The Sword of Kuromori. Jason Rohan

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      The police convoy pulled out on to the short connecting highway which led away from the airport, before joining the six-lane Higashi-Kanto Expressway. Low humpbacked hills slunk in the distance and the setting sun seared the sky a hot neon-pink.

      Kenny stared out of the window, his mind a whirl. He knew his grandfather had once lived and worked in Japan, but that was over half a century ago. How could anything that had happened then be affecting his grandson now? What did Sato mean when he had said that Grandad had sent Kenny to finish his work? And what had happened to his voice? How could Sato just turn off someone’s speech?

      Kenny was reminded of the animal hiding under his shirt as it shifted its grip, digging its claws into his ribs and making him wince.

      The driver muttered something in a low warning tone and the police officer handcuffed to Kenny whirled round in his seat to examine the view from the back window. Sensing something was wrong, Kenny looked back too.

      ‘Honto, da!’ the police officer said, pointing.

      Kenny watched, seeing nothing unusual, until a black object swung out from behind a heavy truck and sped towards the police car. It was a motorcycle, black, shiny and sleek, moving so fast that it had shot silently past them on the inside lane before Kenny had registered it. Pressing himself against the window, Kenny watched as the motorbike swept past Sato’s car and hurtled towards the two police motorcycles in front.

      The driver snatched up his police radio and started speaking quickly into it. The police officer beside Kenny leaned forward, nose twitching, and pressed against the front seat in his eagerness to see what was happening.

      The motorcyclist was clad in black leathers and was wearing a helmet with a mirrored visor. He slowed momentarily as he passed the police riders and then sped out in front of them again. Reaching into a side pannier, he took out a handful of small objects and scattered them on the road behind him.

      There was a bang, then another, and Kenny realised the sound was tyres blowing out on one of the police motorcycles. It flipped on to its nose and somersaulted across the road. The other motorbike swerved to avoid it. Sato’s car, close behind, braked hard and skidded as the stricken bike slewed towards it in a cascade of sparks.

      The driver of Kenny’s car cried out and wrenched the steering wheel as Sato’s car loomed instantly larger before them. The nose of the police car veered to the left and clipped the back of the squad car in front, shattering the brake lights, but the swerve brought it straight on a collision course with the wreck of the police motorcycle.

      Kenny barely had time to grab the seat in front before the car hit the motorbike with a bone-jarring crunch, the front wheels lifting and the underside of the vehicle screeching over the mangled remains. With a jolt, the car scraped over the bike and its four wheels hit asphalt again.

      Cars behind slammed on their brakes and, looking back, Kenny saw bits of broken metal and glass glinting across the highway, rapidly fading into the distance. In front, Sato’s car sped up to catch the motorbikes. Kenny’s driver floored the accelerator too, shouting into his radio mike while he did so.

      The remaining police motorcycle raced after the rider in black, weaving in and out of cars and trucks. Kenny craned his neck to follow the chase. The black motorbike slowed and waited for the police bike to draw alongside. The rider then jumped up, keeping both hands on the handlebars, and lashed out with an outstretched boot, catching the police rider on his helmet. His balance thrown off, the bike slipped from underneath the officer, and both vehicle and rider clattered to the hard shoulder.

      Sato, riding in the car in front, sprang into action. He punched open the glove compartment and snatched up a short stubby sub-machine gun. He smashed the passenger window with the stock and, wrapping his hand round the seat belt as an anchor, he sat up on the side. He levelled the gun and fired off several short sharp bursts at the black motorcycle in front.

      The black rider saw the tarmac explode into a bouquet of tiny craters around him and swung in front of an eighteen-wheeler truck for cover. Kenny watched in growing disbelief as Sato urged the police car forward, to overtake the truck, and fired off several more rounds of bullets in the direction of the black bike. The rider pressed himself flat against the motorcycle, squeezed the brakes and jerked the handlebars. The bike swooped close to the ground and slipped under the moving truck and out the other side.

      Sato’s car slowed down, waited for the truck to roar past and once again accelerated to catch up with the rider in black. The motorcycle swung out to the right; the rider reached for something on his back and then slammed on his brakes.

      Kenny saw a long black smear of fishtailing tyres, a puff of rubber dust and the flash of a sword as the police car zoomed past the motorbike. The barrel of Sato’s gun fell in two and the rider thrust the curved blade back into the scabbard on his back before picking up speed once more.

      Sato, still perched on the car door, drew something in the air with his free hand. The motorcycle swerved and swung from side to side, as if dodging unseen obstacles. Sato then drew a larger pattern and a huge wall of flame, some six metres high, erupted across the СКАЧАТЬ