Yoshiko nodded, squeezed his hand back, and let it go.
The headlights stopped in front of the development, lighting up the cars abandoned by their neighbors and the prefab storage units in their yards. Then all the lights went out. Darkness returned. Masa switched off the TV. Yoshiko gripped the flashlight.
Seconds and minutes filled the room, piling up like bars of lead.
The window glass behind them broke. Rain and wind blew through the shards.
“Masa!”
Yoshiko spun around and switched the flashlight on. The cool beam lit the leg of a tall man dressed in black, toeing for a foothold.
In his hand, the intruder held a shiny knife.
“Run! Go!”
Masa threw open the door to the back deck and ran. For a second, the man turned to her.
Yoshiko pointed the flashlight—an LED Maglite, made in the USA, three D cell batteries packed into twelve inches of aircraft aluminum—in the man’s face and clicked the button off and on. The strobing white beam made him fumble long enough for Yoshiko to swing the three-pound flashlight at his hand.
He let out a muffled scream. Yoshiko felt his bones crush through the handle of the Maglite. The intruder staggered backwards, knife in hand. Another guy dressed in black broke through the rickety front door. He was shorter than the first guy, but he had a thicker build. Hard to tell if he was carrying a weapon.
Yoshiko switched off the light and backed up to the wall, watching both men.
Crouched down, she held the light backhanded by her face, like a spear.
The shorter one moved first. Yoshiko pointed the light at him and turned it on. People can’t help but guard themselves when faced with a bright light. When he recoiled, she whacked him with the metal handle.
“You bitch!” the tall man shouted, coming at her with the knife in his right hand. His left, the one she had just broken, wiggled at his side. The numb pain must have thrown his balance off, because his knife thrusts missed entirely. Yoshiko dodged him like a bullfighter, then grabbed his wrist and guided the knife into the wood paneling behind her, taking the chance to swing the flashlight at the man’s right elbow, which she popped out of its socket. He cried in pain, both hands now out of service. Yoshiko swung the flashlight like a bat and hit him in the cheekbone. Broken teeth shook from his mouth. What next? Yoshiko shot up and gave the man a front kick to the solar plexus. He toppled back, collapsing on the tea table, then rolled onto the tatami. This all happened in the space of a breath.
The other one yelled something in a garbled voice and charged.
“Gurahh!”
His right leg came at her in a heavy middle kick. Too bad he overshot it. She blocked the kick using the Maglite like a sword. The man’s head came into range.
Whoosh.
Her right knuckles dug into his temple. Bam. The short man tottered back, as if concussed. Yoshiko doubled down.
Whoosh.
Tripled down.
Whoosh.
Four hits. Then five. So strong and fast. You’d never guess her age.
Whoosh. Whoosh.
A body blessed with sensational power.
After all these years, the gift was there.
The short man’s eyes rolled backwards as he fell back on the floor.
Yoshiko heard car doors opening and slamming shut. Headlights bathed the house, lighting up the water covering the yard.
Gripping the light, she went outside.
The door of a gigantic black Toyota Alphard van rolled open. A young man holding an umbrella stepped out, followed by an old man wizened like a dead branch.
One look at him and Yoshiko—or Yoriko, Yoriko Shindo—laughed out loud.
“That who I think it is?”
She raised her voice over the rain and waved hello. Like she had spotted an old friend.
“It’s been, what, forty years?” she shouted. “Don’t tell me you still hate me.”
At the sound of Shindo’s voice, Utagawa’s face creased with satisfaction. Every wrinkly muscle smiled. His hands, like tiny branches, pressed a black device the size of a small water bottle to his throat.
“I’M HERE. TO KILL. YOU.”
Coming out of the electrolarynx, the mechanized voice was atonal.
Shindo laughed.
“Look at us. I’m an old lady, you’re falling apart. Must have been tough after the crackdowns. How’s a boss like you supposed to make a living? It’s not the seventies anymore. We’re antiques. This world, it has no use for you and me. Sorry I broke your nose, okay? Let’s drop this thing already.”
