I was not accustomed to the bright lights. Or the loud music. Or the mass of people, all brightly colored and pretty, and so young. Was I ever this young? When I was their age . . . heh, okay, I'm not going to continue thinking about that. I have a reason to be here tonight, I can't distract myself.
I stepped into the chaos of the crowd, adapting and blending as I had been taught. These kids were trooped around their bright and shiny cars, showing off and posing for all their friends. The most popular girls seemed to have the shortest skirts, and the boys with the most girls had very expensive cars. I wondered where these kids got their money as I prowled through the Mazdas and the Toyotas. Thousands of yen spent just for a fast car. It made no sense to me.
I'd been told to look for the green dragon, which I assumed now was the theme of the car whose racer I needed to find. How the yakuza got their claws into these kids – no, I shouldn't be surprised. Underground racing was built on nerves and facades, and it wasn't too farfetched to think some of these boys wouldn't be trying to win some boss' attention.
I was getting some stares, some good and some bad. I'd spent some time on the internet researching these underground racing . . . get-togethers? So I had put together some strange outfit that seemed to be getting mixed reviews. I was comforted to see girls in gaudier get-ups, so I decided to attribute the looks to my newness. The skirt was a strange thing, and the top had enough straps on it to make me twitchy. I had no gun, which was probably for the best. The shoes made me laugh, though; they were these bright pink things with five inch heels, and made it look like I had longer legs than nature had given me. I hope no one decides to pick a fight . . .
"Hey there, pinkie-girl." Someone whistled at me, and I turned to spot a well-dressed boy gesturing at me. I had to reassert the fake personality I'd given myself, and successfully managed a wide-eyed stare at him. He laughed and waved me over, and with a flick of the long black hair I was sporting, I minced over to him and his buddies.
If any of them was twenty, I'll kill myself. I suddenly felt old, but kept the demure smile on my face. This close, he might be able to notice that it was only clever make-up that made me look Asian. So I kept my head down and curled a strand of hair around my finger as the kid threw an arm over my shoulder. I looked aside at the car they were sprawled over, and restrained a sigh. No green dragon here.
"All by yourself, honey?" One of the boys leaned in, eyes wide with hands jammed into the pockets of his expensive jeans.
I bobbed my head and let out a deep sigh. "I was supposed to meet Yumi-chan here, but I haven't seen her yet and I think she might have ditched me." I glanced up only once, threw on a pout, then looked at my feet.
The third boy slapped his hands over his heart and staggered back against the car, a brilliant candy red confection of automotive perfection. Even to my eye, it was a sleek vehicle. "Alone, an angel like you? Tragic!"
"You'll have to stay with us then." The brave kid gave me a squeeze, but his smile wasn't smarmy or trite. I looked up, keeping my eyes wide and innocent as I looked him over. Nothing shady to this boy; he was probably an older brother-type. A glance at his wrist showed off a bracelet far too feminine for someone like him. Ah. He had a girl. Even better. I put the most helpless expression I could manage on my face. He caved.
The next half hour I spent in the company of the boys – Dai, the gentleman, Tsubasa, the actor, and Koji, the rich one. The car was his, and he wasted no time in telling me all about it. I didn't have to feign the ignorance that came over my face as he pointed to various things under the car's hood. I was only good with motorbikes, not these beastly machines. Dai and Tsubasa pointed out and introduced me to a variety of people – I had apparently lucked out hooking up with them, they were popular. And as self-effacing as Koji was, he had a reputation for being a top-notch drifter.
"Oh," Tsubasa sneered, as the thirty-minute mark had come and gone. I looked up, blinking between the boys. He pointed down the way, between the rows of cars, and we all watched as a piece of art slowly rolled forward. The first thing I noticed was the emerald dragon plastered across the side of the vehicle, and I darted looks at my new friends to gauge their emotions. Tsubasa scowled, Koji looked concerned, and Dai seemed nonplussed. I peered at the driver as he passed, and was startled to recognize the driver.
Kazama Masato, the son of a lieutenant of the Painted Tigers. I had not touched his father, and had no reason to, as Kazama-san's points of interest had not been in anything I had been a part of. But he might recognize me, just the same. He could return to his father, and tell him I had been sighted. I had survived this long, hunting Tigers, because they could never pinpoint me. I was taking a risk, but my contact was trustworthy. Maybe Masato was –
"You think he's racing tonight?" Koji asked, chewing on a thumbnail. The boys stood in a line against the driver's side of the car.
"Dunno," replied Tsubasa, still looking displeased. I got the impression that he felt Koji could have swept the night's races, if Masato wasn't around. While Tsubasa had no head for the sport, he had one for the "business," and often set up the races for Koji. Dai was mainly around for moral support.
I moved around to stand beside Dai, twirling hair around my finger again. "Well, why don't I go ask? You never know until you ask." And I started out, adding a little sashay to my walk. I heard a chorus of startled yelps behind me, and I assumed the boys were scrambling after me, to make sure I didn't commit a terrible breach of etiquette.
