The Last Assassin

take a man’s life as sensible and leave it at that.
    “You know we’re not going to make any more money out of this,” I said. “Not that we need any.”
    “Hey, I wouldn’t be the rich man I am today if it weren’t for you.”
    “Spend too much time with me, and you might not live to enjoy that money.”
    “I’m willing to take that chance.”
    I nodded. “All right. If we wanted to create the appearance of a Chinese sniper at large in Japan, what kind of ammunition would we be talking about?”
    “Shit, man, these days just about everybody’s using 7.62. Got your Russian Dragonov, British L96, Canadian C3A1, your various U.S. and NATO configurations, of course. The Chinese Type 79 and Type 85 are basically just copies of the Dragonov. They all use 7.62.”
    “So there’s nothing specifically identifiable as Chinese?”
    He shrugged. “A forensics expert might be able to tell the origin of a round if it were recovered intact. And you could tell from the brass, of course, if one got away. But I wouldn’t worry about it. Just because the sniper’s Chinese doesn’t mean he favors a Chinese weapon.”
    I nodded. “All right, if we tried to be too specific it might look obvious, anyway. Sounds like something chambered in 7.62 ought to be close enough for government work.”
    “Well, I’m partial to the HK PSG/1 I employed in our little Hong Kong adventure. That’s 7.62 and has a twenty-round magazine, too. Get me another one of those, and I can cause all kinds of mayhem from damn near a thousand yards out. Or the dreaded M40A3, that’s a fine weapon, too. Trigger pull like snapping a glass rod.”
    “We’ll see what Kanezaki can do.”
    “You ask him for a sniper rifle, he’s going to know who’s using it. He accused us of forming a damn union after what we did in Hong Kong last year, remember?”
    Shit, I hadn’t thought of that. Dox and I had partnered on that op to take out a French/Arab arms merchant named Belghazi, and Kanezaki had provided the hardware. Yeah, asking him for another sniper rifle, I might as well have just handed him Dox’s business card.
    Dox saw my discomfort and laughed. “I ain’t objecting, man, just saying. Half the jobs I’ve done in the last three years I’ve done for him. I don’t mind if he knows I’m involved in this one. He knows if he ever crosses me he’ll spend the rest of a short and anxious life glancing up at the rooftops around him, wondering if that prickling he feels on the back of his neck is me smiling at him from behind a scoped rifle.”
    I nodded. “All right. But I want to handle him a certain way.”
    “You just tell me the plan, partner, and I’ll follow your lead.”
    I smiled, thinking, Poor Kanezaki.

23
    Y AMAOTO CALLED BIG LIU twice that day. There was nothing to report, but it was important to keep the channels open, to let Big Liu know that Yamaoto was on top of things, that he was concerned.
    Yamaoto’s men had been to every one of Kito’s and Sanada’s known associates. Someone had even flown to Fukuoka, Kito’s hometown in Kyushu, to interview the man’s parents. But the sumos seemed to have become invisible. Yamaoto was beginning to grow concerned. Maybe they really had stolen the money and drugs and were embarked on some long-planned escape route.
    He was at his desk, getting ready to call Big Liu for another uncomfortable “no news” discussion, when his mobile phone rang. Kuro’s name appeared on the caller ID.
    Yamaoto opened the phone. “Hai.”
    “They’re here,” Kuro said. “They came in.”
    Yamaoto leaned forward, relief flooding through him. “Where?”
    “My place in Shinjuku.”
    “I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Don’t let them leave.”
    “Understood.”
    Yamaoto hung up. He called his driver and had the man bring around the armored Mercedes S-Class that he’d taken to traveling in after his last encounter with John Rain.
    Twenty minutes later, he walked into a popular “Fashion Health” massage place Kuro ran in Shinjuku. Kuro had a way of managing these kinds of establishments. The man was a good earner. Reliable.
    The doorman recognized Yamaoto and welcomed him with an obsequious bow. Yamaoto ignored the women lounging on red velour couches in the subdued light and headed straight through a door into the back office.
    There they were, occupying opposite ends of a gray leather couch, heads hanging and hands twisting in their laps as though they were the world’s largest errant