James Axler – Keepers of the Sun

“You ready?” Jak was grinning, wiping mud off his hands onto his pants.

“Pretty well. Everyone get out of the way, around the back, far as you all can, and keep alert. Or better, move on down the hill, among the trees. I don’t know exactly what’ll happen when I fire it, with the blocked barrel, but it should be good and triple big. Spectacular!”

THE STEYR ACROSS RYAN’S shoulder was bruising his back as he jogged up the hill, now several yards behind the shogun, his heavy combat boots slithering in the damp dirt.

One of the ordinary fighting men who was part of the ronin’s gang had appeared, sprinting for his life, down the narrow path toward them. He saw Mashashige standing foursquare in front of him and gave a small cry of dismay, hands coming together in prayer, starring to gabble for mercy or for forgiveness. Ryan wasn’t sure which.

Either way, the shogun totally ignored him, using the point of the sword rather than the edge, lunging into the man’s stomach. There was a savage twist of the wrist as the blade was withdrawn, opening a great sliced gash in the flesh, just above the dark blue cotton sash around his midriff.

The man fell and rolled on his back, eyes staring at the waving branches of the trees, losing focus as they moved toward Ryan. The mouth opened, speaking to the foreigner in a normal conversational tone. “I also wished to look through my wealthy uncle’s microscope,” he said.

Life deserted the eyes and he was dead.

“Horsemen!” Ryan called, pointing with the barrel of the SIG-Sauer.

There were three of them, all in samurai armor, all on small hill ponies. They lay low over the necks, spurring on, not hesitating at the sight of the shogun and the foreigner standing together, blocking the center of the path.

They were coming fast from uphill, all waving swords, faces contorted with hatred under the polished cheek plates of their ornamented helmets, tugging at the reins to make their mounts turn and twist.

“Mine!” Ryan yelled, expecting Mashashige to step aside to give him a clear shot at bringing down all three riders with the SIG-Sauer.

But the shogun stood statue still, the sword out in front of him, point to the earth, seeming totally oblivious to the triple death that galloped toward him.

Ryan had no chance at getting in a kill shot at all three of the enemy samurai.

He did his best, picking off the leader with a shot through the chest, the full-metal jacket bursting easily through the medieval armor, kicking the man back off his pony to clatter into the trees.

A snap shot at the second man missed completely as Mashashige shuffled a couple of paces to his left, forcing a split-second alteration of Ryan’s aim.

There was just time for a third shot. The shogun was totally in the way, readying himself for a swing at the second mounted warrior, leaving Ryan a chance at the last man in the line. He was surprisingly tall, and his helmet was decorated with a silver life-size skull.

Ryan snatched at the shot, seeing the spurt of blood from the man’s right shoulder, the wound making him drop his sword and also lose control of his pony. It veered from the explosions of the automatic pistol, nearly tipping the rider from the high-pommeled saddle.

It gave Ryan the bonus chance of a fourth shot, as horse and warrior careened past him. The bullet hit through the side of the throat, under the rim of the brightly enameled helmet, ripping an exit hole the size of a man’s fist under the left ear. A torrent of arterial blood streamed out behind the samurai like a torn veil of crimson silk.

Two out of three wasn’t bad shooting in the cribbed conditions of the twisting trail, the trio of samurai yelping as they rode at the two men on foot.

Two out of three still left one of the whooping warriors, a skinny man, wearing an embroidered green satin kimono over his traditional armor, his long sword poised above his head to cut down at Mashashige.