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“Of course,” Kashimora said. “Trust me, there’s no way for them to escape now.”
Han nodded. “Then I’ll depart and let you handle it.”
“You’re leaving?”
Han knew it wasn’t his finest moment, but he had to get out of there. If he was exposed, the entire plan would come apart. And the leaders of the Party in China would sacrifice him to save themselves. “What purpose does my staying serve? You said it yourself: there’s no way for them to escape.”
Kashimora had been trapped by his own words. “If this goes badly for us, you will hear about it,” he threatened.
“You forget your station,” Han said. “I deal with those much higher in the syndicate than you. My patronage is appreciated and has been for years.” He put his hand on the door, not waiting for permission. “If the American has friends here, I expect you to find them and eliminate them. If not, get rid of the one in the ring and leave no trace of his existence.”
Kashimora bristled but did not try to prevent his leaving. “Take the wild man with you,” he said. “Don’t ever bring him here again.”
Han opened the door and motioned to Oni. They left together.
Kashimora remained behind, stewing for the moment and frustrated. He grabbed the opera glasses off the table and scanned the arena himself. He saw nothing out of order and lowered the glasses, pointing to his empty tumbler as a cocktail waitress entered.
“Scotch.”
He sat down in an overstuffed chair as she freshened his drink and delivered it.
Without acknowledging her, he brought the glass to his mouth, tipped it back and consumed half the liquid inside. The fiery liquid burned in just the right way and Kashimora felt instantly calmer.
He put the tumbler down and turned his attention back to the fight. The second round had gone much like the first. The hulking giant attacking and the nimble American dodging and weaving.
“Maybe Han is right,” he said to himself. “Perhaps he is waiting for rescue.”
“Then we’d better not disappoint him,” a voice said from behind them.
Kashimora whirled in his chair. The American accent was unmistakable, the white dinner jacket confirming who it was that had spoken. Kashimora noticed the man was unarmed but smiling.
“You must be Austin.”
“I am,” the man replied, taking a seat.
“How did you get in here?”
“With surprising ease,” Austin replied smugly. “Now that most of your men are out there looking for me, the hallways are empty. And your guards at the door were easy to distract and subdue.”
“I don’t need guards to protect myself,” Kashimora said, producing a snub-nosed pistol and aiming it at the American’s chest.
Instead of fear or even caution, Austin merely raised his hands in a halfhearted manner as if he were surrendering. He wore an outright grin on his face. Not the look of a defeated man. “I wouldn’t pull that trigger, if I was you.”
“You’ll wish I had when you’re drowning at the bottom of Tokyo Bay with your friend.”
“And you’ll wish you’d listened to me,” the American replied, “when your heart goes into an uncontrollable fibrillation and your arteries begin leaking blood out of every pore and body cavity.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Whatever happens to me happens to you,” Austin told him. “Either we both live or we both die. It’s up to you.”
“Lies and a bad attempt to bl
uff. That doesn’t work well around here.”
Austin held up an empty plastic vial and tossed it to him. Kashimora caught it with his free hand. A bitter residue clung to the sides.
“That was filled with heparin,” Kurt said. “A powerful blood thinner. Very similar to rat poison. You’ve ingested a fatal dose in that beverage of yours. Enough to kill a man three times your size—like the one trying to beat up my friend down there. The alcohol masks the taste of the drug, but I imagine you can detect a metallic and bitter flavor on your tongue at this point.”
