Flashback

Nick and Val had both been flex-cuffed, but with their wrists tied in front of their bodies. This gave Nick the slightest flicker of hope. Every cop and prisoner-taking grunt in the world knew you flex-cuffed dangerous prisoners—and anyone worthy of being taken prisoner should be considered dangerous—behind their backs. Arms, wrists, and fists tied in front could be, far too easily, used as weapons.

Either they weren’t in serious captivity (which Nick didn’t believe for an instant) or Sato’s men did not consider Nick and his son to be serious threats. Or, more likely, Sato’s people considered Nick and the boy dangerous but were certain that their numbers and firepower eliminated any real threat in the few minutes their prisoners would be allowed to live.

Given the number of ninjas illegally deployed along Wazee Street here in Lower Downtown Denver and the number that came with them as they entered Keigo’s building, Nick tended to agree with this last assessment.

“Careful there!” shouted Nick as three ninjas carried the still-unconscious Dr. George Leonard Fox down the ramp of the M-ATV, two using their arms as a sort of upright litter, the third man carrying the attached IV bottle.

The ninjas ignored him as the stream of men entered the building and made straight for the stairway. Nick remembered that Keigo’s old converted warehouse had no elevator. More work for the two men carrying Leonard, although Nick’s father-in-law looked as disturbingly thin and light as a professorially dressed scarecrow.

Sato led the way up to the third floor and, once there, did not turn right into the private quarters and bedroom where the murder took place, but left from the foyer to the fancy library where Nick had first seen the video recording of Dara standing down the darkened street. Today, for the first time in the two weeks since he’d stood shocked into silence by that image, Nick Bottom knew exactly why she’d been out there that night of Keigo’s party and Keigo’s murder.

He’d suspected ever since that night that Sato had known that Nick would see Dara on that video recording, had brought him down here to the murder scene precisely so that Nick would see Dara outside the building that night. But Nick hadn’t been able to figure out why his wife would have been there or why Sato would want him to know.

And now he had figured it out. And the solution to both those mysteries made Nick want to weep.

Hiroshi Nakamura had stood throughout their previous meeting, but now the billionaire was seated behind the big mahogany desk in front of the north-facing windows. There were four black-garbed ninjas with guns already standing on either side of that desk. The men carrying Leonard set him carefully on the leather couch by the bookshelves on the wall behind Nick, and Val was pushed down to sit next to his grandfather.

Sato stepped to one side of the room and nodded. One of his men closed the twin library doors. Counting the four who had already been there with Nakamura, there were now ten armed ninjas—not counting Sato—in the room, but the library was so large that the space didn’t seem crowded. No one had offered Nick a chair so he stood there on the Persian carpet in front of the desk, squinting slightly so he could make out Nakamura’s features against the evening light coming in through the wooden blinds behind him.

Nakamura looked as perfectly calm as he had at their first meeting.

“Mr. Bottom,” said Nakamura, “I had hoped that we would meet under more fortuitous circumstances. But that was not to be.”

“Let my son and father-in-law go, Nakamura,” said Nick. His words struck him as bad dialogue from a thousand TV dramas. It didn’t matter. He had to go on. “They’re civilians. They’re not part of this. Let them go and you and I will talk.”

“You and I will talk at any rate,” said Nakamura. “Your son should see what kind of man you are.”

The few electric lights in the room dimmed and a flatscreen rose from an elaborately carved bureau on the south side of the room. As soon as the screen was fully visible, the video began playing. There was no sound to accompany the images.

Nick saw himself from a viewpoint about twenty-five feet above the ground, looking almost straight down. The color tones seemed very strange until one realized that the lens on the miniature unmanned aerial vehicle was compensating for very low light.

Nick watched himself pawing through the pockets of three men on the ground, two obviously dead, the third and youngest man pleading for his life.

Suddenly there was sound and everyone in the library could hear the young man’s moans and words—Please… mister… you promised… you promised… it hurts so much… you promised.”

Nick watched along with his son and the other men in the room—only Leonard had his eyes closed—as his image on the screen set the pistol to within inches of the young man’s shocked, pleading face and blew his brains out.