The Sword of Kuromori. Jason Rohan

the two police motorcycles in front.

      The driver snatched up his police radio and started speaking quickly into it. The police officer beside Kenny leaned forward, nose twitching, and pressed against the front seat in his eagerness to see what was happening.

      The motorcyclist was clad in black leathers and was wearing a helmet with a mirrored visor. He slowed momentarily as he passed the police riders and then sped out in front of them again. Reaching into a side pannier, he took out a handful of small objects and scattered them on the road behind him.

      There was a bang, then another, and Kenny realised the sound was tyres blowing out on one of the police motorcycles. It flipped on to its nose and somersaulted across the road. The other motorbike swerved to avoid it. Sato’s car, close behind, braked hard and skidded as the stricken bike slewed towards it in a cascade of sparks.

      The driver of Kenny’s car cried out and wrenched the steering wheel as Sato’s car loomed instantly larger before them. The nose of the police car veered to the left and clipped the back of the squad car in front, shattering the brake lights, but the swerve brought it straight on a collision course with the wreck of the police motorcycle.

      Kenny barely had time to grab the seat in front before the car hit the motorbike with a bone-jarring crunch, the front wheels lifting and the underside of the vehicle screeching over the mangled remains. With a jolt, the car scraped over the bike and its four wheels hit asphalt again.

      Cars behind slammed on their brakes and, looking back, Kenny saw bits of broken metal and glass glinting across the highway, rapidly fading into the distance. In front, Sato’s car sped up to catch the motorbikes. Kenny’s driver floored the accelerator too, shouting into his radio mike while he did so.

      The remaining police motorcycle raced after the rider in black, weaving in and out of cars and trucks. Kenny craned his neck to follow the chase. The black motorbike slowed and waited for the police bike to draw alongside. The rider then jumped up, keeping both hands on the handlebars, and lashed out with an outstretched boot, catching the police rider on his helmet. His balance thrown off, the bike slipped from underneath the officer, and both vehicle and rider clattered to the hard shoulder.

      Sato, riding in the car in front, sprang into action. He punched open the glove compartment and snatched up a short stubby sub-machine gun. He smashed the passenger window with the stock and, wrapping his hand round the seat belt as an anchor, he sat up on the side. He levelled the gun and fired off several short sharp bursts at the black motorcycle in front.

      The black rider saw the tarmac explode into a bouquet of tiny craters around him and swung in front of an eighteen-wheeler truck for cover. Kenny watched in growing disbelief as Sato urged the police car forward, to overtake the truck, and fired off several more rounds of bullets in the direction of the black bike. The rider pressed himself flat against the motorcycle, squeezed the brakes and jerked the handlebars. The bike swooped close to the ground and slipped under the moving truck and out the other side.

      Sato’s car slowed down, waited for the truck to roar past and once again accelerated to catch up with the rider in black. The motorcycle swung out to the right; the rider reached for something on his back and then slammed on his brakes.

      Kenny saw a long black smear of fishtailing tyres, a puff of rubber dust and the flash of a sword as the police car zoomed past the motorbike. The barrel of Sato’s gun fell in two and the rider thrust the curved blade back into the scabbard on his back before picking up speed once more.

      Sato, still perched on the car door, drew something in the air with his free hand. The motorcycle swerved and swung from side to side, as if dodging unseen obstacles. Sato then drew a larger pattern and a huge wall of flame, some six metres high, erupted across the width of the road. The motorcyclist gunned the engine and shot through the flames, unharmed.

      Kenny’s driver yelled and stamped on the brake. Nothing happened. He pumped his foot again as they advanced towards the wall of fire. Kenny threw an arm over his eyes and screamed silently. The police officer handcuffed at his side prodded him and giggled in relief which made Kenny look up. The flames had completely vanished and they were still speeding after Sato’s car and the mysterious rider in black.

      Sato reached up again to draw in the air, but a flash of metal landed on his outstretched arm: a grappling hook, attached to a thin line – and the other end was in the firm grip of the black rider. Standing up on the footrests, the rider pulled with all his strength. Sato just had time to scream before he was yanked out of the speeding police car and bounced along the road.

      The rider let go of the line, looked back once and then raced to catch up with the police car. Kenny saw Sato rise to his feet, unhurt, and throw his tattered jacket on the ground in disgust.

      The driver again stamped on the brake pedal, but it was loose. He looked at Kenny in the rear-view mirror and shrugged apologetically. ‘Dameh da,’ he said.

      Up ahead, the black rider pulled alongside Sato’s police car. He lobbed a small canister in through the passenger window and moved clear. There was a flash and white smoke filled the car. The driver immediately braked, pulling the car on to the hard shoulder so that he and the other police officers inside could burst free from the choking fumes and fall to their knees, retching.

      Kenny’s mouth was dry, his pulse was racing and his chest was tight. Here he was, trapped in a police car without a voice, careening along at eighty kilometres per hour with no brakes. And, to top it all, it seemed like he was being hunted by a mad ninja on a motorbike who had just totalled three police vehicles and was coming to finish the job.

      The driver pumped the brake pedal one last time before giving up. ‘No brakes,’ he shouted to Kenny. ‘You must jump before crash. Gambatte, ne ?’ And with that, his features melted away and his empty uniform sagged on to the seat.

      Kenny stared in mute shock. A striped, furry nose poked from the trouser waistband and a brown badger shrugged out of the clothes, clawed open the door and dived out on to the road, clear of the speeding car.

      ‘Okubyomono!’ shouted the police officer next to Kenny. He jumped forward to hold the steering wheel steady with his free hand; the other tugged at the handcuff anchoring him to Kenny, until his wrist stretched like putty and the hand slipped out.

      Kenny had completely forgotten about the creature wrapped round his middle until he felt it now loosen its hold and begin to grow thicker as it unflattened itself. It oozed out from under his shirt and dropped to the floor of the squad car, just as the black motorcycle drew up alongside, its speed matching the car’s, and took up position by Kenny’s door. The rider drew a symbol in the air and Kenny felt a twitch in his throat. Before he could wonder about this, he saw that the rider had unsheathed the sword again and was taking aim at him through the window.

      Kenny yelled and hurled himself across the back seat as the sword came down. There was a clang and the door fell away completely, cut from its hinges. It cartwheeled down the road behind them.

      ‘Not good!’ shouted the police officer steering the car.

      Kenny looked up and saw a bright row of lights across the road in front: toll gates. In about twenty seconds, the car was going to smash into the waiting traffic ahead. He had to get out quickly.

      The furry animal evidently had the same idea as it was now jumping up and down, tugging Kenny’s collar and pointing in the direction of the black motorcycle. Kenny glanced up and saw that the rider was holding out a hand, gloved fingers beckoning him to take hold.

      ‘No way!’ he cried and then realised that his voice had filled the car. His voice! It was back, and that meant the rider had– There was no time for that.

      ‘Trust me!’ the rider said, his voice filtered through a speaker.

      Kenny saw the line of parked cars looming closer. There were mere seconds left. He grabbed his backpack lying on the seat beside him, scrambled across the car and tried not to look at the gritty blur of speeding tarmac below. He reached for the outstretched hand. The bike wobbled, moving out of reach. Kenny slipped and almost fell. He steadied himself and reached