Brax swallowed hard and eyed the butt of the automatic in the other man’s belt. He didn’t dare to reach out and try to grab it.

  “All right,” he said. “But keep me posted on what’s going on, okay?”

  Kiroshi bowed his head slightly.

  Brax went back to his room and pulled out the small mattress they’d given him.

  Christ, it isn’t bad enough that I have to spend my last night in Japan cooped up in some little shithole, but I have to sleep on the goddamn floor, too. He stretched out and tried to sleep, but it proved elusive. Stevie’s sonorous breathing carried through the thin wall with the precision of a buzzsaw. Brax lay on his back listening to it, strangely reassured that if he could hear it, he knew the other man was still alive.

  Still alive, he thought. Something he wouldn’t be if he failed to bring the idiot back unharmed to his old man.

  The buzzsaw stopped and Brax wondered if he should get up and check. Then the snoring resumed and Brax felt relief wash over him as he fell into a light slumber.

  HE AWOKE FROM a bad dream, and lay there in the dark trying to figure out if the loud noise was what he thought it was. It had sounded like a gunshot. Or had he imagined it? Blinking, he couldn’t be sure. Could he have dreamed it? Then he heard it again. A gunshot. Another one, followed by a scream. No, this sure as hell ain’t no dream, Brax thought.

  A shadow flickered across the translucent door panel. Someone was outside. Before Brax could even get to his feet, the door slid open. Kiroshi poked his head in, his face drawn and tight in the moonlight that filtered in after him.

  “Tanaka is here,” he said. “You no move.” He slid the door closed.

  Brax was on his feet, thinking the hell with that. I ain’t gonna be no sitting duck. It took him several seconds to slip on his pants and shirt.

  Better go check on Stevie, he thought.

  He heard footsteps on the other side of the far wall and saw a shadowy figure running toward the front.

  Must be a hallway on both sides, Brax thought. Great. Those paper walls would offer about as much protection as a silk nightgown.

  He eased open the sliding door and peered out. Several yakuzas ran down the hallway. Glancing both ways, Brax looked for Kiroshi, but saw only a lone guy standing at the end of the hallway where it opened up into the courtyard. A pistol dangled from the man’s hand.

  Being as stealthy as he could, Brax moved into the hall, and crept down the ten feet to the room Stevie was in. He pushed on the sliding door and slipped inside, closing it after him.

  The big slob lay on his side, still snoring, his swollen gut looking like a distended bladder. Brax grabbed the other man’s shoulder and shook him.

  Cursing and muttering, Stevie shoved Brax’s hand away.

  “Whatcha doing?” he asked, his tone loud and full of anger. “I was sleeping, for Christ’s sake.”

  Brax couldn’t afford to waste time. He slapped the fat cheeks twice and put his face closer.

  “Listen to me,” he said, keeping his voice low. “We’re in the middle of a real bad situation here, see? Now I’m going to go outside and get us a gun, then I’m coming back for you and I’ll get you outta here.” He stared into the pale brown eyes, hoping to see a glimmer of understanding. “But I can’t waste time looking for you, so I need you to stay right here, got it?”

  Stevie’s hot, fetid breath stung Brax’s nostrils.

  “Got it?” he repeated, slapping the other man again.

  “Yeah,” Stevie said.

  Brax knew for sure, as he got up and moved to the door that he was going to have to answer to Sal for roughing the punk up, but, hell, what other choice did he have? He thought momentarily about cutting and running, but then if Stevie did survive, how would Brax’s exit be explained? It’d be answered with a bullet, that was for sure.

  The hallway was deserted as Brax moved toward the guard at the end.

  Easy does it, he thought. All I need is for this dude to turn around and think I’m Tanaka. Staccato sounds ripped through the night again, and Brax figured the sound would cover any noise he made.

  There were three more rooms separating Brax from the other man and all were standing open. That meant three more recesses. Once he got up next to the guy, he’d call out, and get him to give up a gun or something. If worst came to worst, he could try knocking the dude out and taking what he needed. From there he’d collect Stevie and make a run for the front gates while all the confusion was still going on. Who could blame him? It sounded like a war zone out there punctuated by gunshots and screams. Brax moved down to the second open door. A running silhouette shot past on the opposite wall. It startled him, but he kept moving. Just as he reached the final door, Kiroshi appeared and began shouting orders at the guy who’d been standing guard.

