The Fifth Profession (39 page)

Savage still held the sword so it was pointed toward the ceiling. Using both hands to grip its handle, mustering the full strength of his arms, he whipped the blade down. At the same time, he released his grip and hurtled the sword toward the man in the corridor.

He'd aimed the blade's tip toward the intruder's chest. In the dark, he couldn't see the sword flying. Hoping to hear cloth tear, flesh being sliced, instead he heard the clang of metal against metal.

The blade had struck the intruder's pistol.

The handgun thumped on the floor.

The intruder pivoted, his murky silhouette disappearing. Footsteps charged along the corridor toward the back of the house.

Savage heard bodies collide, Eko gasping, someone falling. He rushed toward the hole in the wall.

Akira got there before him, stooping, fumbling for something. “Where's the gun?” He barked a Japanese expletive when his pawing hands failed to find it. Cursing again, he grabbed the sword and lunged through the hole in the wall.

Savage followed in time to glimpse the intruder stoop beside a body, pick up another sword, and rush through the open back door.

The body on the floor in the doorway was Churi, who lay on his chest with his legs toward the porch.

With a wail of outrage, Akira, too, leaped over him, landed warily, ready with his sword in case the intruder was hiding in wait for him, then scurried off the porch into the blackness of the garden.

About to race down the corridor and join the pursuit, Savage suddenly paused when his foot struck an object. The handgun Akira had been searching for. He scooped it up and ran.

Eko staggered from her room, shaken by the intruder's impact against her.

Savage pivoted sideways, frantically passed her, saw a dark stain on Churi's back as he leaped over him, and crouched on the porch, aiming the pistol toward the garden.

From the handgun's shape, Savage knew that it was a Beretta 9 mm, the sidearm for NATO and the U.S. armed forces. A silencer projected from its barrel. Its magazine held fifteen rounds.

He shifted nervously toward the shelter of the steps that led to the hot tub and continued staring toward the garden, aiming the Beretta. A three-quarter moon and the spill of streetlights from beyond the garden's wall made the garden less murky than the house's interior. He saw the shadows of rocks and shrubs on the golden sand. He was even able to see the dark curves of the rake marks in the sand.

And two sets of widely spaced footprints that showed where Akira had chased the intruder toward the greater blackness of the rear of the garden.

Though Savage strained his vision, he couldn't see farther than thirty paces beyond the porch. Toward the back, a dark cloud seemed to have settled. He heard traffic beyond the wall, a distant car horn, a faraway squeal of brakes, and abruptly amid the darkness at the rear of the garden, steel clanged against steel, a sharp, hard, high-pitched reverberation: swords colliding.

Another clang instantly followed. And another, fierce and urgent.

Savage sprang from behind the steps. Chest tight, he raced toward the garden. The sand was cold, his bare feet sinking into it as he scrambled past a rock, then a shrub. The closer he sped toward the rear of the garden, the better he could see. Moonlight flashed off swords. The clang of their impacts intensified. He jerked to a stop, startled by a dark figure rushing backward toward him, sword raised, blocking a thrust, darting to the right, striking in return.

The flurry of movement was so unexpected, a blur in the night, that Savage couldn't tell if the figure was Akira or the intruder. He raised the Beretta, prepared to fire the moment he had an unambiguous target. The two figures circled each other, both hands gripping their swords, the blades on an upward angle.

Akira! Savage recognized him.

Akira
had
been the figure who'd abruptly appeared, rushing backward. Savage aimed the Beretta, but before he could shoot Akira's opponent, the two men struck at each other, parried, darted sideways, struck yet again, and rapidly circled.

Savage concentrated, focusing along the Beretta's sights. Sweat streamed off his forehead. His trigger finger was tensely poised. If they'd just stop moving, he thought. Stand still for a second! That's all I need! A second! No more! Just time for one clean shot!

But the figures kept striking, darting, exchanging positions. The intruder lunged into Savage's line of fire. Before there was time to shoot, Akira replaced the intruder.

The swords collided more rapidly.

Savage kept aiming.

“Stay out of this, Savage! He's mine!
For Churi!”

