He made a satisfied sound somewhere between an
ah
and a grunt. “Come hold this for a second.”
Hana complied, glancing again at the guard. He was very quiet and watchful, barely moving a muscle. She frowned beneath her hood, thinking again that he reacted strangely. Typically guards in such a position had two emotions: fear or anger, or a blend of both. This guy just watched . . . as if waiting. But there was nothing to do but help Ernie so they could get the heck out of there.
She held the tube steady while he fed another thin, flexible wire down the tube's length, slowly and carefully, using the viewing screen as his guide. The wire had a hook on the end that popped out and widened once it reached the opening in the tube. Ernie maneuvered the wire slowly, slowly, feeding it to a location mystifying to her but obviously premeasured to him. Finally, he stopped pushing and turned his wrist to a pulling position. The hook caught on a small release lever she could barely make out in the gloom of the safe interior on the tiny view screen.
Ernie pulled, slow and gentle. When the hook was firmly caught on the lever, he tugged harder. With a slight scraping sound, the latch moved. The safe door opened with a soft
whish
of air, gapping an inch. No alarm, no glass breaking. Lights automatically came on in the interior.
She knew Ernie was smiling behind his hood because she heard it in his voice. “Release mechanism in case someone gets stuck inside. The safer they make these things, the easier they are to break into.”
Ernie took a swaggering step to push the door wide. He froze. Slowly, his hands lifted in the air. He backed up.
Hana was standing to the side, distracted. Her heart was leaping as she visualized holding the katana for the first time, this sword her ancestors had died to protect. But when Ernie raised his hands, she snapped to attention. Her gaze frantically scanned the room, and then she bolted toward the window. She looked out, preparing to grab the nylon rope she'd anchored.
It was gone. She looked up at the anchor bolt she'd shot into the side of the building. She saw a neat inch of rope still tied to the bolt. It had a straight edgeâit had been cut. By a very sharp knife.
The little bravado she'd retained deflated instantly. She ducked inside. As she slowly turned toward the safe, she knew whom she'd see. Ernie had backed up until his tall form blocked her view, but she recognized the voice.
“Hello, Hana.” Zachary Travis stepped outside the safe, where he'd obviously been waiting. He held a Glock on them. With his free hand, he used a wicked-looking special forces knife to cut the guard free. “Nice to see you again.” Somehow, despite his pleasant tone, his voice dripped with contempt.
Slipping the knife back into a sheath at his waist, he pressed the mike on the side of his head. “Situation secure. Backup requested.”
Feet stormed up the hallway outside. The door they'd locked lost its bolt as it was rammed to the ground.
Then a SWAT team wearing DPS insignia crowded into the room.
Zach eyed Ernie's tall form. “And you are?”
Ernie shrugged. “Smart enough not to answer without my lawyer present.”
Then they were both handcuffed, hands in front. One of the men pulled Ernie's hood off. The head of the SWAT team moved to shove Hana ahead of him out the door, but Zach stopped him.
“Wait a minute.” He disappeared inside the safe and exited, holding a long bundle wrapped in red silk and gold cord. “Is this what you were looking for?” He jerked his head at the SWAT commander. The man pulled off Hana's hood and stepped back, grinning.
She blinked, her vision adjusting to the dim lighting. Then she focused on the long object. Her eyes filled with tears. She bit her lip rather than give him the satisfaction of her despair.
Snapping on the overhead light, Zach unwrapped the sword, reverently holding it out toward her. “Beautiful, isn't it?” He turned it this way and that. The many layers of lacquer on the highly glossed black sheath made it gleam. He pulled the sheath off. The elegant sing of the blade as it came free sent a shiver down her spine.
She knew what the Nakatomi katana looked like because she'd seen multiple family pictures taken before the blade was lost to them in the 1940s. This sword was even more beautiful because then the blade had been dull, slightly pockmarked on the edge, its fine silk-woven hilt, in the traditional diamond-shaped pattern, a bit frayed.
It had been totally refurbished by experts. The diamond-shaped triangles were now sharp in that distinctive samurai form, allowing a firm grip on the long hilt designed to be wielded two-handed. The sheath was simple bamboo, she recalled, but it was black as ebony, glossy now with many coats of lacquer. The hilt was a stylized hawk, the heraldry symbol of the Nakatomi family, slight flecks of the original gilding remaining. And the blade . . . It looked as if it had recently been polished. It shone, reflecting every tiny ray of light as Zach moved it from side to side. A slight hazing of the steel made a very faint pattern of feathers. Hana knew if the blade was removed from the fittings, the Nakatomi
mon
, or crest, would be imprinted on the steel: A crossing hawk in a circle.
The edge was obviously very sharp, which Zach demonstrated on a piece of paper from the desk. With one small stroke, the paper fluttered to the floor in two distinctive pieces.
