“FORTY YEARS, UTAGAWA.”
Shindo said it again. In the commotion raised after the guy with the steel pipe went down, Shindo pointed the flashlight at the ass of the guy with the metal bat, then at the foot of the guy with the chain, then at the guy beside him, and at the driver stuck holding the umbrella.
Each spotlight was a bullseye for an arrow.
“WHAT. WHO. ELSE IS. WITH YOU.”
In a matter of seconds, everyone but Utagawa had either collapsed into the water or was clawing through the dark, getting nowhere.
“Hey, Sho, it’s okay to come out now.”
A short, round figure passed into the headlights. Drawing a slender carbon bow, it aimed an arrow straight at Utagawa.
“WHO IS THIS. STOP HIM. STOP.”
“Still can’t tell? What a terrible fiancé . . . Wouldn’t you agree, Sho?”
If Shindo’s gift was power, the archer had the gift of sheer will and endurance. After decades of unrelenting practice, the bow was an extension of his arm. Sho Masaoka—Shoko Naiki—was a natural.
“People change a lot in forty years. I’ve changed, you’ve changed. So has Shoko.”
“DON’T. FUCK WITH ME. NO WAY. THAT’S SHOKO.”
Utagawa’s jaundiced eyes were wide with disbelief. Mouth opening and closing.
“Yes way. It’s me.”
Shoko smirked and aimed the arrow point at Utagawa’s face.
“I wish I could’ve killed you sooner.”
“Don’t blame the girl you used to be. You were eighteen.”
“WAIT. WAIT. GOOD PEOPLE. LIKE YOU TWO. DON’T KILL.”
“Of course I’m not going to kill you. I was thinking I’d just take one of those legs, to make sure you stop chasing us.”
Shindo chimed in.
“Look, Utagawa, I’m tired of running away. We’ve been at this forty years. Give it a rest, huh? Who knows how many years we have left. Any of us.”
Through the rain, Shindo and Utagawa stared each other down. It was apparent that his body, wasted by disease, was not far from the end. He could dress like a smug dandy all he wanted. Utagawa was an old man. Either way, decrepit as he was, he was alive, standing on a mound of tortured corpses he had built himself, living on violence.
Forty years.
“Let’s end it here, okay?” said Shindo. “I know how fixated the yakuza can be on settling a score, but we don’t care. It doesn’t matter.”
The thirst for violence that had once filled Shindo’s body like a lifeforce had retreated to a deep, dark place over these forty years, like the warm blood of a hibernating bear. If word got out that a big woman who could fight was causing trouble, they could expect a mob of townsfolk at the door. So for decades, she’d relaxed her fists and stopped fighting.
Oddly enough, she didn’t miss it. She could have sworn that it was gone. But now, all of a sudden, Shindo felt it coursing through her veins. Her muscles twitched. With joy. Her first good dose of violent energy in forty years. Looking into the eyes of the man who had shown up to kill her, it was like her heart was singing I’m so glad I lived this long. Whether they escaped alive or came to blows and ended things today no longer mattered. The power would sustain her to her dying day—however soon or far away that was.
This was it. They were home. She and Shoko made it. This was home.
“It’s over, Utagawa,” Shindo said. “If you make a stink, you’ll spend the rest of your life in excruciating pain.”
Shoko lowered the arrow from his face to his thighs.
“ALL RIGHT. ALL RIGHT.”
Utagawa hung his head in dismay.
“Come on,” said Shoko. “Let’s take the van.”
Shindo nodded and reached into the pocket of the fallen driver for the keys.
“WAIT. DON’T LEAVE. ME HERE.”
“Someone from the city will drive by,” said Shindo. “They’ll help you out.”
Shindo waved at Shoko, who was still pointing the bow at Utagawa.
“Hop in,” Shindo said. “We haven’t taken a nice drive in years.”
“Sure you can drive a car this big?”
“Long as my carpal tunnel doesn’t flare up.” Shindo stepped into the van. “Besides—”
“NOT. SO FAST.”
