off about all three visitors.
    “Kadan Montague and Nicolas Trevane,” he offered by way of introduction after he’d identified their guests.
    All three gave a slight head bow toward the newcomers. Azami continued to look at Sam through the mirror, her eyes like that of a cat, tilted and wide, fringed with feathery black lashes that swept down demurely when