Red Shark

“He’s coming!” Jefferson urged the sling on Fumiko, but she twisted away and ran back into the villa. Jefferson took off after her as something pinged against the helo’s fuselage. Automatic weapons fire began popping and snapping outside the walled garden. More rounds spanged off the helo’s rotors and armor plate.

Inside Fumiko found Scott kneeling beside Tokugawa. A deep red stain had soaked through the kimono’s blue silk where Ojima’s wild shot had pierced his chest above the heart. Frothy blood bubbled from Tokugawa’s mouth. Scott tried to help him sit up, but the old man refused and weakly pressed the point of the ceremonial dagger against Scott’s throat.

Fumiko dropped to one knee beside Scott. “Jake, is he?…”

The noise and wind howling through the villa made it hard to hear what Tokugawa was saying. Something about a warrior’s duty to die an honorable death. But the old man didn’t have the strength left to cut open his belly in ritual seppuku.

“Jesus Christ, are you both crazy?” Jefferson said, standing over them. “Forget him, let’s go!”

Scott brushed the dagger aside and leaned close to the dying Tokugawa. He saw that something had changed: Moments ago the man’s eyes had shimmered with a cold, pitiless resolve; now they projected a bleak, transparent uncertainty. The man who hated America even as he profited from it, who spoke its language and now plotted to destroy it, looked at Scott with something akin to sorrow.

A thin smile arched Tokugawa’s lips. “How unfortunate for America that you won’t have the opportunity to test your skills against the shark.”

“The ‘shark’? What shark? What are you talking about?” Scott felt precious seconds slipping away. The security forces had arrived; the helo couldn’t hover forever. He felt control over his anger slipping away. “Where are the weapons? Tell me, goddamnit!”

Tokugawa turned a palm up, red from the blood-soaked kimono. Dark red drops trickled down his wrist and wicked into the folded-back cuff. “Chi.”

“Blood,” said Fumiko. “He said, ‘Blood.’ ” She leaned close to hear him say something else. “He says he doesn’t want to die disgraced by bleeding to death. It’s the Bushido Code, he wants to die like a warrior.” She looked up. “Jake, he wants you to kill him.”

“Then do it so we can get the hell out of here,” Jefferson said. He looked over his shoulder into the garden being flailed to ruin by the downdraft from the hovering chopper.

“Tell him,” Scott said, “tell him I’ll do it if he tells me where the weapons are hidden.”

Tokugawa responded in Japanese. “He says surrender is not an option for him,” Fumiko translated.

“Then I won’t do it.”

“Shit, I’ll do it,” Jefferson said, brandishing his pistol.

“Back off, McCoy!”

Jefferson gave Scott a black look. “We’re fucking out of time, Jake.”

Scott stood, looked down at Tokugawa, who was still holding the dagger weakly in his fist, and said, “Then it ends here.”

Tokugawa, his strength ebbing, cried out in Japanese.

“Blood shark,” said Fumiko. “He said, ‘Blood shark.’ ” She shrugged, lost.

Scott knelt again. “What is the blood shark?”

Tokugawa, drawing on his last reserves of strength, said, “Sang-O — Red Shark. The weapons are aboard the Red Shark. A submarine.”

Scott, stunned, said, “You’re lying.”

Tokugawa slowly shook his head.

“Where is it?”

“The Yellow Sea.”

“How many weapons are on board?”

“Kill me…”

“Only if you tell me.” Scott looked up at Jefferson. “Give me your pistol.”

“No, give it to me instead,” said Fumiko. “I’ll do it — for Higashi.”

Jefferson hesitated a moment, then handed it over butt-first. Fumiko made sure Tokugawa saw that the weapon was in her fist before she pressed the silencer against his temple.

“Tell me how many weapons,” she said.

Tokugawa sucked air between clenched teeth. “Three.”

“Where is the Red Shark headed? To what country? What port?”