Bad Blood (36 page)

Shit. Tozzi realized he could have done something that time. If he'd been quicker, he could've tackled him from the side while the sword was stuck in the pavement and gotten Mashiro away from his weapon. Or he could've punched him in the kidneys. Or grabbed him from behind and tied him up in a full-nelson. He knew what Neil had preached about resisting the natural urge to fight with your emotions and revert to ingrained streetfighting methods. He remembered all that stuff about the dangers of losing your one point and getting unsettled. But this was ridiculous. He knew how to street-fight. He didn't know aikido. Anyway, all he had to do was keep Mashiro busy until Gibbons got there. He glanced over his shoulder. Goddamn Gibbons who was still fifty yards away, taking his ever-loving sweet time getting here with that old crony of his, whoever the hell he was.

The sun beamed off the samurai's black helmet. The small brass plates on his armored chest shimmered. Mashiro was shouting nonstop now, ranting at Tozzi. He was breathing heavily, and the tracks of his sweat marbleized the bloodstains on his face. He smelled awful.

Come on, man. Do it again. Same move. Come on, you ugly mother. Do me a favor.

An inhuman guttural scream erupted from the samurai as he rushed again, sword held high over his head.

Tozzi grinned. Goddamn! He was doing it again! The same move!

He steadied himself, forcing his legs to stay still until the right moment, waiting for the sword to begin its downward arc, waiting for the moment, anticipating his counterattack.

Tozzi waited, waited, then moved, spinning out to the side, bringing himself shoulder to shoulder with Mashiro as the blade sliced the space where he'd been. Now! He stepped behind Mashiro and reached under his elbows, visualizing his hands slipping under Mashiro's armpits, his fingers linking behind the samurai's sweaty neck
under the helmet. He could feel himself bearing down fast and hard, forcing him to drop the sword.

His mind was there before he hands were, though, and it didn't happen the way he envisioned it.

As Tozzi reached out and committed himself to his attack, Mashiro suddenly wheeled around and struck, cutting Tozzi just above the elbow with the part of the blade closest to the hilt. The shock of being cut made everything go black for a microsecond. Then Tozzi heard one of the women screaming, and instinctively he grabbed the wound with his other hand and backpedalled the hell out of the way before the killing blow came.

Mashiro was growling and laughing. Tozzi looked down at his arm. His jacket and shirt were neatly sliced; blood was seeping through his fingers. That goddamn thing was sharp as a razor. Tozzi suddenly felt guilty. This was his punishment for disregarding Neil's instruction. Catholic school logic.

“Shoot him! Shoot him!”

The samurai turned his attention to the voice screaming from the van.

“Shoot him!”

Roxanne was yelling at Lorraine who was clutching the revolver in both hands, squinting and wincing, trying to track Mashiro who was stalking them now, moving evasively right and left as he approached the van with that scorpion scuttle of his. His grunting was cocky and menacing, spider-and-the-fly menacing. It was obvious to him too that Lorraine had never fired a gun.

“Hey, asshole!” Tozzi shouted. “Come finish me off! Come on, you bastard, don't leave me like this! Finish the job, you dishonorable son of a bitch you!”

Mashiro paid him no mind, intent on doing his sidewinder dance toward the women.

Roxanne was going crazy up there. Shit! Leave them alone, you thick-headed bastard. Tozzi ran on the balls of his feet, ran right up behind Mashiro, and kicked him in the seat of his pants.

Mashiro erupted, turning and slashing repeatedly, enraged.

Tozzi jumped back out of range, gripping his wound, trying to ignore his own lightheadedness. “Me, asshole! You deal with me first!”

Mashiro broke into an awkward, hobbled run. Tozzi turned
quickly and ran, too, sprinting away from the samurai. But then Tozzi heard an unearthly roar behind him, and he slowed down to look over his shoulder. Mashiro was just standing there in position, his sword up in the batter's stance again, waiting for Tozzi to answer his challenge. Tozzi glanced at the van, then turned and faced him. He wasn't going to be afraid.

