“At last. I’ll go down with him. You’ll need to go and get Yamato.”

“You want to take him?”

“Yes, Katsuro, I do. We’ll go to the villa.”

Takashi owned a property in Hakone, near Mount Fuji. It was near to the hot springs, and every year for the last twenty, Takashi had visited it for a week to enjoy hanami season; the explosion of cherry blossoms that transformed the mountain. It was not as easily defensible as the tower block, but there was no reason to suspect that Milton knew of its existence.

He heard the sound of the lock disengaging.

“Katsuro,” Takashi warned.

The door opened and the gaijin stepped inside. He was toting a sawn-off shotgun. He aimed it into the room. Katsuro stepped in front of his father; Takashi reached for his pistol.

The gaijin shook his head. “Don’t do that.”

To their right, the elevator pinged as the car began to rise through the shaft. The digits in the display flicked from 1 to 2 and then 3.

The gaijin nodded in the direction of the elevator doors. “I think that’s going to be a little late.”

Takashi started to edge to the right. Katsuro was still covering him, although the katana—as impressive as it was—now looked less of an option when compared to the shotgun. Katsuro saw that, too, and Takashi watched as his son bent down, laid the sword flat on the carpet and then stood again.

The elevator continued to rise: 6, 7, 8, 9.

Katsuro flexed his shoulders, his slab-like muscles bulging. He lowered his arms and settled into a ready stance. “You want to try again?”

10, 11, 12.

The gaijin stared at him. “Not really.”

Milton pulled one of the triggers. The sawn-off boomed, a 12-gauge shell firing and the heavy load of lead shot blasting out and peppering Katsuro in the chest. He slid down the wall, leaving a swash of blood across the magnolia paint.

The elevator door opened. The gaijin swivelled and Tsukasa stepped out just as Takashi stumbled inside. The shotgun boomed again. Takashi was facing into the elevator car and couldn’t see what happened, but heard a grunt of pain and felt a warm spray over the side of his face. He ignored it, pressing the button for the ground floor.

He heard a click—the sound of a shotgun being broken apart—and kept hammering the button, knowing it wouldn’t make any difference but unable to stop. He turned his head, almost too frightened to look, and saw Tsukasa’s body spread out next to Katsuro’s. The gaijin was walking toward him, pressing two new shells into the shotgun and, as the elevator doors started to draw together, he closed the breech, aimed and fired.

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