Reluctant, Savage lowered the handgun. If he shot the intruder, if he denied Akira the chance to maintain his honor by avenging his student, Akira would never forgive him.

Stepping back from the fight, Savage watched in dismay. Helplessness soured his stomach.

Akira's blade flashed toward the intruder's chest. The intruder twisted away and struck at Akira's head. Or seemed to, for the movement was a feint. As Akira thrust to block the sword, the intruder twisted again and swung with stunning speed toward Akira's right thigh.

The force of the blow would have severed Akira's leg. But breathing fiercely, Akira leaped backward. The moment he hit the sand, he dodged to the left, avoiding a further eyeblink-rapid strike. While the blade hissed past him, Akira swung. Lunged. Swung again, forcing his opponent to retreat. Lunged and swung again, anticipating that his opponent would dodge to the left.

The intruder reversed his direction and thrust. Akira veered nimbly, attacking with a flurry of blows—upward, sideways, downward—all the while advancing, his speed and grace astonishing.

Abruptly he pivoted sideways and crooked his left arm in front of his chest. Resting the flat of his blade on his forearm, gripping the sword with his other hand, directing the tip of the blade straight ahead, he took short, smooth, relentless steps toward his opponent.

The opponent backed away.

Akira kept advancing.

The opponent continued his retreat, unexpectedly shifted to the left, and began to circle Akira, who stopped his advance and turned in place, remaining eye to eye with his circling enemy.

The intruder attacked. As Akira dodged, he slipped on the sand, lurched backward, and bumped against a rock. His blink of surprise made Savage moan.

Heart swollen, Savage jerked the Beretta up, aiming.

The intruder slashed toward Akira.

Akira darted sideways. The intruder's sword whacked chips from the rock, and Akira swung upward, slicing his enemy's torso from the lower left to the upper right. With the sound of a zipper being opened, Akira severed the intruder's intestines, stomach, and rib cage.

Blood fountained. Organs cascaded. Wheezing, the intruder dropped his sword, stumbled backward, jerked grotesquely, and toppled into what looked like a black pit behind him.

The pit was a pond. The intruder splashed heavily, water erupting. As the waves subsided, he floated, face up, eyes wide, motionless.

Numb, Savage approached. In the night, he couldn't see the crimson that tainted the water, but he imagined it. Intestines floated. Despite his years of witnessing death, he wanted to vomit.

Akira stared at the corpse. His chest heaved. Swallowing audibly, he turned to Savage. “I thank you for not interfering.”

“It took all my self-control.”

“But I knew that I could depend on you.” Sweat glistened, reflecting moonlight, on Akira's face.

“Listen,” Savage said. “In the house. I didn't try to help you right away because—”

“You had to see to our principal's safety first.”

“Right. Our principal. The reflex was automatic. It had nothing to do with the way I feel about her.”

“And if she
hadn't
been our principal but simply the woman you love?” Akira asked.

Savage didn't know the answer.

“In that case, I think it's fortunate,” Akira said, “that the woman you love
is
our principal.”

“Yes,” Savage said, distressed, at the same time grateful that Akira had absolved him. “Extremely fortunate.”

“How did they get in? The top of each wall has intrusion sensors.” Akira passed the pond, no longer staring at the corpse that floated there. He reached the back wall and paced along it toward the right.

Savage followed him to a corner, then along another wall. Fifteen seconds later, they came to a rope imbedded in the sand. The rope slanted up toward the top of a four-story building. Akira dug into the sand. In the ground beneath it, he found that the rope was attached to a bolt.

“They fired the bolt from the roof of the building,” Akira said. “The device they used to fire it must have had a sound suppressor. Either that or they used an extremely powerful catapult, something silent like a crossbow that Churi wouldn't hear.”

“And as soon as the rope was anchored, they slid down, avoiding the top of the wall,” Savage said. “But your house has intrusion detectors as well. How did they get inside?”

Akira walked despondently toward the house. “Churi let them.”

“What?
But I thought you trusted him.”

“Without question.” They neared the back porch. Akira pointed toward Churi's body. “Note his position. The door is open. He fell, half in, half out of the house. He's on his stomach. His head is within the corridor.” They reached the body. “And he has blood on his back. A bullet hole.”