  The guy said, “Hai,” bowed quickly, and moved off to the left. Kiroshi’s head bobbled as he looked down the hallway and obviously saw Brax.

  “I told you, stay in room,” he said, his English slipping into less comprehensible pronunciations. “Now, go!”

  Kiroshi raised his arms and Brax saw the man was holding a gun. A chrome, snubnosed revolver. Kiroshi opened his mouth, as if to shout another order for Brax to leave, when his lips twisted downward in a lugubrious scowl. Slowly, Kiroshi’s head lowered, as if he was testing to see if he could put his chin on his chest. But out of the front of his shirt something long and pointed protruded. An arrow. Kiroshi reached up and touched it with his left fingers as a crimson stain blossomed around the point. He looked slowly up at Brax, took two steps toward him, and twisted down in a tangled heap. After a quick glance around, Brax knelt beside him and peeled the fingers off the butt of the gun. A large, blood-tinctured bubble spread over Kiroshi’s lips, and stayed there without bursting.

  Brax pressed the cylinder release button and checked the ammo. Six shots, all good primers. This was his ticket out. He moved to the door and looked around. At least seven guys lay in the middle of the courtyard, some with long arrows sticking out of them, others with their bellies sliced open. He estimated about thirty yards to the gate.

  To his left Brax saw the yakuza who’d been guarding the hallway moments ago. The man stood glancing around, his eyes so large and scared-looking that Brax was afraid the guy would shoot the first thing that moved.

  “Hey,” Brax called, pointing down the hallway. “Kiroshi wants you.”

  “Kiroshisan?” the guard said, and took a step forward just as a shadow moved behind him. The guy lurched forward, crying in pain, then as he whirled around, trying to raise his pistol, Brax saw a flash of light as a blade whistled up and back. The yakuza twisted, stumbling down the walk-way, his expression stupidly benign. He gripped his abdomen, which had an immense slash across it, the dark intestines rhythmically winding out from between his fingers with each step. The gun he’d been holding clattered to the floor and fell over the edge into the darkness. When the guard fell after it, Brax saw a figure in a black pajama-looking outfit standing there holding a long, bloody sword.

  Tanaka!

  Raising the gun, Brax started to squeeze the trigger, but the figure dashed to his right, into the adjacent hallway.

  Brax ran back into his hallway and threw open the first paper door. Nothing. He ran to the second room where the door was already open. The shadow in the pajamas was silhouetted against the white rice paper wall. Brax brought his gun up and fired once, twice, three times. The shadow on the other side fell out of sight.

  Never take a sword to a gunfight, Brax thought, and moved down to Stevie’s room. It was still time to get the hell out of there, and he had three shots left as a buffer.

  He threw open the door and yelled.

  But Stevie stood there dumbly looking back at him, his fat cheeks covered with sweat. He was standing at the far wall, in the corner.

  “Let’s go, dammit,” Brax said.

  “Is it. . .” Stevie finally muttered, “is it safe?”

  “As safe as it’s gonna be,” Brax said. But before he could add anything else, Stevie stiffened and rose up on his toes, the point of a katana protruding from his chest. The blade rotated, and Stevie did a little dance step before crumbling to the floor. Brax fired at the shadow behind the wall, aiming for the open slit as the blade withdrew.

  He couldn’t tell if he’d hit the guy, or not.

  His mind raced: But, Christ, I thought I hit him before.

  An eerie silence crept over everything, punctuated only by the racking coughs of Stevie’s death throes. Nothing to do but get out myself, Brax thought, looking at what was now the corpulent corpse of his boss’s son.

  Turning, Brax moved down the hallway, the gun extended in front of him, ready to fire at whatever moved. Nothing’s gonna stop me from getting to that gate, he thought.

  He came to the edge of the hallway exit. Moving to one side, he surveyed the flat platform that led to the stairway down to the courtyard. Once he got down there, he could cover the distance in a few seconds. Zigzagging to make himself a harder target for the arrows. Unless Tanaka had picked up a gun along the way. . .That would be a problem. But Kiroshi had said the guy didn’t operate that way. Old school, he’d called him. Traditional. A samurai.

