Hard Rain

like that might resist fiercely. I'm sure lethal
    force would be justified in subduing him."
    "Indeed."
    "In fact, it's even possible that, after you have him handcuffed,
    someone who might be described afterward as "one of his cohorts who got
    away" might appear and break his neck."
    He nodded. "I can see where something like that could occur."
    "I'll go for two hours at a time," I said. "During those two-hour
    periods you have men mobile and nearby, ready to pounce on my
    signal."
    He was quiet for a moment, then said, "I hesitate to suggest it, but
    it's possible that Murakami will not show. He may simply subcontract
    the work to someone else. In which case you would be walking into
    extreme danger for nothing." "He'll show," I said. "I know this guy.
    If he knows who I am, he's going to want a piece of me. And I'm going
    to give it to him."
    Sixteen.
    That night I stayed at a small business hotel in Nishi-Nippori. It was
    spare enough to make me miss the New Otani and the Imperial, but it was
    a quiet place in a lonely part of the city and I felt reasonably safe
    there for the night.
    The next morning, I worked out at Murakami's dojo in Asakusa. When I
    arrived, the men who were already training paused and gave me a low
    collective bow a sign of their respect for the way I had dispatched
    Adonis. After that, I was treated in a dozen subtle ways with
    deference that bordered on awe. Even Washio, older than I and with a
    much longer and deeper association with the dojo, was using different
    verb forms to indicate that he now considered me his superior. My
    sense was that, whatever Yamaoto and Murakami might have discovered
    about me, the knowledge had not been shared with the lower echelon.
    Tatsu had given me a Glock 26, the shortest-barreled pistol in dock's
    excellent 9-millimeter line. Definitely not standard Keisatsucho
    issue. I didn't know how Tatsu had acquired it in tightly
    gun-controlled Japan, and I didn't ask. Despite its relatively low
    profile, I couldn't keep it concealed on my person while I was working
    out. Instead I left it in my gym bag. I stayed close to the bag.
    Tatsu had also given me a cell phone with which I would alert him when
    Murakami showed. I had created a speed dial entry so that all I had to
    do was hit one of the keys, let the call go through, and hang up. When
    Tatsu saw that a call had come from this number, he'd scramble his
    nearby men to the dojo.
    But Murakami didn't show. Not that day, not the next.
    I was getting antsy. Too much living out of hotels, a different one
    every night. Too much worrying about security cameras. Too much
    thinking about Harry, about the useless way he'd died, about how hard
    I'd been on him that very night.
    And too much thinking about Midori, wondering whether she'd get in
    touch again, and what she would want if she did.
    I went to the dojo for a third day. I was doing long workouts, trying
    to give Murakami the widest possible window in which to appear, but
    there was still no sign of him. I was starting to think he just wasn't
    going to show.
    But he did. I was on the floor, stretching, when I heard the door
    buzzer. I looked up to see Murakami, wearing a black leather jacket
    and head-hugging shades, and his two bodyguards, similarly dressed,
    enter the room. As usual, the atmosphere in the dojo changed when he
    entered, his presence aggravating everyone's vestigial fight-or-flight
    radar like a mild electric current.
    "Oi, Arai-sanyo? he said, walking over. "Let's talk."
    I stood up. "Okay."
    One of the bodyguards approached. I started toward my bag, but he got
    there ahead of me. He picked it up and slid it over his shoulder.
    "I'll take this," he said.
    I gave no sign that this was a problem for me. The cell phone, at
    least, much smaller than the gun, was in my pocket. I shrugged and
    said, "Thanks."
    Murakami motioned toward the door with a tilt of his head. "Outside."
    My heart rate had doubled but my voice was cool. "Sure," I called to
    him. "Just going to take a leak first."
    I walked to the back of the room and into the bathroom. I was already
    so juiced from adrenaline that I couldn't have pissed if I had to, but
    that wasn't what I had come to do.
    I was looking for. a weapon of convenience. I would call Tatsu after
    I found it. Maybe some powdered soap that I could toss into someone's
    eyes, or a mop handle that I could break off into a nightstick.
    Anything that would improve the currently ugly odds.
    My eyes swept the room but