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Tattoo grinned as he recognized the word for devil amid a stream of other indecipherable words, then he
backed up a couple of feet when Budi twisted, then tripped over a small boulder and fell. Pebbles
bounced in all directions, skittering down and pelting the attentive Komodo dragon. The sharp-edged
rocks along the crest of the slope cut Budi in a dozen places as he cried out  Bantu!  now trying to
get Tattoo to help him. But Tattoo had no intention of doing any such thing; in fact, he was just waiting
for the inevitable.
And so was the dragon.
His two bats twisted back up, then dove again; this time one of them hit pay dirt, and the intensity of
Budi s screams changed, turning raw as one of the creatures teeth dug deep into the meat of his right
eye. Blood, abundant and shockingly bright in this green universe, spit from between the fingers of the
hand that Budi slapped over his eye; with his other he swiped awkwardly at the bat that was still
fluttering around his face, reaching out reflexively to try and grab it; abruptly his cries of pain turned
into a bellow of dismay as he tumbled down the other side of the rock-strewn slope. Budi bounced and
rolled, knocking painfully against too many rocks to count. When he finally came to a stop, his scalp
was crimson with blood and bruised, split skin, that one eye had been gouged out, and who knew how
many broken bones he had.
For a long moment, Budi was silent. And when he finally opened his remaining eye, his groan of agony
turned to a death scream as he saw the Komodo dragon s mouth yawn wide and its teeth closed over his
head.
Tattoo stood on the upper slope and watched silently as his bats returned to roost and worked their way
carefully into the skin just below his shoulder blades, one on each side. Yes, with the proper ceremony
and given the painstaking process of infusing the ink onto his skin, the Komodo dragon would be a
wonderful and proud addition to his arsenal of shadow animals. For now, however, he must leave the
voracious creature to its meal, trusting in the eyes of the hawk that yanked its way free of his upper arm
to show him the way out of the jungle.
Kirigi was calling him.
11
TOKYO, JAPAN
THIS TIME, ROSHI S CONFERENCE ROOM WAS ALREADYfull.
Theikuren had come at his beckoning, all those men of power scuttling from the corners of the huge city
like oversized cockroaches simply because he had decreed they should. They were expensively dressed
in designer suits and Italian shoes and sporting three-hundred-dollar haircuts. But like the Asian
gangsters they originally were and would always remain, their lined and knowing faces betrayed
lifetimes of street savvy and hard knocks. Their hooded eyes flicked left to right, mistrustful of each
other, predictable only in that to another man s face they would be polite& but they would always be
calculating andhungry.
As usual, Meizumi sat to the right of Roshi s chair. He was Roshi s key man and the only one who knew
Roshi s every move& or at least he liked to think so. Even so, he had notions about the truth a man
like Roshi must always have his secrets, lest he inadvertently reveal his weaknesses, too.
And here, at last, came the newest of the players in Roshi s never-ending game.
Stone was an enormous man who looked like a black Sumo wrestler. Dressed in a long black leather
vest, leather slacks, and black leather boots, his head was shaven clean except for a square patch on the
back of his scalp; that part was long and pulled into a heavy, black braid. His arms were bigger than
most men s thighs, and his neck was lost in the huge knots of muscle along his shoulders. Stone was a
frightening figure and he knew it. He also knew that now was not the place to be overbearing, but for all
of his bulk and his attempts to step quietly, it was obvious he had no clue that every step he took made
the floor and walls vibrate he looked like a walking mountain.
Not far behind was another young black man named Kinkou, a street punk dressed completely in ragged
black pants and a sleeveless T-shirt covered with Japanese writing. His slender frame was corded with
muscle, and his face was unreadable; the only thing that seemed to please him was that he could balance
a coin on the tip of one finger.
Tattoo followed, and to those in attendance he was a strange sight, indeed. He was dressed here, of
course, but everyone in the room knew that beneath his clothing the long-haired man was completely
covered in animal tattoos, the most prominent of which was a hawk whose eyes shifted and examined
everyone who passed. He hid his ink beneath the black fabric and finished it off with a floor-length
black coat.
Trailing behind Tattoo was Typhoid Mary, an exquisitely sensual young woman wearing a kimono,
whose face was made up in the porcelain white mask of an actress in a Noh play. Black kohl outlined
her eyes and lips, and when she took a seat, those closest to her intentionally shifted their chairs to put
distance between themselves and her.
And finally, Kirigi. For this meeting, the tall and handsome young man had donned the traditional
robes, a cream-colored set sporting dragons sewn in scarlet thread across both sides of the front.
Perhaps he dressed formally as a counterbalance to the fact that he was the youngest of the ikuren and
considered to be the most reactionary, a trait not especially prized. Even so, he had the easy confidence
and good humor of an aristocrat, and the ego to go with it. His mouth smiled lightly above eyes that
were constantly seeking and measuring everyone else in the room.
Only the empty chair at the head of the table remained:Roshi s.
The elder entered the board room and took his seat with quiet grace, then waited while everyone else
finished with their respectful bows, settled back down, and gave him their full attention.  I believe, he
said,  that Kirigi wishes to address the council.
With a nod of acquiescence toward Roshi, Kirigi stood, then scanned the other people in the room while
that same enigmatic half-smile played across his lips. Murmurs ripped through the board members
even to those who made killing their livelihood, Kirigi was considered charismatic and intimidating,
unpredictable. There was no guessing as to what he might do next.
Kirigi finally turned back to face Roshi, then bowed again.  Venerable Master, he said in a deferential
tone,  I fear that we are unworthy of you.
Roshi said nothing, but the tiniest raising of one black eyebrow let Kirigi and the others know that
neither he nor the rest of the men believed Kirigi s pseudoapology.
Kirigi lowered his gaze so that he was not meeting Roshi s.  Despite our delicacy and subtlety, he
continued,  we have failed to resolve the problem of the treasure.
A nervous ripple went through the room. No one was fooled by the careful wording this was nothing
but an insult presented in diplomatic terms. But decades of leadership had taught Roshi how to be just
that, and his face maintained a bland, unreadable smile.
Meizumi, however, would not take this humiliation without defending his leader and himself. His
expres sion twisted in anger.  Roshi gave that task tome, he said indignantly.
 Yes, Kirigi said in an oily voice.  Exactly.
Meizumi s face went red.  And my men are taking care of it. He was trying to keep his tone level, but [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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