  Putting all that bushido crap out of his mind, Brax moved to the other wall and checked that direction also. It was clear, as far as he could see. Stepping onto the wooden platform, he did another fast survey and went to the steps. It was perhaps eighteen feet down to the court yard. How many rounds did he have left? He’d used three at the first shadow, one at the slit. That meant two left. Plenty of cushion. Something creaked under the porch as Brax stepped forward, but a quick look indicated nothing. He could feel the sweat starting to wind down his face, collecting on his neck, and running onto his back.

  “Like I said,” Brax muttered, “Never take a sword to a gunfight.”

  The best thing would be to just make a run for the front gate. Go out and try to find some way back to Tokyo. Maybe a cab or something. Hell, he’d even pay one of these farmers for a ride.

  Brax turned and worked his way cautiously down the stairs, wheeling quickly from side to side.

  He thought about calling out to Tanaka, telling him he had no quarrel with him. That he only wanted to leave. Maybe it would buy him passage, or trick the Jap into showing himself so he could get a clear shot. But yelling would only give away his position.

  No, he thought. Got to keep moving. If the guy showed himself, he’d shoot first and say he was sorry later.

  Two more steps and he’d be at the bottom. He surveyed the yard again. Nothing, except for a whole lot of bodies. Brax felt his feet on solid ground and was moving forward, toward the gate when a noise over to his left made him whirl. Nothing. He started to turn back, his gun arm still outstretched, when a shadow moved from under the wooden porch’s support pillars, and something flashed in front of him.

  He turned, trying to pull the trigger but his hand wouldn’t work. Instead, he felt a strange numbness, and looked downward. The gun lay there, in front of his feet, his fingers still curled around it, the bloody cut that severed it from his wrist looking smooth and even. Like a chopped-off piece of meat. Something flittered in front of him and landed next to the gun on the ground. He squinted to see what it was in the poor light, and then, suddenly, he understood.

  It was a black rose.

  LIBBY FISCHER HELLMANN

  LIBBY Hellmann writes the Chicago-based series featuring video producer and single mom Ellie Foreman, AN EYE FOR MURDER debuted in 2002 and was nominated for an Anthony Award. A PICTURE OF GUILT was released in 2003 and was nominated for a Benjamin Franklin. They were followed by AN IMAGE OF DEATH and A SHOT TO DIE FOR. All four were simultaneously published by Poisoned Pen Press (in hard cover) and Berkley Prime Crime (mass market). In addition, her short stories have appeared in American and British magazines. When not writing fiction, Libby produces industrial videos and trains individuals to be better speakers. She lives in the Chicago suburbs with her family and a beagle, shamelessly named Shiloh.

  When asked about the appeal of assassin stories, Libby remarked; “This is the first hitperson story I’ve written; in fact, it’s probably the first really hard-boiled story I’ve written. In a word, it was exhilarating! The freedom to venture out of my safe corner has been liberating—even cathartic. To create a character who has few boundaries, values the rest of us would abhor, and yet is true to her own—but skewed—moral code is exciting, sexy, and challenging. It unlocked something in me I never knew was there. . .I think I’m going to have to do more of this. . .”

  Visit Libby at www.Hellmann.com

  DETOUR

  Libby Fischer Hellmann

  I WASN’T EXPECTING a hit that hot August morning. I was barreling east on a stretch of 94 between Indiana and Michigan that just begs you to floor it. Newly paved, with two wide lanes, it’s practically uninhabited at six in the morning. Compared to 96, or even 69, you feel like you’re about to take off, like the frigging crows on the power lines at the side of the road. At least the ones that haven’t been dropped by West Nile.

  I’d headed out from the Michigan shores before dawn. I hadn’t slept much—Christ—I hadn’t even changed my clothes. I was still trying to figure out what the old lady was up to. I hadn’t seen her—or the place—in ten years. Why did she invite me back? I’d been living in the Motor City, trying to keep a low profile, when all of a sudden the phone rings, and there she is with that high-class way of talking. You know, the kind that reminds you of your fourth-grade teacher. Asking could I please do her the honor of visiting?