He turned to Hana with a cold smile. “Sharp, isn't it? Would you like to test it out yourself on your next victim?”
Zach and the SWAT team leader both watched her expression and body language, but Hana barely heard the taunt, focused only on the katana. Her fingers itched and she had to clench them into fists to avoid the urge to grab it. Which was impossible, considering her hands were cuffed, but for now, she was focused only on the katana.
It was the blade that made the sword so unique and valuable. In fact, samurai swords were sometimes displayed with only the blade showing. Masamune swords, seven centuries after his death, were still strong and flexible, almost invulnerable to breaking. Made by hand in three different consistencies of tempered steel, the Nakatomi katana had been forged, turned, and cooled many times so that the sword was of different tensile strengths depending upon the strike: body blow with the side edge, stab with the tip, or sword-to-sword locked in battle near the hilt. Masamune swords had been hugely prized even in the heyday of the samurai before modern imperial Japan. Now, they were literally priceless . . . but it wasn't money she and her grandfather wanted.
This blade belonged to them.
Their ancestors had used it in battle, generation after generation. Nakatomi tears had blessed it, forging a bond reaching across the ages as strong as the steel. Automatically, for she felt it her birthright, she reached out without thinking, her hands still cuffed. “Give it to me.”
Zach looked at her as if she were crazy. “I don't care to be gutted too.” He stuck the sword back in the sheath and rewrapped the blade in its red protective covering.
What was he talking about? Hana knew he was accusing her of something awful, but she had no idea of the specifics. This would be her only chance to get the sword to Jiji in time . . . before he . . .
She gnawed at her lip so hard she tasted blood. “Please, may I borrow it? For just a day?” She debated telling him her family history.
Zach gave her a cold glance before he handed the sword to the armed head of the SWAT team. “My dad is expecting it. You'll take it in the armored transport?”
The man nodded. He held it reverently as he exited.
Hana swallowed back her tears as yet again, the blade was taken far beyond her reach. She knew it was useless, but still she tried. “I've never cut anyone with a sword in my life. I did not kill your friends.”
“Yes, well, you can tell that to the brass. My job is done.” Zach turned on his heel and left her to be shoved down the hallway to the elevator, her hands still cuffed.
Chapter 6
A
s she sat in her holding cell awaiting interrogation, Hana reflected glumly on all the key concepts of karate she'd violated on the second transgression that landed her in a jail cell: Free the mind; support righteousness; karate begins and ends in respect. And most of all, never attack first.
Yet how could she obtain the sword without attacking? Perhaps she should have just gone to John Travis and thrown herself on his mercy, asking pretty please to borrow the sword. But she suspected his reaction would have been the same as his son'sâscorn and disbelief. And always, Takeo's stalwart little figure hovered above every karate precept. She'd had no choice but to give Kai the blade if it was the only way to free her son.
With time for nothing but reflection, she stopped in front of the tiny window, looking at the patch of blue above her head. It reminded her of the porthole that had decorated their cabin on the yacht they'd used to sail the Aegean. How many years ago now? Six, at least. One of Kai's allies had loaned it to them shortly after they became lovers. She usually avoided thinking of that time, for that was when she'd fallen deeply in love with the boy who seemed as wrongly outcast as she felt. She couldn't reach the window, but she put her palm flat against the wall beneath it, tears coming to her eyes despite her best efforts.
How had they come to this, when she'd loved him so in the beginning? She knew the answer: Because he let his resolve to prove himself better than his father twist him beyond recognition. The Yakuza were not known for paternal excellence, but they drilled the concept of duty and loyalty into their offspring from a very early age. Hana knew that Kai had been lucky to escape with his life when he violated all his oaths to gain control of his father's empire. He was twenty-two, an illegal immigrant, she a sixteen year old American born and bred, when they became lovers. They'd been sparring in the ring together as Ernie's two star pupils since she was twelve.
And yet . . . she'd made excuses for him then. He was so strong, so smart, and so charming. She understood that he'd felt stifled under his restraints, for her mother continually tried to make her into her image of a proper Japanese girlâcomplete with kimono and wooden clogs. It was their mutual rebellion that brought them together. Initially, at least. But Kai had been a tender lover, already much more experienced than she because he was six years older and she was a virgin.
On that particular voyage, the world was as limitless and new as the horizon. Kai helped her look past duty to see the possibilities of a life without such restrictions. She had been his sole focus of attention.
She remembered their first morning in the sun-streaked cabin. The scent of their long night of lovemaking still wafted from the silk sheets. Kai was insatiable, and she so enjoyed everything he was teaching her that she ignored her soreness because she wanted only to please him. Afterward, Hana had always suspected Takeo had been conceived on that morning when Kai bent her backward over the side of the bed, tilting her hips up, and took her over and over; not violently, but with his firm stamp of possession.
