The Fifth Profession

Savage shut the bookshelves, leaving a slight gap just as Graham's killers had done.

Akira turned on the radio. Guitars throbbed and wailed.

“The room's aired out. I don't smell exhaust fumes.” Rachel closed the windows.

Savage glanced around. “Is everything the way we found it? We all wore gloves. There'll be no fingerprints. Okay.”

Akira went outside, checked the lane, and motioned for Rachel to follow.

Savage activated the intrusion alarm in the closet, shut the closet's door, stepped outside, shut the front door, and waited for Akira to use his lockpicks to secure the two dead-bolt locks on the entrance.

Savage held Rachel's arm as they walked along the lane.

She trembled. “Don't forget to lock the gate behind us.”

“Don't worry. We wouldn't have. But thanks for reminding us,” Akira said. “I'm impressed. You're learning, Rachel.”

“The way this is going, when it's finally over-assuming it ever is-I've got a terrible feeling I'll be an expert.”

6

In the night, they walked down Fifth Avenue, passing streetlights, approaching the shadows of Washington Square. The cold, damp wind continued gusting and again brought tears to Savage's eyes. “Would the killers have left the area?”

“I assume so. Their work was completed,” Akira said.

“But was it completed? If the point was to silence Graham, they must have guessed we'd be coming here.”

“How would they know about us?”

“The only explanation I can think of…”

“Say it.”

“… is that Graham worked with and possibly for the men who killed him,” Savage said.

“But why would he have helped them in the first place? He didn't need money. He valued loyalty. Why did he turn against us?”

“Hey,” Rachel said. “Let me understand this. You're saying we're being watched by Graham's killers?” She stared behind her. “And they'll try to kill us as well?”

“They'll follow us,” Akira said. “But try to kill us? I don't think so. Someone went to a lot of trouble to convince Savage and me that we saw each other die. Why, I don't know. But we're very important to somebody. Whoever it is will want to protect his investment.”

Savage hailed an approaching taxi. They scrambled inside.

“ Times Square,” Savage said.

For the next hour, they shifted from taxi to taxi, switched to a subway, went back to a taxi, and ended with a stroll through Central Park.

Rachel was surprised to see so many joggers. “I thought the park wasn't safe at night.”

“They run in groups. The junkies don't bother them.”

She looked doubly surprised when she noticed that Akira wasn't next to her. “Where…?”

“Among the trees, above the rocks, going back the way we came. If we're being followed, he'll deal with them.”

“But he didn't explain what he was doing.”

“He didn't have to,” Savage said.

“The two of you read each other's mind?”

“We know what needs to be done.”

Ten minutes later, Akira emerged from bushes. “If we were being followed, they're not foolish enough to trail us through Central Park at midnight.”

The shadowy path forked.

“This way, Rachel.” Savage guided her toward the right. “It's safe to go back to the hotel.”

7

The fourth man swung his katana.Its blade hissed, struck Kamichi's waist, kept speeding as if through air, and sliced him in half. Kamichi's upper and lower torso fell in opposite directions.

Blood gushed. Severed organs spilled over the floor.

Akira wailed in outrage, rushing to chop the man's windpipe before the assassin could swing again.

Too late. The assassin reversed his aim, both hands gripping the katana.

From Savage's agonized perspective on the floor, it seemed that Akira jumped backward in time to avoid the blade. But the swordsman didn't swing a third time. Instead he watched indifferently as Akira's head fell off his shoulders.

As blood spewed from Akira's severed neck.

As Akira's torso remained standing for three grotesque seconds before it toppled.

Akira's head hit the floor with the thunk of a pumpkin, rolled, and stopped in front of Savage. The head rested on its stump, its eyes on a level with Savage's.

The eyes were open.

They blinked.

Savage screamed.

Frantic, he struggled to overcome the pain of his broken arms and legs, to force them to move, to raise himself from the floor. He'd failed to protect Kamichi and assist Akira. But he still had an obligation to avenge their deaths before the assassins killed him.

He compelled his anguished limbs to respond, lurched upward, felt hands press against him, and fought. The hands became arms encircling him. They pinned his own arms, squeezing against his back, thrusting air from his lungs.

“No,” Akira said.

Savage thrashed.

“No,” Akira repeated.

Abruptly Savage stopped. He blinked. In contrast with the sweat trickling off his brow, his skin felt terribly cold. He shivered.

Akira-

Impossible!

– hugged him fiercely.

No! You're dead!

Akira's face loomed inches away, his sad eyes narrowed with alarm, eyes that Savage had just seen blink from a severed head resting upright on the floor.

Akira again repeated, this time whispering, “No.” Savage slowly peered around. The image of the blood- spattered hallway in the Medford Gap Mountain Retreat blurred and dissolved, replaced by the tasteful furnishings in a room, in a suite, in a hotel off Fifth Avenue.

The room was mostly dark, except for a dim light next to a chair in a comer to the left of the door to the hallway. Akira, having slept while Savage kept watch, had taken his turn on guard.