Mashiro charged quickly and attacked. Tozzi ducked, the blade whirring over his head. Mashiro stumbled with the force of his own swing, and Tozzi kicked him in the butt again, then started to run back the other way.

“Come on, ugly! Catch me!” He glanced ahead at the van and caught the terror in Roxanne's face. He looked back over his shoulder as he ran. Mashiro thrust his sword into a brown Corolla's headlight and let loose with that gravelly shout again, the samurai war cry. He broke into a wild run, chasing Tozzi for all he was worth, following as Tozzi zigzagged down the aisle, taunting him, circling around and dodging him. Tozzi wondered who was going to run out of steam first. Up ahead, Tozzi could see the rear end of the black Caddy, Roxanne and Lorraine standing on the tailgate of the van just beyond. Panting for breath, he felt weak and faint, but Mashiro's plodding footsteps were right behind him now. He couldn't think now, just do. Adrenalin worked his legs as the presence behind him got closer. He glanced back quickly and saw the threatening shimmer of the blade. He kept running, pushing. Go, go, don't stop. Then he suddenly remembered something from last night. The sword was moving toward his head now, he could feel it coming. No time to think. Just do. And he did.

Tozzi stopped abruptly and turned to face Mashiro, the way Neil had shown him. As the sword descended just inches from Tozzi's face, he grabbed Mashiro's hands on the hilt, braced the samurai's elbow, pumped down once to take his balance, then once more with feeling to do the throw. Mashiro flipped over in a flash. Tozzi blinked and panicked, suddenly remembering that he was supposed to take the sword away, too. Mashiro still had the goddamn sword. But when he looked up, he saw the samurai's body suspended in mid-air, upside-down, jerking violently. Tozzi blinked. He was confused. This wasn't right. The sword slipped from Mashiro's fingers then and clattered onto the pavement. Tozzi felt dizzy. He couldn't figure out what the hell—

But then the blood dripped off the chrome point of the Caddy's tailfin and it glinted in the sun, sticking out of Mashiro's chest, and Tozzi finally realized that the samurai was impaled there. Like a Japanese beetle stuck on a pin.

“Madonna mia!”

Tozzi turned toward the raspy voice and was surprised to see that the old geezer hanging on Gibbons's arm was Carmine Antonelli.

“Quiet.” Gibbons scowled down at the old don, then looked over at Tozzi who was prodding his wound.

“You hurt bad?” Gibbons asked.

Tozzi gasped for air and coughed. “I dunno. I don't think so.”

“Put your arm up over your head. Higher than your heart,” Antonelli said. “It'll control the bleeding.”

Gibbons glared at him. “You a doctor now?”

Antonelli shrugged. “Just trying to help.”

“Just try to shut up.”

Antonelli shrugged again and looked away.

Gibbons took a look at the wound. “He's right. Put your arm up. By the way, I take back what I said about whatever it is you're studying. Aikido, right? Nice move. I'm impressed.”

Tozzi made a face and shook his head at the dangling samurai. “I don't know,” he muttered. “It worked, I guess, but it didn't feel right—”

“Jesus, you're a violent son of a bitch. You never told me this about yourself.” Roxanne came around from behind him and pulled his arm down so she could look at it. Without asking, she helped him out of his jacket, then ripped the torn sleeve off his shirt and made a tourniquet out of it. Her eyes were soft and caring. The touch of her hands made him feel even more lightheaded. Maybe she wasn't mad anymore.

“Aren't you going to say ‘thank you' for the rescue?” he asked.

“I wasn't planning on it.”

“No?” Shit.

She smiled slyly then and showed that incredible space between her teeth. “But if it'll make you feel better—”

“No, no, no . . . it's okay.” Tozzi grinned. “Just tell me one thing. How the hell did you get mixed up with—?”

Tozzi suddenly became aware of Lorraine standing beside him. She stood there like a zombie, her arms hanging limp, her hair wild.
She stared at his wound as Roxanne wrapped it, tears brimming in her eyes.

“Here,” she said, suddenly sticking his gun into his holster.