I parted the crowd as Masato stood out of his car. He was much bigger than from last I saw him, and he had a cocky expression on his face. He was also sporting yakuza ink now, and I tried very hard not to frown. I didn't think Kazama-san would have allowed the boy into the Tigers. Shows what I know.
"Pardon me, sir!" I squeaked, waving a hand as the boys all groaned behind me. The crowd around Masato parted, and I had a clear shot towards him. If I'd had a gun, that would have been it. Done. Bag and tag him.
He turned and looked down at me, still all superior and smug, but a little curious now. I stopped in front of him, clasped hands in front of me, smiling up at him. "Yeah?" he drawled, arms crossing lazily over his chest.
I made my eyes wide. "Are you racing tonight? The guys were wondering," I started, as Koji grabbed at my arm. My hand twitched and I almost jerked away, but I restrained myself.
Masato grinned, and looked past me to the boys as Koji said, "Don't mind her, Masato-san."
"Why not?" He gave me the toes-to-face and back examination, smirk growing wider. "I don't think I'd mind her at all."
His friends laughed, and Dai scowled slightly. Even Tsubasa looked a little peeved, but that was probably because he had designs on me. I remained cheerfully oblivious to the innuendo as Koji's fingers tightened on my arm. "That's what I heard the other day from Yumi-chan."
Masato's sneer diminished. That had been the key-phrase my contact had given me, and apparently, had given Masato as well. He looked perplexed, but without hesitation fired off the counter-phrase. "Sometimes Yumi-chan can be a liar."
"But she's always on time!" I giggled, covering my mouth but staring up at him. I nearly laughed louder at his expression; he couldn't believe it, but he trusted his contact, too. He motioned for me to come closer, while shooing everyone else away. I assured the boys of my safety, and they returned to Koji's car but kept glancing back to me. Once we were relatively "alone," Masato walked me around the car to the driver's side, casting sideways looks at me.
"Who sent you?" he whispered, opening the car door to lean in. He was going for the glove box, which I hoped held the disc I needed.
Still feigning my vapid girlhood, I replied just as softly. "Just Kizami. You don't need to know anything else." Kizami Abe was our mutual street contact, a petty drug pusher who had more connections than a spider in a web. He survived, because he was infallible.
Masato frowned but pulled out the little disc, turning to hand it to me. I extended a hand with the roll of yen in it, still smiling, still pretending to be harmless. Masato stared at me, and I felt a moment of stillness as his dark eyes searched my face, then widened.
He knew.
The disc was retracted, replaced with a small-caliber pistol. His friends, ever-watchful, pulled their own weapons. "You have some nerve, gaijin."
Oh well. I dropped my sugary-sweet voice, and expression. "It's a fair trade. I don't want a fight with you, Kazama-san." It never hurt to be polite.
He cocked the hammer back. We were drawing attention again, and not the good kind. I could see the boys out of the corner of my eye, even as I was wriggling my feet from those huge shoes. I didn't want anyone to get hurt tonight, but these were just kids, and they didn't know how to handle something like this.
"I'm a Painted Tiger. You're making war on us." His tone was cold, but his face gave away his tension. Big shoes to fill, eh Masato?
"You were the one willing to deal with someone from Kizami. Don't call me a traitor when you're getting your hands dirty."
He reared forward, gun but a meter from my head. "You killed my cousin!"
The shout echoed, and the music somehow got quieter. Real anger was in his face, and for a moment I let my sympathy show. He'd known loss. He had some idea why I did what I did, but not the whole picture.
"Put it away, Masato-kun. Holster the gun and walk away." I was calm.
"You dead is worth a lot, Mamushi. In money, and in reputation." He was determined now, all grown up and willing to kill. Another child, willing to throw away his humanity. I couldn't have that. I couldn't let the Tigers kill another innocent soul.
So I acted.
Fights are always a white noise to me. Some lever gets flipped in my head, and I become totally detached from everything but my targets. Good thing I was unarmed. Those boys only got hurt a little. I'd taken Masato's gun though, broke his hand doing it. The screams of the on-lookers didn't mean anything to me, but the gunshots did. Someone else would get hurt. I didn't want that.
I'd lost the shoes and the wig in the fight, and was car-jumping away from the body of the fleeing crowd, trying to make a break for it. Glass shattered from stray shots, metal squealed as bullets tore through. I was off the cars and rolling across asphalt, twisting around a concrete pillar as they tore after me.
I was about to break into a run when one of those pretty cars screamed to a stop, cutting me off. "Get in!" a girl's voice shouted, and I didn't even slow – just rolled over the hood, hit the blacktop, and barreled into the passenger side. The minute I slammed the door closed, we were tearing away, and I nearly bowled into my driver.
"Seatbelt!" she chirped, and as I complied I turned to look at her. Young, Japanese, and pretty – no, beautiful fit better. This girl had to be a model. She was dressed impeccably, and her car's interior was all leather. I stopped my contemplating as she took a sharp right, and I latched onto the door's handle to keep out of her lap.
