There was no excitement, no dread, and no adrenaline. Those responses had been deemed to dampen logical faculties and had been eradicated from him long ago. He was not to think or feel, and certainly not to question. He was a tool of men far greater than him. Nothing more.

For a long time, he’d believed all of it. Now, though, he saw things much more clearly.

There was no question that Masao Takahashi was an extremely dangerous man. He refused to bend with the wind, to acknowledge that the Chinese government’s saber rattling was just a bit of political showmanship for the benefit of the masses who granted it power. Because of this, Yoshima’s masters had decided that if the general’s influence was removed, the Japanese people would sink back into their mumbled apologies and averted gazes.

Ironically, it was the training he’d been given by these men that made him certain they were wrong. Nationalism was on the rise in Japan, and Takahashi’s death would do nothing but strengthen it. All he would accomplish here today would be to inch the two countries a little closer to the point of no return.

Another text came in warning him that the ETA of the general’s limousine was now one minute. He carefully inserted a set of custom earbuds and plugged the cord into his phone. Anyone looking would think he was listening to music, but the headphones were actually designed for hearing protection.

A drop of sweat ran down his forehead and he wiped it away. His masters had carefully designed the assassination to look like the work of the Japanese Patriotic Front, a left-wing group that had recently set off bombs in Yokohama and Nagoya. The subtle poison he’d suggested had been deemed too exotic and easily traced to a foreign source if discovered. And the sniper bullet that was his backup plan had been deemed too professional looking.

So he was sitting in a coffee shop waiting to unleash hell. Yoshima looked at the faces of the pedestrians walking by the colorful shop windows and at the drivers on their way home from work. How many would be disfigured or carry debilitating injuries for the rest of their lives? How many would die?

He bobbed his head to imaginary music and watched out of the corner of his eye as Takahashi’s opulent personal limousine came into view. Waiting until it was almost even with the Honda, he reached out and pushed the “volume” button on his phone three times in quick succession. A two-second delay had been programmed in, and he used the time to force himself to relax. It was important that he not flinch before the blast. The modern world was riddled with cameras, and every second of footage would be examined by the Japanese authorities.