Chapter Thirty-Four
It seemed as if the firefight was more or less over.
The shooting had fallen to silence behind them, though the noise of the fire was getting closer. There was still an occasional shot from ahead of them, toward the heart of the ville, where they believed that Mashashige might be organizing his last line of defense against his brother and the ronin.
They had seen a half-dozen bodies, mostly wearing the red-and-white uniforms of the sec men. Two of them were obviously outsiders, and one was another of the samurai from the fortress. He had been shot several times in the body and was lying bleeding to death, his steel-and-bamboo armor stuck to the floor in the pool of congealing crimson.
“Help me, gaijin ,” he whispered as he recognized Ryan and the others.
Hardly breaking stride, Ryan stooped and touched the muzzle of the SIG-Sauer to his temple and squeezed the trigger, blowing a chunk of skull the size of a saucer off the back of the man’s head. The corpse twitched, then lay still.
“The Romans at their most barbaric showed mercy to their doomed enemies,” Doc said conversationally.
“Thought they crucified them,” Mildred said, unable to resist the implicit challenge in the old man’s words.
“But they used to break the legs of the victims with an iron bar to speed their ending.” He laughed. “Being the pedantic old Romans, they even had a word for that iron bar. Called it a crurifragium . Interesting, is it not?”
“Not,” Ryan said curtly. “Not now.”
YASHIMOTO APPEARED from the smoke like a demon in an old-fashioned pantomime. The samurai had been cut near the old scar by his mouth and kept spitting venous blood, frothing over his armor. He had lost his horned helmet.
His sword was also missing, and he held a chromed Dragoon Colt in his hand, the huge barrel gaping like a railroad tunnel, pointed at Ryan’s chest.
“So, time for farewell, infidel!” he grated. “The die is casted, and it is the eyes of the snake showing.”
“Shoot me and the rest of us’ll fill you with lead,” Ryan said calmly.
Yashimoto leered at him. “That is no dishonor, gaijin . The blood debt will be paid to my brother. The ronin are winning. They take many losses, but they will win.” He laughed, high and weird. “What will their treasure be? A mountain of ashes and bones. That is all.”
Mildred stood immediately behind Ryan, her Czech target revolver already drawn and cocked. It was obvious that the Japanese warrior’s nerves were strung tight, and any move would mean a bullet for Ryan. Even though the gun was obviously a predark replica of the old cap-and-ball classic, the odds were that he wouldn’t miss from less than twenty feet.
“Where’s Mashashige?” Ryan asked, trying to buy time, take the samurai’s concentration away for a moment and give one of the others the chance to waste him. The problem was that they had been moving in single file so that he blocked any direct shot. Mildred was right behind him, and Ryan had no way of guessing whether she might be able to take a chance against Yashimotountil he felt the slight pressure against his right arm.
“He is wounded,” the warrior replied, still grinning brightly. “Many are dead and the palace burns. All that is left is to die with honor.”
“Then do it,” Mildred said quietly.
She had eased the muzzle of the ZKR 551 6-shot revolver under Ryan’s arm. Now she pressed the trigger, sending the Smith amp; Wesson .38 round on its way.
Ryan’s body muffled the noise of the shot, making it sound as if it came from far away.
For a moment the woman thought that she’d missed the samurai. He didn’t move at all, the barrel of the Dragoon not wavering an inch.
A black spot had appeared on his burnished armor, just over his left breast, and it suddenly began to leak bright crimson, the blood flowing freely, pattering on the stone floor of the narrow corridor.
“Who?” Yashimoto whispered, puzzled. “Which of you ?” His gaze raked the six friends, settling on the blaster in Mildred’s right hand. “Not black bitch ?” He dropped the gun as though he’d forgotten that he’d been holding it.