The Last Assassin

I sat on the toilet, took hold of the handicap railing on both sides, leaned back, and raised my feet in front of me.

In my acute state I heard the distinct sound of a folding blade clicking into place. Then another.

Footsteps, to my left. I breathed quietly through my mouth.

The footsteps came closer. Closer.

The footsteps stopped directly in front of me. I saw a shape through the crack at the edge of the door. The shape started to move lower as the yakuza angled for a better peek.

I bellowed a war cry and shot my feet into the door. It exploded outward and blasted into the yakuza's face. He fell backward and something clattered to the floor.

I sprang out. The other yakuza was on my left, a blade in his right hand. Before he could get over the instant of shock produced by my yell and the sight of his partner going down, I bellowed again and grabbed his wrist with both hands.

I trained in judo at Tokyo's famed Kodokan for a quarter century. A quarter century of daily hours of gripping and twisting the heavy cotton judogi. More recently, I'd gotten addicted to Brazilian jujitsu in Rio. And on top of all that were my hand and finger exercises. I can say without any false pride that, when I grab someone's wrist, they might as well be caught in a bear trap.

I squeezed hard and the yakuza howled. His knife clattered to the floor. I stepped in close, grabbed his balls with an undergrip, and squeezed as hard as I could. He shrieked and doubled over.

The other guy was on his knees now, groping for his knife under the sinks. I grabbed him by his leather jacket and hauled him back. He tried to catch me with a donkey kick, but I'd anticipated that and was too far to his side. The kick snapped past me. I scooted toward his head, braced my hands on his back, and shot a knee into his face. He fell back. I dropped down, grabbed the knife, and rolled to my feet.

The other guy was staggering for the door now, still doubled over. I snagged one of his pants legs at the ankle and yanked it back toward me. He went sprawling forward onto his face. I did a knee drop onto his spine, mashed his face into the floor, and brought the knife up under his neck. I dug in, then tore out and away.

There was a wet gurgling noise, half cry, half bubbling liquid. I jumped back to get clear of the blood and turned to his partner. He was on his ass now, scuttling backward. His face was a bloody mess — from the door shot or the knee or both, I didn't know.

He bumped up against the wall and started to struggle to his feet. I kicked him in the balls and he folded forward with a grunt. I stepped behind him, hooked my fingers into his eyes, and hauled his head back. Then I brought the knife around and practically took his head off. Blood sprayed from the gaping wound and I shoved him away from me. He crashed into one of the stall doors and went down.

I looked at myself in the mirror. There was blood all over me. The jacket I was wearing was dark enough to conceal the problem, though, and I zipped it up higher. I rinsed my shaking hands under one of the faucets, closed the knife, and shoved it into a pants pocket. Then I rinsed my face and wet my hair, getting the blood off and changing my appearance at the same time.

The swinging doors opened. I glanced over. A black man in a suit started to walk inside. He froze when he saw the tableau. 'Oh, my God,' he said.

'I was attacked,' I said, in a high, frightened voice, looking at his feet to make it harder for him to see my face. 'Find a policeman. Please.'

He backed out through the door. I really had to hurry now.

I ducked into the handicap stall and shoved my pants and shoes into the carry-on. When I came out I had to jump over the pool of blood spreading on the tiled floor. I wanted to wipe down the surfaces I'd touched, but there just wasn't time. I went out the swinging doors. The area was clear. I kept my head down and headed straight for a taxi stand.

Ten minutes later, I was in the back of a cab, heading into Manhattan. I started to feel giddy. A crazy thought zigged through my mind — Damn, the things you have to do to get a knife in New York — and I almost laughed.

It was finally over with Yamaoto. I had just finished my last job. And Midori and Koichiro were safe.

52

I called Midori from the cab to let her know I was coming. But she didn't answer. I used the mobile browser on the phone to check her website. She had a gig at a place called Detour in the East Village. I called the club. The woman I spoke to told me Midori wouldn't be there that night. She had had to cancel.

'Do you know why?' I asked.

'No, I'm sorry. A personal matter, that's all I know.'

I told the driver to take me to Greenwich Village, corner of Seventh Avenue and Bleecker. I would walk to her apartment from there.

By the time the cab dropped me off, the trendy Village dinner scene was in full swing. I watched the laughing, contented hipsters and yuppies walking past me in their distressed leather jackets and Tod's shoes. It was like being on some surreal movie set.

I approached Midori's apartment carefully. Tatsu had said there were only two, but caution is a lifelong reflex for me.

When I was satisfied I wasn't going to run into another welcoming committee, I walked up to the front door. The doorman was there, the same guy as last time.

'I'm here to see Midori Kawamura,' I told him.

'Is she expecting you?'