Only when they were both sweaty and panting did he let her rest. He'd teasingly brushed back a damp tendril of hair from her temple. “A fitting woman for the new leader of the Edo Shihans never tires of her master's touch.”
Even then, Hana recalled, she'd inwardly balked a bit at his arrogance, but his smile made his face so beautiful that she'd merely circled his strong mouth with her fingertip. “Yes, master; anything you say, master.” And when he lowered his mouth to kiss her, she squirmed free and leaped up, running with a taunting laugh to the tiny head to lock him out and shower. He made a pretense of banging on the door, but she heard him laughing too.
And so it had gone for two glorious weeks. They stopped at island after island, making love in every possible position on the ship, on the islands. Once Kai even bent her over a tree branch. By the time they returned to Austin, he might as well have been her master in deed as he was in name . . . and so she'd violated every lesson her mother and Jiji ever taught her. She let him turn her into a drug mule.
At that moment, a cloud blocked the brilliant blue sky, turning it gray, tainting her memories gray too. That past of shadows and brightness had brought her to this uncertain future. While she was chastising herself and swearing never again would she be so vulnerable to a man, a uniformed female warden came and fetched her, putting her in cuffs, and most humiliating of all, in ankle chains.
As they were attached, Hana mused, “I don't know whether to be upset or flattered that I'm considered so dangerous.”
The woman shoved her hard between the shoulder blades down the hallway, forcing Hana to stumble to catch her balance. “Rangers don't take kindly to butchering, especially one of their own.”
For once, Hana obeyed every karate precept and held her tongue. This was the second time someone had implied she was a butcher, and smart or not, her temper was beginning to simmer.
When she arrived in the interrogation room, three people sat there. She recognized John Travis, but had no idea who the other two were: A woman, tall and imposing even sitting down, and another man in a ranger's badge with iron gray hair and bright blue eyes. Hana barely glanced at them, instead fixating on the long, wrapped object on the table: the katana, still in red silk.
After the gray-haired man read her the Miranda warning for the second time, John Travis took charge. “We will be recording this conversation. You waive your right to an attorney?”
Hana nodded. “I can't afford a good one and a bad one is worse than none. Besides, I honestly believe the evidence will prove my innocence.”
Travis began. “Zach tells us you only wanted to borrow the blade. You'll forgive me if I find that a bit incredible, given we have your DNA match after you broke into my home. Doesn't sound like someone looking to borrow anything. Sounds like someone out to steal.”
Hana forced herself to look at him instead of the blade, making sure her face was calm. “How do you know I was after the katana? You have many other valuable things in your study.”
John Travis leaned across the table, his eyes so narrow and menacing it was all she could do not to shrink back into her chair. “Young woman, I suggest you dispense with the stalling game and answer me yes or no, and a
sir
tacked on would be nice. Otherwise, I'll let my upper ranks have their way and urge the DA to give you maximum charges for B and E. Given the value of this sword and that you were caught red-handed twice, that's first-degree felonyâsequential sentencing sounds good to me. You'll be considerably less sassy by the time you get out in, oh, twenty years or so.”
Hana couldn't sustain his gaze. Staring over his head at the wall, she said, “Yes, I was trying to get the sword back. But not for the reason you think. I'd never sell it . . . sir.”
His stiff spine relaxed slightly and he looked at the gray-haired man.
The man leaned forward with a tentative hand extended. It was as close to a peace offering as she'd get in this room, so Hana shook it as firmly as her cuffed hands would allow.
“I'm Captain Ross Sinclair, on temporary assignment as investigative lead in this matter,” the gray-haired man said. “This is my associate Doctor Abigail Doyle, a forensics expert. We're compiling the evidence against you for presentation to the DA. We'll be doing the majority of the questioning today.”
Hana nodded stiffly.
“Ms. Nakatomi, Zach told us you asked to hold the blade. Would you like to do so now?” Ross asked.
Hana's eyes flashed with eagerness as she looked back at him. “Yes, please.”
With a questioning look at Travis, who nodded, Ross removed the handcuffs, leaving her in leg irons. John Travis stood and carefully unwrapped the blade. He offered it to her, still sheathed. All three of the interrogators then stood and moved back, well out of range, John and Ross with hands hovering above their pistols.
On some level, Hana realized two things: These tough men obviously considered her dangerous, and they were not just being kind in allowing her to handle the blade.
They were testing her.
Even knowing she was being watched, Hana couldn't stifle her emotions as she touched her family legacy for the first time. She stood and moved aside from the table for room to maneuver. The sibilant
hiss
as the steel escaped the sheath sent goose bumps down her spine. Hana had held many katanas, but never one that felt as right as this one. Not just the balance, nor the shining blade that went beyond deadly artistry to something sublime. For the first time in her life, she understood the concept of Bushidoâthe Way of the Warrior.