“What's wrong, Lorraine? Are you hurt?” Tozzi knew what was wrong, but he didn't know what to say to her. He looked at Gibbons. Don't be a jerk. Say something.

Lorraine's eyes flashed like a death ray as she glared at Gibbons. “No. I'm not hurt.” Her voice was like ice. Tozzi'd never heard her sound so vengeful.

Tozzi looked at Gibbons who was just staring at Lorraine. Gibbons let out a long sigh, but he didn't say anything. What the hell was he waiting for?

She turned abruptly and stomped off. Tozzi waited for Gibbons to say something, to stop her, to go to her, but the asshole didn't. He felt for them both really, but maybe a little more for her. Aw, come on, Gib. I know it's hard, but don't be a jerk. Don't do this to her.

Antonelli started coughing and wheezing then, and Gibbons glared at him as if he'd done something wrong. Lorraine was already in the next aisle, still walking. Gibbons kept looking down at the little old man. He kept
not
looking at Lorraine. What the hell's wrong with you, man?

A chill wind suddenly blew in off the bay, pushing the gliding gulls sideways across the sunny sky. Tozzi sighed and shook his head. Roxanne wasn't smiling anymore. She knew what was going on. He let out a long, disgusted sigh and stared at the dead samurai impaled on the fin of the old black Caddy that was just like the one his father used to have. The sun was bright and hot for this time of year. A stream of very red blood was snaking its way across the black asphalt from the dark puddle that had collected under the shadow of the chrome bumper. Tozzi sniffed and wiped the sweat off his face. The big black bug bled black blood.

IVERS HAD THAT constipated look again. His lips were thin and tight, and his brow was furrowed. He sat there behind his big mahogany desk in that awful shit-brown suit of his, making faces at the letters on his desk, trying to maintain some semblance of being the Special Agent in Charge of this field office. Gibbons almost felt for the guy. This one must've been a bitch to explain to the Director.

Tozzi was in the other chair across from Ivers, both feet on the floor, both hands on the arms. He looked calm and composed, his face relaxed. He claimed he was learning how to keep his “one point,” whatever the fuck that was. Somewhere under his belly button, he said. What a whack. This aikido shit is going to his head. He's going fucking zen now. Jesus.

Ivers's chair creaked, and he started huffing and puffing again, blowing air out his nose loud enough for his secretary outside to hear. The Big Bad Wolf was going to give it another try.

“You're originals, you two.” He picked up one of the letters on his desk. “This one is from Amnesty International. You'll be getting letters of commendation from them for your work in freeing the slaves.” Ivers shook his head. “FBI agents getting kudos from Amnesty International. This has to be a first.”

Ivers picked up another letter. “The Japanese ambassador has invited you two to a luncheon. They want to give you medals or some such shit for your”—he looked down at the letter—“your ‘heroic
efforts in single-handedly rescuing Japanese citizens victimized by an international criminal conspiracy.'” He looked at them over his half-glasses. “Nice.”

Gibbons's stomach went sour as he thought about raw fish. “Forget it. I'm not eating sushi.”

“You ever try it?” Tozzi said. “It's not bad.”

Ivers glared at them.
“Everybody
loves you. The whole world thinks you're both just wonderful. Thanks to all the news coverage over the weekend, even the President has inquired about you two. The Director ended up having to do a fancy little tap dance in the Oval Office this morning, answering a lot of questions he really didn't have good answers for. He got on the horn with me right afterwards and put my balls in the vise. What the hell's going on up here? he wants to know. An international slave trade in the United States and he knows nothing about it? Two special agents from the New York office playing Batman and Robin against a yakuza-Mafia coalition, but he doesn't know a goddamn thing about it. All
I
know is what I read in the papers, since you guys apparently think filing regular reports is beneath you. But I can't very well tell him that, can I? No, I have to do a fancy little tap dance of my own. That's what
I
had to do.”

Gibbons scratched his nose. He didn't need this bullshit. “Sorry for your trouble.” Asshole.

“You know, everybody else may think you're heroes, but I don't. I think you're hotdogs. Disruptive, insubordinate hotdogs. You're a mockery of everything the Bureau stands for.”