The elevator doors were almost closed when Milton fired both barrels. Birdshot fired out, a spread that peppered the wooden panelling, some of it spraying into the car. He heard the sound of it chiming against the metal of the elevator’s wall, but wasn’t able to see whether he had been able to strike Takashi. The car started to descend: Milton watched as the numbers fell from 12 through 11 and 10 and 9, recording the car’s progress down to the ground floor. Takashi was hit or he wasn’t; Milton couldn’t be sure, and, if he had managed to escape, there was little that he could do now.

He needed to move fast.

The two men he had shot were still alive, but neither looked as if that was a state of affairs that would persist for long. The man who had come out of the elevator had landed face up on the floor. His gut had been torn open by the birdshot, and, as Milton watched, the man gave out a long final exhalation. His eyes rolled back and he lay still.

Milton saw a bag on the floor near to where Takashi had been standing. He opened it and saw bundles of banknotes and what looked like financial instruments. He zipped it closed and tossed it across the room to the door.

He moved over to Katsuro. His face was twisted into a mask of pain, and his shallow breathing brought a crunching sound. Milton recognised it: among all the other damage the birdshot had done, Katsuro’s lungs had been punctured.

“Can’t breathe?” Milton asked him.

Katsuro nodded, his eyes wide with fear.

Milton frisked Katsuro’s body, found his phone and pocketed it.

“Please,” he gasped. “Help.”

The long sword that Katsuro had set down was by his feet. Milton collected it, marvelling at the perfect balance, the sensation that it could be moved quickly and easily. He pressed the tip of the blade against Katsuro’s breast and pushed down. The metal slipped through the fabric of his shirt and pierced his skin. Milton maintained the pressure until he felt the blade come up against the solidity of the floorboard beneath Katsuro’s scapula.

“That’s for Sakura.”

Katsuro gasped and blood bubbled out of the corner of his mouth and ran straight down his cheek and onto the floor. His eyes bulged, but then twitched as he looked at something behind Milton’s shoulder. Milton saw a spark—bitter amusement amid his pain—and when he turned, he saw Sakura standing in the open door. Yamato was behind her, his head poking around her legs.

Shit.

He had told them to go downstairs.

Katsuro coughed once, spluttering blood, and, when Milton turned back, he watched the life drain from his eyes.

“Out,” Milton told Sakura. “Wait outside.”