Warrior Spirit. Alex Archer

tension in the room. She saw the waitress start to approach their table, but Ken glanced at her and barely lifted his index finger from the tabletop. The waitress immediately stopped and retreated.

      “Well, before we begin, let me just say that you’ve been a most enjoyable companion for dinner this evening,” Ken said.

      Annja frowned. “Begin?”

      Ken smiled. “Everything in the universe unfolds itself at the appropriate time. This situation is no different.”

      Annja wasn’t sure exactly which situation Ken referred to, but she didn’t have time to think about it. The thugs had finally made a decision and were sliding out of their booths, making their way toward Ken, who still seemed entirely unfazed by the thought of what might happen next.

      The young man Annja had picked as the leader swaggered toward their booth. Ken kept his eyes on Annja and his hand on his beer glass.

      The thug glanced at Annja and then at Ken. He barked out a quick sentence to Ken, who simply sighed. “My companion doesn’t speak Japanese. Why don’t you be polite and use English? I’m sure she’d appreciate it.”

      The thug frowned and glanced at Annja again before looking back at Ken. “You don’t give me orders,” he said in English.

      Annja almost chuckled. Despite the thug’s insistence he was in charge, he had already obeyed Ken without even realizing it.

      Ken’s eyebrows waggled once at Annja. “Is there something I can do for you?”

      “You’re sitting in our booth,” the young man said.

      “Really? That’s fascinating. How come you weren’t sitting in it when we walked in? After all, you’ve been here far longer than we have,” Ken replied.

      “You’re in our booth.” The thug put both hands on the table and leaned over Ken. Annja could see his shirtsleeves inch up, exposing a twisting snake tattoo that wound its way from the edge of his wrist well up the forearm.

      Ken glanced at the snake and then at the thug. “You didn’t use bamboo to get that tattoo, did you?”

      “What?”

      “Bamboo,” Ken said. “You see, in the old days, truly tough Yakuza would insist that their tattoos be applied using slivers of bamboo dipped in ink. It was an excruciating process, by which the Yakuza would prove themselves as impervious to pain and able to withstand anything in their loyalty to their oyabun .”

      The thug sniffed. “Old days. Yeah, right.”

      Ken nodded. “That, however, looks like it was done using an electric pen like the kind they use in cheap parlors down by Jimbocho.”

      “What if it was?”

      Ken shrugged. “Probably nothing at all, but it could mean that you have less tolerance for pain than you like to think. It could also mean that you’re not the tough guy you like to project. And furthermore, it might very well mean you aren’t Yakuza at all, but simply a poser.”

      Annja’s eyes widened. If the tension hadn’t been palpable before, it was now at the point where she could have used her sword to cut through it. The thug backed up almost in total shock that Ken would say something like that to him in front of his group of followers. The loss of face was immense.

      If we had a chance at walking out of here before, thought Annja, it’s gone now.

      The thug recoiled just enough to draw his right arm back, reach into his pocket and draw a slim stiletto. He stabbed it straight at Ken’s heart.

      Ken simply leaned back and let the knife go past him. Then he grabbed the thug’s wrist with his right hand and tugged him forward. It happened so quickly the thug stumbled and lost his balance. As his face came toward the tabletop, Ken lifted his left hand and slammed the beer glass into the thug’s face.

      Glass shattered. Ken had slammed the glass bottom into the thug’s nose. Annja heard the cartilage break. Blood flowed, staining the air with the smell of copper.

      Ken let the young tough slump to the floor, but as he did so, he tweaked the stiletto out of his hand.

      There was a moment of stunned silence as the gang looked from Ken to the floor where their leader lay. Then one of them gave a mighty cry, and all hell broke loose.

      Annja blinked and almost missed Ken kick at the next-closest target, catching the young gun in the crotch. Ken used the kick to cover his slide out of the booth. Annja wanted to help him, but was unsure about what she was getting herself into. The last thing she needed was to land on the wanted list of every Yakuza member in Tokyo.

      Ken seemed to have no compunction about doing so, however. Annja watched as he deftly evaded every strike and kick aimed at him by the gang members. One moment they would seem locked on to him, and the next, their strikes would pass through empty air. Ken would have somehow managed to get behind them or to their side and simply apply a few key strikes to take them down.

      Annja watched one of them sneak up from behind and try to stab Ken in the back. She was about to shout a warning but as the stab came in, Ken sidestepped and the blade passed through air where Ken’s kidneys had been a second before. Ken moved back and effected some sort of strange arm lock Annja had never seen before. In an instant, the thug was airborne, crashing into a group of other thugs, sending them sprawling across several booths and tables.

      Ken had also somehow managed to contain the mayhem to their corner of the restaurant. Annja was aware that the rest of the crowd sat riveted by the action. In America, Annja theorized that the other eaters would have tried to get the hell out of there. Or at least recorded the entire fight on their cell phone cameras.

      But in Japan, things were different.

      Ken surveyed the scene. A quiet hush broken only by the low moans of the thugs he’d trashed fell over the restaurant. Ken stepped over to the thug leader he’d dispatched first and rolled back his sleeve some more. The supposedly elaborate snake tattoo ended halfway up the forearm.

      Ken sniffed. “Just as I thought.”

      He stood and looked at Annja. “Well, now I suppose we should leave. While I’m not at fault for this, I do so hate police interaction. Japanese cops tend to be nothing if not ensconced in paperwork and bureaucracy. I have little time to waste on either.”

      Annja shook her head, trying to clear the images that had played out before her. “Are they dead?”

      Ken chuckled. “Nope. But I imagine they’ll be sore for a good few weeks.”

      The waitress skated up and presented Ken with a bill. He glanced at it and then frowned. “Fifty thousand yen for a table?” He sighed, but took out his wallet and removed a sheaf of paper notes. “Only here would the management take the time to calculate the cost of repairing all of this while the fight was going on so they could have the bill ready when it was done. Crazy.”

      He handed the waitress the pile of money and then nodded toward the door. “I think I’m more concerned about another itemized bill than these clowns. We’d better get going before the owner decides to charge me double for the glasses.”

      Annja took a breath and followed Ken outside. The cool air felt good on her skin. For some reason, she’d felt amazingly energized by watching the fight transpire. She’d wanted to join in but had held herself back out of fear of jeopardizing Ken. Somehow that sentiment seemed crazy now. Ken had handled himself unlike any fighter Annja had ever known.

      “You’re awfully quiet, Annja. I hope that didn’t upset you too much. You seem somewhat accustomed to violence, though, so I didn’t think it would be a problem.”

      Annja stopped short of Ken’s Mercedes. “Just who the hell are you exactly?”

      Ken grinned. “Hop in and I’ll tell you everything you want to know. And probably plenty that you don’t.”

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