  The honor?

  It’d been too long, she said, with just a trace of regret. We needed to catch up. I could stay overnight. She’d put me up in the guest cottage, she said, and we could bond. What was I, Elmer’s Glue?

  So I met her yesterday afternoon for tea. Tea, for Christ’s sake. So bitter that even with sugar and cream it sucks out the insides of your cheeks. She had those stupid little sandwiches and biscuits. Scones, she called them—all arranged on a silver tray you only see at weddings. She also had this thick white stuff in a bowl. Clotted cream, she smiled. “You’ll like it. It’s sweet.”

  As she poured, she made small talk. How was I, Teresa dear? What was I doing? Such a shame about my father. Hey—no one calls me Teresa. It’s Terry. Tare, sometimes, or TJ. But never Teresa. Who did she think she was, the Queen of England?

  Afterwards I meant to grab a burger and a couple of boilermakers in town to rinse the taste of the tea out of my mouth, but I took a walk along the lake instead. The old lady’s place went on forever now. Much farther than it used to. She’d bought up even more of her neighbors’ land. I couldn’t understand why. She didn’t have any kids. What was she gonna do with it when she croaked? What is it they say, the rich get richer, and we get screwed?

  It was after midnight when I got back to my room. I lay down on the bed, and the next thing I knew some bird was chirping outside the window, and it was four in the frigging morning. I took a quick shower and left. I wasn’t looking forward to the drive home.

  Once I was on 94, I pulled into a truck stop for breakfast. Not only was I wiped, but I was starving. That’s probably where he picked me up. I was wolfing down three eggs over easy with toast and bacon. A bunch of farmers in plaid shirts, jeans, scuffed boots were there. Plus one creep in a yellow slicker, even though the sun was blistering hot. There was a map of the state on the wall with one of those “you are here” pins stuck to it. Christ. I knew where I was. And where I was going. But I didn’t think it meant trouble.

  Thirty minutes later I was back on I-94, the oldies station blasting. My head was bobbing to Del Shannon’s “Runaway” like one of those sappy little dogs you see in the back of cars when I caught him. At first I thought it was just some jerk riding my tail. A kid coming down from a wild night. Or a trucker in a car instead of an eighteen-wheeler. I switched lanes and slowed down, thinking the asshole would blow by me. But he didn’t. He switched lanes, too, and slowed down.

  He was in a blue Buick. Who drives a Buick anymore? I was in a gray Camry I’d ripped off last week. Had to be nearly six years old, but it still drove like a champ. I checked the rearview mirror. A man. Older, from what I could tell. Maybe fifty. Shades covering his eyes. Looked like he was wearing a sports coat. I frowned. It was close to ninety degrees already.

  I floored it. The Camry hesitated for a second, like the transmission was about to AWOL. But then it gathered itself together and surged ahead. The lane dividers flashed past so fast the stripes ran together into one straight line. Kind of like the blades on a prop plane. Speaking of flying, I realized I was clocking almost a hundred. I checked the rear view. The creep was still on my ass.

  I gripped the wheel. Who knew I was here? I thought about the last job I’d pulled. It’d been riskier than usual. I’d taken all the normal precautions. Stole some plates. Wore a disguise. Made sure to use a throw down. But I didn’t figure the mark would have his kid with him. I don’t do kids. I had to wait until he dropped the kid off. Which meant tailing him all afternoon. First to some fancy toy store in the mall whose name I couldn’t even pronounce. Then to a bookstore. And then the Dairy Queen.

  Too much time is a danger in my line of work. Things change. People take notice. Someone could have picked me up. He did have two bodyguards, but for all I knew, there could have been another—a guy who was supposed to watch the watchers.

  I slowed and checked the rear view again. Still there. I fished out my cell phone and punched in a number. “Hey.”

  “Hey, babe. What’s happening?” His voice was as smooth and mellow as always.

  “You get the package for the last job?”

  “Just came today. And very sweet it is. You do fine work.”

  “Yeah, well, you hear about anything strange going down?”

  “What do you mean?” A trace of caution crept into his voice.