Page 64 of Kotori

Kaito

"Final positions?" I ask.

"Nagumo and Watanabe have the access roads covered. They can't interfere with formal combat, but they'll bear witness and ensure no one escapes." Takeshi's eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. "You sure about this, Aniki? This feels wrong."

I test the katana's edge against my thumb, steel parting skin like silk. Blood wells immediately. Perfect sharpness, perfect balance. Tonight, sixteen generations of Matsumoto honor will be written in enemy blood.

"Hiroshi's desperate. Desperate men make mistakes." I think of moonlight on naked skin, of promises whispered against ancient stone, of three daughters sleeping peacefully while their father prepares for war. "But he chose the terms. Traditional combat at neutral ground. I have to honor that."

"What if he doesn't?"

The question hangs between us like smoke. Because Takeshi's right. This feels wrong. Hiroshi's been planning for months, choosing every detail. A man doesn't call for formal combat unless he's certain he can win.

"Then we remind him why the Matsumoto name commands fear."

The factory appears ahead. Broken windows and rusted steel, the kind of place where yakuza business gets settled permanently. Perfect for what comes next.

"Remember," I tell Takeshi as we park, "this is formal combat. You bear witness only. Unless he breaks the terms first."

"Hai, Aniki. But if he tries anything?"

"Then you do what's necessary." I step out into the night air, feeling the weight of history on my shoulders. "But let me face him first."

The factory floor stretches before me in moonlight, broken machinery and empty production lines creating shadows that speak of Japan's industrial past. I walk through the debris field, each step bringing me closer to the man who destroyed my family.

Hiroshi waits in the center of the cleared space, dressed in formal black hakama and haori. Traditional garments that look strange against rusted steel and broken concrete. The katana at his side gleams in moonlight, expensive steel that probably hasn't tasted blood in decades.

Around the perimeter, I count his witnesses. Six men in dark suits, positioned behind machinery but maintaining the proper distance for formal combat. They're armed, I can tell, but keeping weapons concealed out of respect for the challenge.

Or so it appears.

"Kaito-kun," Hiroshi calls, using the diminutive like I'm still a child under his authority. "You came. I wondered if you'd grown too soft, to answer a proper challenge."

I step into the cleared space, hands visible, showing respect for the ancient forms despite the industrial setting. "You called for traditional combat. I'm here to honor that."

His laugh echoes off rusted steel and broken concrete, harsh and bitter. "Honor. Do you even know what that word means anymore? Your father understood honor. Your father knew what it meant to be Japanese, to preserve what our ancestors died to protect."

"My father is dead." I let steel enter my voice, the tone that makes grown yakuza kneel. "I lead this family now."

"Lead?" He gestures to the darkness beyond the factory walls. "You mean corrupt. Pollute. Destroy everything he built with your foreign whore and your mixed-blood children."

The insult to Paige lands exactly where he intended, white-hot rage flooding my veins. But I've been controlling anger longer than most men have been breathing. It becomes fuel instead of distraction.

"Choose your words carefully, old man. Even neutral ground has limits."

"As does my patience." He draws his katana in one fluid motion, steel singing in the night air. "Thirty years I served your father. Thirty years building what you've spent four years destroying. Tonight, I reclaim what was lost."

I draw my grandfather's blade, feeling the perfect balance settle in my grip. "Then let's finish this."

We circle each other in the ancient dance, steel catching moonlight as we test distance and timing. He moves well for his age. Fluid, controlled, each step practiced from decades of training. But his hands shake slightly. Age, or nerves.

He attacks first, a vicious cut aimed at my neck. I parry, feeling the impact jar my arms, then slash back at his ribs. Steel parts expensive silk and finds flesh. He grunts, stumbling back as blood darkens his formal clothes.

"Years," he gasps, pressing his free hand to the wound. "So many damn years I served your father. Built what you inherited."

I don't answer. Just advance, katana ready. This isn't a conversation.

He swings wild, desperate now. I duck under the blade and drive my pommel into his solar plexus. He doubles over, retching, and I bring the katana up in a rising cut that should take his head.

But my foot slips on loose debris and the killing stroke goes wide, only opening a gash across his cheek instead of severing his neck. He stumbles backward, blood streaming down his face.

"Your wife," he spits, wiping blood from his mouth. "You want to know about your wife?"

