Fire and Ice - Anne Stuart [79]
“Of course you don’t,” she murmured happily. And she followed him out the door, into the lion’s den.
18
Hitomi-san and his small army were waiting in the hallway with surprising patience. Jilly had long ago lost track of what day or what time it was; the interior corridors of the old warehouse didn’t give her a clue, and she suspected that the yakuza didn’t keep regular hours. It felt like the black side of midnight, or the approach of a dark, rainy dawn. It was a time when people were murdered, and babies were born. And as far as she knew, no one was pregnant.
They trudged through the dark corridors, and Reno still kept her hand tight in his. As long as he held on, they weren’t going to die, she told herself. If he let go, anything could happen.
The oyabun’s rooms were on the top floor of the warehouse. For some reason Jilly had thought they’d be taken back to the room where she’d first met him, but the black-lacquered doors were different from the red ones of the throne room.
Two armed men were stationed outside the door. They were older, and when Hitomi approached them they blocked the way, even as they bowed politely. “The oyabun is not receiving.”
“The oyabun will receive me. I have his grandson and his gaijin girlfriend, and I’ll cut both their throats if he doesn’t agree to talk with me.”
The guard didn’t blink. Now that Jilly had a chance to look at him she realized he was very old, maybe as old as Ojiisan himself, and his companion wasn’t much younger, whereas Hitomi’s men were all in their twenties and thirties. Even Hitomi had to be in his forties at the most. The elderly yakuza pulled a cell phone from his pocket, and to Jilly’s astonishment it was decorated with tiny charms hanging off it, just like a Japanese schoolgirl’s. The man punched in a text message, then folded his arms and waited.
Hitomi-san stood there, seemingly peaceful, while a skinny young man beside him began cleaning his fingernails with a very large knife. The knife that was supposed to slash their throats? She only hoped it was sharp and fast.
Reno must have sensed her tension, because he squeezed her hand, a small gesture of reassurance that was so unlike her bad-boy Reno that she was even more convinced they were going to die. She only hoped they killed her first. She really didn’t want to see Reno die, his red blood mixing with his flame-red hair on the cement floor.
The older yakuza picked up his phone and squinted at the screen. He moved it closer to his eyes, then farther away, and Hitomi’s patience seemed to be slipping, as evidenced from the tapping of his foot on the floor. Finally, the elderly guard reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of horn-rimmed glasses and set them on his nose. Then he took them off again, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping the lenses. She felt a faint tremor run through Reno, and if it weren’t an impossibility, she would have thought he was laughing.
Finally the old man seemed able to read the screen. “The oyabun is ready to receive you,” he said, opening the door behind him. “Follow me.”
A gesture from the knife-wielding yakuza made it clear they were to proceed. Maybe as a human shield—they couldn’t shoot Hitomi if Reno and a gaijin stood between them. Could they?
She almost couldn’t believe the suite of rooms belonged in the warehouse. The carpeting was thick beneath her feet, and she realized that everyone—assassin, guard and gangster alike—was taking off their shoes. She kicked off her sneakers, and her toes sank into the thick plush. It was white—the blood would make a terrible mess.
The furniture was white leather with black accents, the paintings on the wall were modern and abstract. There were at least a dozen men lined up against the far wall, all of them elderly, dressed in dark suits, their hands clasped in front of them. She wondered how many fingers they had among them.
In the middle sat the oyabun. Reno’s grandfather looked even more tiny than he had three days ago…or was it four?