"Do you mind Madonna?" She asked, glancing to me as a manicured nail tapped her sound system. "I like something up-beat when I'm in a chase."
I stared. "Happen often?"
She laughed and took another quick turn, checking her mirrors. "Not anymore, but – oh, there they are. I didn't think they'd follow. I guess they didn't recognize me. Why was Masato-kun shooting at you? Are you yakuza too?"
"I was," I replied, checking the gun. Still had some left in the clip.
"Are you an American? I thought you were Japanese earlier. You don't sound like an American. You sound like you're from Kyoto."
"My papa was." This girl talked a lot. I looked back to see several of those fancy-painted cars tearing after us. I turned back to see her heading towards the freeway. "What are you doing?"
She shifted, popping a stick of gum into her mouth. "Running room." She shifted again and smiled at me, then stomped on the gas. We ducked around slower cars, slid into places that looked too small for this beast she was handling, and nearly lost our pursuers a few times. She always seemed to ease up a little, just so they could keep up.
I aimed the gun at her head. I clicked the hammer back. I let my eyes go dead. "Explain."
And she did. In detail. Things about engines and horsepower and her vehicle compared to theirs. It was all mechanic lingo, peppered with terms I couldn't even spell much less understand. "And if you shoot me, we'll go out of control and you'll die too, so it's really very silly to be doing that." She never stopped her maniac driving, didn't even break a sweat. I recognized the zen-like state of a master at work. This girl was good.
I put the gun in my lap and stared again. She smiled even as we shot onto the freeway, swerving around a semi and in-between a pair of sedans. "I'm Inoue Tatsumi Jade, but call me T.J. It's much easier."
"Saito Amiko," I replied, blinking. She bobbed her head in greeting, snapping her gum as "Lucky Star" blasted on the radio. She looked back in the mirror and clucked her tongue.
"Really, now. They're beginning to disappoint me. I should have driven my other car. But I wanted to race this one, and see if she'd earn her keep." T.J. patted the dashboard affectionately. "Just got her, I haven't even named her yet! Which is probably why they're still chasing me. Totally didn't recognize me."
"And why should they?" I quipped dryly, peering back at the yakuza boys, who were lagging.
"I'm the Harajuku Racing Queen," she laughed, and proved it by passing several police cars, slamming the brakes and ducking around a van to shoot down the exit ramp. She began to sing along, barely slowing, and even cutting through an intersection when our light was red. I was impressed, to say the least.
"What do you want?" I asked coldly. In my life, people only did things like this for something in return. I could still kill this girl, after we stopped. Selling the car would be hard, but I could always use the money.
"Do you, ah, speak, uh, English?" She asked, in English, brokenly. Brows lifted, she looked at me as we banked a turn and swept past another cop car.
"Fluently," I snapped back in the same. Papa, and later Takashi, had insisted I have flawless English. T.J. squealed delightfully, and if she did that again I would shoot her.
"Excellent!" She said, in Japanese again. "Teach me how to speak good English like yours."
". . . that's it?"
"Uh huh. I don't need money," she gestured at the car, as the clothes she was wearing. "I'm absolutely horrible with languages at school, and Daddy is beside himself. Besides, if I knew better English, I could go to the U.S. and get into their underground racing. I've beaten everyone in Tokyo at least once." She pouted at that.
"I'm a former yakuza hitokiri set on killing every member of the Painted Tigers still living in Tokyo." I snapped, cold and harsh.
"So?" she asked flippantly. "You're obviously alone, and obviously need a driver."
"And that's you?"
She thumbed at her chest. "Undefeated. Remember?"
"People will try to kill you when you get caught."
"If I get caught. My brothers have scammed yakuza before, and they're still alive. The bastards. My Daddy can't be touched. Besides, you're a Saito, I'm an Inoue, and historically speaking this should be a brilliant pairing!"
It took me a moment to catch on, and I leveled a hard look at T.J. "That was pre-Meiji, and neither you nor I are samurai."
The look she gave me, this time, was serious and even. No more whimsy, no more laughing girl. "That bitter tone means you're lying a little on that last bit. You were samurai and something took that away from you. I'm a fighter, too, I just do it differently."
I watched her, and I weighed what she said. She wasn't just some flake; not like the vapid trophy girl I was pretending to be. I'd seen men twice her size crumple when I put a gun to their heads. I've seen accomplished, terrifying criminals cry when I walked into their rooms. I'd put a gun to T.J.'s head, and she'd been practical and logical. She drove like the devil. She was young, yeah, but I had been young, too, when I'd first been deemed "street-worthy" by those blood-thirsty yakuza cowards. If she got killed, it would be her own fault.
"All right," I finally said, and she cheered and grabbed at my hand. I yanked it away before she could get a good grip on it, and didn't seem to have taken offense at my action.
"You won't regret this." She stated firmly.
"I hope not," I said, voice full of cyncism.