37

28 September 3136

The coordinator’s room was completely dark. Aided by NVGs, the guard swept the room for the intruder. Weapon at the ready, he eased toward a set of inky silk draperies, nudged them aside. Nothing there. Turning, the guard took a step, then two more, but suddenly halted at a minute rasp coming from his right. Slowly, he pivoted. . . .

A green blur that resolved into a hand clamped his chin, tipped his head back. And then the knife sliced through flesh, and the guard couldn’t breathe. He was drowning in black blood that sprayed—

‘‘Stop playback.’’ The holovid paused, the guard suspended in midair like a collapsing marionette. Pushing back from his console, Jonathan stretched, like a languid, weightless cat. Lovely holo, like a finely directed play he never tired of watching. What a waste that, in a little over two hours, that wonderful mock-up assembled in a barren stretch of desert and all the bodies would disappear. (Actually, vaporize. He’d packed the mock-up of the Imperial Palace with that much explosive.)

The fact that Bhatia had been so helpful in planning the assassination—supplying him with guards in need of ‘‘remedial training’’ as well as detailed blueprints and security protocols—also meant that the ISF director was playing for keeps. Probably Bhatia had already arranged some secretive little alarm that would bring guards running at precisely the right moment: too late to do anything more than lop off Jonathan’s head and mop up the blood.

But Bhatia underestimated him—because Jonathan was changing. Metamorphosing. Drifting to a full-length mirror, he studied his naked body in minute detail, running his fingers over his skin, tracing the curve of every muscle, every hollow, every line and seam. Thinking about her living just behind his eyes excited him. His skin grew electric with desire, his hands provoking frissons of grief and fiery lust. Yes, the transformation had begun: of Katana’s restless kami in every fiber, along every nerve. She was growing, swelling like a hand animating an empty glove. Her heat throbbed against the sensitive drum of his skin stretched tight over muscle and bone.

‘‘But not yet,’’ he gasped, crushing his desire with an iron will. ‘‘Not quite yet.’’ Because first things first: He would give an impromptu performance, courtesy of Bhatia and what Jonathan had gleaned from a very helpful recording made during Toranaga’s visit. Bhatia had chosen Jonathan’s next targets. Jonathan could not fail. Not when he had such power. Not when he and Katana were one.

Time to hunt down some cats.

 
The shower was an ingenious contraption: foot and hand stirrups, an airlock seal to contain the water delivered under high power and pressure before being suctioned away so he wouldn’t drown. Surrendering to a punishing spray just the near side of scalding, Jonathan considered two tidbits of information that had wormed their way to him.

The first came from a source on Devil’s Rock: an obliging detective well reimbursed. Then the second on Ancha: When they’d run Petrie’s ID-link and activated a trip wire, he’d known. Loveland was a blast from the past. But the Bureau agent, Thereon . . . Drop the e, and that clinched it. To quote his dear, departed Marcus, a blind man could see it with a cane.

‘‘Oh, I’ll just bet you can’t guess what I’ve got in store for you, Thereon,’’ Jonathan said, tingling with heat. ‘‘I’ll just bet you can’t.’’