Cormac crawled across the office floor, which was strewn with paper and shattered furniture.

“Stay low,” said Makoto, removing a weapon from his rucksack.

Using his boot, Cormac swept away the broken glass from beneath the window and listened. Silence. He peered out from the fourth-floor window onto Times Square. An army of medieval samurai stood below in neat, motionless rows. The sun glinted off the polished steel of swords and spears. Empire flags and banners fluttered gently in the morning breeze.

Blocks of archers pointed their bows down the streets leading into Times Square. On the periphery, the cavalry waited, in horned helmets and masks, in orange-and-red plate armor. Their horses pranced uneasily under chain mail, metal blinkers, and scarlet tassels.

Makoto sat beside Cormac under the sill. Using a small handle he twisted a ratchet on the plastic gun in his lap. The mechanism clicked as the chamber pulled back.

“It’s like a crossbow,” explained Makoto, flipping open the chamber lid.

He reached into the rucksack and removed a glass ball that was divided into two halves, each filled with liquid—one transparent, the other yellow. “Glass bombs.”

He dropped the sphere into the empty chamber and closed the lid. Pointing to the trigger, he said, “Aim and fire.”

Cormac took the gun apprehensively. “What do they do?”

“Upon contact with air, one liquid turns to smoke, reducing the enemy’s visibility and hopefully causing confusion. The other liquid turns into tear gas, which will cause temporary blindness. When you see a flare in the sky, launch as many of these as you can into the center of Times Square.”

Cormac nodded.

“Then you stay here until this is over. Do you understand?”

Cormac nodded again.

Makoto clapped Cormac on the shoulder and crawled back to the doorway.

And then he was gone.

Cormac knelt and placed the barrel of his gun on the window. He looked around the area for Ghost, but there was no sign of him. Had his friend really betrayed him and joined forces with Goda? Or was his mind being controlled by Kiko? And where was Kate? He’d told her to find somewhere to hide. What if she was trapped inside some collapsed building? Or worse?

He noticed movement to his left. A samurai dressed in ornate red armor rode a white horse through the soldiers into the center of the intersection. He shouted in Japanese. Goda!

Cormac felt for the trigger on his gun without taking his eyes off Goda. The man drew his sword from his scabbard, thrust it in the air, and screamed.

At the same time, a bright flare soared across the sky.

My signal! Cormac squinted down the barrel of his gun, pointing it into the middle of the area. He pulled the trigger, but the sudden release of the chamber kicked the weapon back into his shoulder, launching the missile high into the sky rather than down below. It arced through the air in silent slow motion before landing among a regiment of samurai infantry. A bulbous cloud of white smoke engulfed the immediate area. Soldiers emerged from it, rubbing their eyes, crying in pain and falling blindly over one another.

He reloaded the gun, but this time sat the butt into his shoulder and rested the barrel on the windowsill. He took aim and fired, bracing himself against the weapon’s recoil. The missile shot straight into the center of the area, bursting into a puff of thick smoke and blinding gas.

He fired missile after missile into Times Square until he had only one left. The area below was cloaked in dense smoke. He loaded the final sphere and stood to get a better view of the terrain below. Spotting a smokeless corner, he launched his final bomb.

No sooner had he pulled the trigger than a swarm of dark arrows emerged from the smoke. He tried to duck but was too late. He felt a sharp pain in his chest, which sent him stumbling backward into the office, as more arrows poured in through the windows. He tripped over a fallen computer and crashed onto his back, a black arrow protruding from his chest.

He stared at where the shaft had entered his shōzoku, waiting for a darkening bloodstain. But none came. And the pain subsided. He grasped the arrow and pulled it free from his beaded suit, overwhelmed with relief as he saw the blood-free arrowhead. Rubbing his chest, he threw the arrow aside and crawled to a different window to look out.

The smoke had dissipated, revealing coughing, retching samurai, many of whom had whipped off their helmets and were on their knees, rubbing their eyes.

But his bombs had only made a small dent in the army. The unaffected remainder headed for the melee that had spilled into all sides of Times Square. Scanning the perimeter, Cormac saw a battle raging between Black Lotus warriors and Goda’s army. Wearing face masks, the shinobi somersaulted and cartwheeled into battle, swinging ceramic swords and firing plastic guns. Up close, they used nimble ninjutsu kicks, punches, and throws to disarm the samurai, clumsy in their cumbersome armor.

On the other side of the intersection, civilians armed with homemade weapons battled against samurai swords and halberds. Gas bombs arced onto the streets, bursting into angry infernos. Horses reared. Arrows flew and bodies fell: samurai, shinobi, and civilian.

A bright light diverted Cormac’s attention. A woman with long black hair, dressed in green lacquered armor, swung a mighty katana. Kiko! Each time she swung, her sword left a glowing trail of white light in the air—mini-portals—which dissolved seconds later. And each time she swung, a New York City civilian fell. She forged her way through the mob, cutting them down like bamboo, leaving a trail of death in her wake.

A ninja followed her, as if in a trance. Ghost! He seemed oblivious to the battle around him, and it was a miracle he hadn’t been injured or killed. But now Cormac was sure. This was not a soldier who’d changed allegiance. This was an innocent boy, brainwashed by an evil woman.

Cormac ran to the door. He had to get his friend out of there.