“So he was going into the house when he was shot from behind,” Savage said.

Akira knelt and touched Churi's shoulder. His voice was thick with grief. “The evidence supports that conclusion. There's a switch hidden near the hot tub that shuts off the sensors. After standing watch for hours, Churi must have felt the need to enter the house, possibly to use the bathroom. When he shut off the sensors and opened the door, he was shot.”

And his last frantic breath must have been the cough I heard, Savage thought. The sounds of the door being opened, of Churi falling, must have been what made me wake up, but I wasn't aware I'd heard them. They also woke Akira.

“Handguns are strictly controlled in Japan,” Akira said. “That's why Churi had the sword, which the man in the pool grabbed as he ran from the house. Presumably Churi intended to reactivate the intrusion sensors after he entered and locked the door. Note the urine stain around his hips.” Akira stroked the back of Churi's head. “My dear friend, how could you have been so foolish? So many times I told you, don't breach the perimeter of what you're guarding. Don't leave your post. Make sure you relieve yourself before you go on duty, and if the needs of your body later insist, urinate in your clothes. Soundlessly. The discomfort you'll feel is nothing compared to the need to fulfill your obligation as a protector.
Why, Churi?
Did I not teach you well enough? Was I not worthy to be your
sensei?”
Akira's shoulders heaved. He sobbed, leaned down, and kissed the back of Churi's neck.

Savage watched helplessly. There was nothing he could think of to say. Every consoling statement that occurred to him seemed pathetically inadequate.

At last, compassion told him what to do. No speeches. No rationalizations. No attempt to minimize the loss or try to make some sense of it. Two heartfelt words would say it all.

“I'm sorry.” Savage gripped Akira's heaving shoulders.

Wiping his tears, struggling for breath, Akira said, his voice unsteady,
“Domo arigato.”

A movement in the corridor caught Savage's attention. Glancing up from Akira, he saw Eko standing in front of Churi. Tears streamed down her face. Slowly kneeling, then sitting, she cradled her grandson's head.

Savage felt choked.

But another movement in the corridor attracted his gaze as well. Like someone who'd been hypnotized, Rachel stepped haltingly from the dark. Her face was disturbingly pale, her features slack, her eyes blank with shock.

She stared uncomprehendingly straight ahead, seemingly unaware of Eko sitting before her, of Akira stroking Churi's hair, of Savage gripping Akira's shoulders.

Unfocused, though directed toward the garden, her eyes refused to blink.

My God, Savage thought. He shivered when he studied her arms straight down her sides and realized she held a pistol in her right hand, its silencer pointing toward her right foot. After we left the house, she must have gone back to my room. She must have found the pistol on the floor beside the first intruder Akira killed.

I told her to stay in the front of the house.

Why didn't she listen? What's she doing with the gun?

Feeling pressure behind his ears, Savage cautiously straightened. Afraid that he'd startle her, make her flinch and reflexively fire the pistol, he moved slowly, stepped gingerly past Akira, Churi, and Eko, and warily put both hands on hers. As he shifted the weapon so it was pointed toward a wall, he removed her finger from the trigger and pried her fingers off the grip.

“There,” he said. His shoulders relaxing, he set the pistol on the floor. “That's better. I know you're scared, but you shouldn't have picked up the gun. You might have shot yourself. Or one of us.”

She didn't reply, didn't seem aware that he'd taken the gun, but just kept staring toward the night.

“Before you pick up a pistol again,” Savage said, “wait till I teach you how to handle it.”

“Know,” she whispered.

“Know?”

“How to handle one.”

“Of course, you do.” Savage hoped he didn't sound as if he humored her.

“Father taught me.” Though close to him, Rachel's murmur sounded far away.

Savage waited, his arm around her. Her back was disturbingly rigid.

“Rifles, pistols, shotguns. Skeet shooting every Sunday. He once made me kill a pheasant.” She shuddered.

“Long ago,” Savage said. “And what happened tonight is over. You're safe now.”

“For
now. It isn't going to end. Others will come. They'll never stop.”

“You're wrong,” Savage said. “They will stop. We'll make them stop. And I'll protect you.”

“Had to … Picked up the pistol. Three of them.”