The words hit like ice water. I freeze for half a second. Just long enough for him to recover his stance.

"What about her?"

"I killed her." He grins through bloody teeth. "My men. My orders."

White-hot rage floods my vision. I charge, abandoning technique for pure fury. Our blades meet in a shower of sparks, the impact sending vibrations up my arms. He's stronger than he looks, desperation lending him power.

"Not supposed to die," he pants between strikes. "Just supposed to talk. Give us leverage over you."

I drive him back with a series of brutal cuts, each one seeking vital organs. He parries desperately, technique crumbling under pressure.

"But she wouldn't break," he continues, backing toward a steel support beam. "Laughed at them. Said she'd die first."

"So you killed her."

"So they killed her." His blade work is getting sloppy, blood loss and exhaustion taking their toll. "Brought me her head to prove they'd done the job."

I see it then. My beautiful wife's final moments. Her courage. Her defiance. The image makes rage snap inside my chest. My next cut opens a deep gash across his sword arm. Blood flows freely, weakening his grip, but he keeps fighting.

He stumbles backward, pressing his free hand to the wound.

"You want to preserve tradition?" I advance for the killing stroke. "Here's tradition for you."

The gunshots come from three directions at once.

Muzzle flashes strobe through industrial darkness as hidden shooters emerge from behind machinery and broken equipment.

Bullets spark off the concrete around my feet as I dive for cover behind a rusted conveyor belt, kevlar stopping one round center mass that would have punched through lung and heart.

"Kill him!" Hiroshi screams, voice high with pain and desperation. "Kill them all!"

So much for neutral ground and traditional honor.

A sawed-off hunting shotgun roars behind me.

Buckshot tears through my shoulder, spinning me around as white-hot agony explodes down my arm.

The katana clatters away across broken concrete as I stumble, vision graying.

My right arm hangs useless. I roll behind a steel support pillar as automatic weapons open up, bullets chewing chunks from rusted metal.

Hiroshi's "witnesses" have shed their formal positions, revealing themselves as what they always were. Killers waiting for their moment.

I draw my M9 left-handed as a gunman rounds my cover. Put three in his chest before he can adjust aim. He drops hard, dark clothing soaking up blood and factory dust.

Takeshi appears from the shadows, pistol barking as he engages targets with professional calm. Nagumo and Watanabe emerge from their positions, turning what should have been formal combat into a running gunfight among rusted machinery.

A Tanaka soldier appears to my left, pistol raised. I tackle him before he can get a clean shot, driving us both into the debris. The gun goes flying as we roll, grappling in the dirt like animals.

He's younger, stronger, but I've been killing men since before he was born. My thumb finds his eye socket and presses until it pops wetly. He screams, thrashing. I get my good hand around his throat and squeeze until he stops moving.

"Behind you!" Takeshi's warning saves my life.

I roll right as bullets spark off concrete where my head had been. Come up in a crouch to see two more shooters advancing with professional calm. The first shot from my M9 takes the leader center mass, staggering him. The second catches his partner in the thigh.

The wounded one tries to return fire despite the blood streaming down his leg. I close distance fast, putting the barrel against his temple. Pull the trigger. Brain matter paints rusted machinery as he drops.

Takeshi's shot drops the last gunman with surgical precision. The man crumples behind a broken conveyor belt, rifle clattering across the factory floor now painted with modern violence.

Suddenly the factory floor is quiet except for the ringing in my ears and the wet sounds of dying men.

I stand swaying in the sudden silence, shoulder screaming with pain, blood loss making everything tilt at strange angles. The ground around me is painted red, bodies scattered among broken machinery and industrial debris. The air hangs thick with smoke and the copper stench of spilled life.

"Status," I call, my voice sounding strange and distant.

"Watanabe's down," Nagumo reports, voice tight with grief. "Clean headshot. He didn't suffer."

Watanabe. Twenty-eight years old, married last spring, wife expecting their first child in the new year. Dead because he followed his oyabun into hell.

"You?"

"Took one in the leg but I'm mobile." Nagumo's face is pale but determined.

"Takeshi?"

My lieutenant appears from behind a steel support beam, pistol still ready. Blood streaks his face from flying debris, but his eyes are clear and focused.

"Six down, boss. But you're bleeding badly."