The Last Assassin

How did they know to wait for me here? They probably didn't, not for sure. But they knew Midori would contact me right after they threatened her. She told me she didn't tell them anything, but in her fright she might have mentioned Tokyo, just to give them something. From there, they could have figured out what would be the next nonstop from Narita to JFK, and wait outside arrivals. If it wasn't this one, it would be the next.

Then I started thinking, But why not stay on Midori? That's the sure choke point. Maybe they thought they'd have more of a chance of surprising me here. Or maybe…

Stop. I could figure it out later. What mattered was what was happening now.

I took the escalator down to the departure area, moving in such a way that I created several opportunities to unobtrusively check behind me as I walked. My friends were staying with me. Good.

I didn't think they'd move against me in here. There were too many cameras. But a bathroom? That would be too good an opportunity to miss. Jesus, I hoped that knife was still there.

A minute later, I headed into the restroom where I'd secured the Strider just before Dox and I had departed for Tokyo. I knew what the yakuza were thinking: He just got off an international flight and has no checked bag, he can't possibly be armed. And there are no cameras in that bathroom, unlike just about everywhere else in the airport. We can do it and, be on our way back to Japan before the police even know who they're looking for. Give him a minute to unzip, sit down, whatever, then he'll be maximally helpless. We'll do it then.

How did I know? Hell, it's what I would do.

I walked in, the swinging door closing behind me. There were six stalls in this restroom. All of them were unoccupied. Except one.

The one where I had secured the knife.

Shit. With barely another thought, I said in the most stentorian tone I could muster, 'Sir, you need to evacuate this facility immediately.'

There was no response. I said, 'You, in the stall, sir. You need to evacuate this restroom immediately. Now.'

A voice came from behind the stall door. 'What?'

'Sir, this is an antiterrorism exercise. If you are not out of that stall and out of this restroom within the next ten seconds, I will have you arrested on the spot. One. Two.'

The toilet flushed on three. And I hadn't even gotten to seven when the guy burst out of the stall, struggling with his belt with one hand and a carry-on bag with the other. 'What the hell is this?' he said as he passed me.

'Classified, sir,' I said, as he reached the door. 'But thank you for your cooperation. And have a safe flight.'

I stepped into the stall, dropped down to my knees, and felt behind the toilet for the knife.

It wasn't there.

Come on, I thought. Come on, come on…

I knew this was the right stall – third from the door. I could even feel some of the adhesive from the duct tape, where it had come off on the porcelain. But the knife itself was gone.

Maybe someone had found it by accident. Or else airport security periodically swept public areas for contraband. It didn't matter. What mattered was what I was going to do next.

I got up and moved quickly to the handicap stall. It was the last one, farthest from the entrance, and, unlike the other stalls, the door on this one swung out, not in. I closed it behind me, but didn't engage the lock. When I let it go, though, it swung slowly outward.

Fuck. I grabbed some toilet paper, squeezed it into a small ball, and pulled the door closed on it. This time the door held.

I opened my bag and pulled out a pair of shoes and pants. I set the shoes down in front of the toilet and piled the pants on top of them. From outside the stall, at a glance, it would look natural enough.

I heard the swinging door open. Hot adrenaline spread through my chest and gut.

I sat on the toilet, took hold of the handicap railing on both sides, leaned back, and raised my feet in front of me.

In my acute state I heard the distinct sound of a folding blade clicking into place. Then another.

Footsteps, to my left. I breathed quietly through my mouth.

The footsteps came closer. Closer.

The footsteps stopped directly in front of me. I saw a shape through the crack at the edge of the door. The shape started to move lower as the yakuza angled for a better peek.

I bellowed a war cry and shot my feet into the door. It exploded outward and blasted into the yakuza's face. He fell backward and something clattered to the floor.

I sprang out. The other yakuza was on my left, a blade in his right hand. Before he could get over the instant of shock produced by my yell and the sight of his partner going down, I bellowed again and grabbed his wrist with both hands.

I trained in judo at Tokyo's famed Kodokan for a quarter century. A quarter century of daily hours of gripping and twisting the heavy cotton judogi. More recently, I'd gotten addicted to Brazilian jujitsu in Rio. And on top of all that were my hand and finger exercises. I can say without any false pride that, when I grab someone's wrist, they might as well be caught in a bear trap.

I squeezed hard and the yakuza howled. His knife clattered to the floor. I stepped in close, grabbed his balls with an undergrip, and squeezed as hard as I could. He shrieked and doubled over.

The other guy was on his knees now, groping for his knife under the sinks. I grabbed him by his leather jacket and hauled him back. He tried to catch me with a donkey kick, but I'd anticipated that and was too far to his side. The kick snapped past me. I scooted toward his head, braced my hands on his back, and shot a knee into his face. He fell back. I dropped down, grabbed the knife, and rolled to my feet.

The other guy was staggering for the door now, still doubled over. I snagged one of his pants legs at the ankle and yanked it back toward me. He went sprawling forward onto his face. I did a knee drop onto his spine, mashed his face into the floor, and brought the knife up under his neck. I dug in, then tore out and away.

There was a wet gurgling noise, half cry, half bubbling liquid. I jumped back to get clear of the blood and turned to his partner. He was on his ass now, scuttling backward. His face was a bloody mess – from the door shot or the knee or both, I didn't know.

He bumped up against the wall and started to struggle to his feet. I kicked him in the balls and he folded forward with a grunt. I stepped behind him, hooked my fingers into his eyes, and hauled his head back. Then I brought the knife around and practically took his head off. Blood sprayed from the gaping wound and I shoved him away from me. He crashed into one of the stall doors and went down.

I looked at myself in the mirror. There was blood all over me. The jacket I was wearing was dark enough to conceal the problem, though, and I zipped it up higher. I rinsed my shaking hands under one of the faucets, closed the knife, and shoved it into a pants pocket. Then I rinsed my face and wet my hair, getting the blood off and changing my appearance at the same time.

The swinging doors opened. I glanced over. A black man in a suit started to walk inside. He froze when he saw the tableau. 'Oh, my God,' he said.

'I was attacked,' I said, in a high, frightened voice, looking at his feet to make it harder for him to see my face. 'Find a policeman. Please.'

He backed out through the door. I really had to hurry now.

I ducked into the handicap stall and shoved my pants and shoes into the carry-on. When I came out I had to jump over the pool of blood spreading on the tiled floor. I wanted to wipe down the surfaces I'd touched, but there just wasn't time. I went out the swinging doors. The area was clear. I kept my head down and headed straight for a taxi stand.