of--she had seen John Howard take down a gunman who would have killed
him, had she not thrown him the kris in time.
Remembering John reminded her of her days at Net Force, though, and she
did not want to travel that path right now.
'I have trained with knives, but not the kris proper,' she said.
'I know some of the methods,' he said.
'I'll show you, if you want.'
'Yes. I'd like that.'
'Over here, look at these, a matched pair ...'
She went along to see. She was enjoying herself here, despite all that
had happened. Yes, sooner or later, she was going to have to go home.
But, like Scarlett O'Hara, she could worry about that another day ...
Saturday, June 4th Seattle, Washington
Luther Ventura sat in the Koffee Me! store in the mall near the new
entrance to Underground Seattle, holding a triple espresso. The
textured cardboard sleeve around the paper cup allowed just enough heat
to warm his hands slightly as he inhaled the fragrant vapor wafting up
from the fluid. The brew smelled bitter, and it was as dark as a
pedophile's sins.
He inhaled the scent, connecting to it as a wine expert might enjoy the
aroma of a great vintage.
When he was ready, Ventura sipped the espresso, let the hot liquid
swirl around his mouth a bit, then swallowed it.
Ah.
When he drank or ate, that was what he did. He didn't read the paper,
he didn't watch television, he didn't split his attention--well, save
for the basic Condition Orange he always maintained in public, but he
had been doing that for so long it was almost a reflex. After
twenty-five years of practice, you didn't have to think about that
consciously.
You automatically sat with your back to the wall. You checked the
entrances and exits of any building into which you went. You knew what
kind of construction the building was, which walls you could smash
through, which ones would likely stop a bullet. You were always aware
of what was going on around you, tuned into the currents of who came
and who left, alert for any small sign that danger might be casting a
glare in your direction.
You expanded your consciousness, relied on all your senses, including
your hunches, tuned out nothing, but allowed yourself enough quiet that
you could experience the total reality of the place where you were.
Zanshin, the sword players called it. The Zen of being in the moment,
no matter where you were and what you were doing, of being and not
merely doing. To Venture's mind, this was all unthinking and basic,
absolutely necessary to a man who wanted to stay alive in the business
he'd been in.
Once upon a time, Luther Ventura had been an assassin.
And, once upon a time, he had been the best in the business.
He had worked for governments, he had worked for corporations, and he
had worked freelance. Twenty-three years he had done it. Seventy-six
