‘The Way of the Sword is the moral teaching of the Samurai. The art of Zen must go hand in hand with the art of war. Enlightenment is the realization of the nature of ordinary life.’

Ordinary life? Ha. I’d give my right tit to have an ordinary life …

Master Pope stares at her as if reading her mind. ‘The teaching of Ai Uchi is to cut your opponent just as he cuts you, to train without anger, to abandon your life or throw away your fear.’

‘Do I seem afraid to you?’

‘What I perceive is not important. Each of us has his demons, Andrea. I hope Kendo will help you to one day face yours.’

Dominique changes into an old Florida State tee shirt, shorts, and her cross-training shoes, then stuffs her equipment bag into a locker and heads for the weight room.

Chris Adair, her personal trainer, is waiting for her by the rack of dumb-bells, his dreaded clipboard in hand. ‘How was Kendo?’

‘Good,’ she lies.

‘Then it’s time for a little pain.’ He sets the bench press at an incline, then hands her the two thirty-five-pound dumbbells. ‘I want twenty reps out of you, then we jump to the forty-fives.’

*

Dominique emerges from the gym two hours later, her freshly showered and massaged body still trembling with fatigue. The gym bag filled with wet clothes and equipment causes her right shoulder to ache, and she leans on the heavy bamboo cane for support.

The older woman with the burnt-orange hair pulled into a bun is standing by her Jeep, the grin of a cultist pasted on her face. Her eyes are shielded behind the wide wraparound sunglasses preferred by seniors.

Dominique approaches warily, gripping the handle of the bamboo cane tightly in her right hand. Concealed within its false bamboo outer casing is a Katana, the double-edged carbon steel blade of the Japanese sword deadly sharp.

‘Hello, Dominique.’

‘I’m sorry, you must have me confused with someone else.’

‘Relax, my dear, I’m not going to hurt you.’

Dominique remains at sword-striking distance from the older woman. ‘Is there something you want?’

‘Simply to talk, but not here. Perhaps you could follow me to my home in St. Augustine.’

‘St. Augustine? Lady, I don’t even know you. Now if you’ll excuse me—’

‘I’m not a reporter, Dominique. I’m more of a messenger.’

‘Okay, I’ll bite. Who’s the message from?’

‘Maria Gabriel. Michael’s mother.’

In her peripheral vision, Dominique notices the two Homeland Security agents approaching, one from each end of the parking lot. ‘Sorry, I don’t know anyone named Michael, now I have to go.’ She turns and walks away.

‘Maria knows you carry her unborn grandsons in your womb.’

Dominique freezes, the blood draining from her face.

‘Maria’s energy force reaches out across the spiritual world to contact you. You are in grave danger, my dear. Let us help.’