She was the last of the Nakatomi line and had taken her grandfather's name when he adopted her. The blade was hers. It felt like hers. The rightness of this hilt in her hand.
It fit. It belonged. The sword awaited her bidding because she was the last Nakatomi.
And every one of her blood cells, only half Japanese though she was, fired at the touch of the hilt that had been imprinted by fifty or more previous Nakatomi heirs, many times in battles to the death. Tears sparkled in her eyes, but since she refused to give in to her emotions, especially in this company, she stalled to minutely examine the steel. She slowly turned it blade-up so it caught the light.
Holding it with both hands gripped around the long hilt, she moved it from side to side, lunging from the waist as far as she could, constrained by the leg irons, going through each of the eight samurai blade stations. Even limited as she was, the air whistled with the force of her fluid movements. Never had the ingrained movements felt so precise, but never had she held such a worthy weapon. She went through the stations that were second nature to her after so many years: left-right thrusts, right-left thrusts, left-right diagonals, right-left diagonals, rising diagonals both sides, and finally the head strike, the sword poised above her head and arced straight downward in a move designed to decapitate the enemy in one blow.
She was totally unaware of the steely glare exchanged between the two men standing watching her, hands on their weapons. Or that behind the two-way window, Zach cursed at her amazingly fluid and practiced movements even in the leg irons. When she performed the head blow, he moved back a step from the window before he realized it. Yet at the same time he stared, rapt, for there was a terrible beauty about her movements. Had he not known the sword was her birthright before she touched it, he knew it now. It was almost as if the priceless, shining blade cleaved to her, rather than she to it.
Finally, Hana glanced their way, saw their grim scrutiny, and realized she'd only confirmed their darkest suspicions. She froze midstrike.
With a slight, very Japanese bow, she sheathed the blade and offered it back to Travis, the hilt resting on her elbow. “Thank you, Mr. Travis. It's the first time I've ever touched the Nakatomi katana and I could not resist. It was confiscated from my grandfather in 1943 after Pearl Harbor.”
When they all settled at the table again, she said calmly, “What you see as a supreme example of the art of warfare, I see as a legacy bearing the blood and tears of many ancestors. So while the law may be on your side to possess the blade, given the huge sum you paid for it, I'd argue there is a moral duty that clouds that right because it was stolen from my family in a time of paranoia. I'd further point out the federal government has acknowledged the internment camps imprisoning Japanese-American citizens were so wrong they've paid restitution in recent years. I cannot help but wonder . . . in this new age of strife and paranoia how would a jury of my peers view my supposed theft?”
When John scowled, this time she stared right back. Her voice went very soft. “And lastly, I wonder what your own esteemed ancestor, Colonel William Barrett Travis, would say if I tried to purchase his pocket watch at auction after it had been confiscated from you in a time of war?”
That mark hit home. For the first time, John Travis looked hesitant as he too stared at the disputed antique.
Without pause, she added matter-of-factly, “And no, I did not murder either the Taylors or anyone else, despite my ability with the blade. I've trained with every weapon imaginable since I was a small child. From the time I could walk, my grandfather encouraged me in it to keep my Japanese heritage alive. I've sparred many times with both wooden
bokkens
and real blades.” She leaned forward and emphasized, “But I've never killed anyone with a sword or anything else.”
Looking skeptical again, Travis turned to Ms. Doyle. She opened a thick file, but didn't glance at it.
Hana had the feeling she knew every line in the file.
The woman said softly, “Ms. Nakatomi, we know your background. We know this katana was once owned by your family. There was no evidence during your prior . . . incursion at the Travis home that you wanted anything but the sword. What we don't understand is why it was so urgent that you obtain the sword. Urgent enough to risk capture a second time at the transit agency. Can you explain that?”
Hana was glad to shift her attention from John Travis to meet the clearest gray eyes she'd ever beheld, clearer even than Ernie's . . . Ernie. Hana swallowed hard, but the guilt she felt at drawing him into this hurt far more than the shackles chafing at her ankles. Just tell the truth. Maybe that would help. She'd never been good at lying, anyway.
So she told them about Jiji, how the sword was so important to her family, not mentioning Kai. Limiting her information wasn't the same as lying, she told herself.
When they began to grill her about her alibi on the night of the Taylor murders, she had none, because she'd gone straight back to her hotel room to continue her research when the sword was nowhere to be found. She noted all three of them watched her body language very closely as she spoke. Hana recalled reading about the newest interrogation methods, where exhaustive study had yielded very strong predictions of guilt or innocence by careful attention to tells. Just like in poker, human beings tended to fidget in an interrogation room when they were bluffing.