Once he had even kicked a man so perfectly, so powerfully, so utterly flawlessly that the man's skull had crumpled like a smashed egg. Thinking back on that particular episode always made a small shadow of a smile play around the corners of his mouth. He had had to buy new shoes after that. Brain never washed out properly.

In his passport it said "Kenji Makamura". A highly regarded member of the Honjowara-gumi, he was a powerful member of one of the infamous yakuza families, that loose panoply of organizations often mistakenly, though aptly, called "Japanese Mafia". He was a troubleshooter, and a highly trained one at that.

Holding a 10th level Black Belt in three different martial arts - Shotokan Karate, emphasizing power and swiftness, Koppojutsu, that elusive and mysterious art of breaking bone with nothing but his hands, and Kobudo, the art of using the five traditional weapons of Karate - the bo or staff, the sai which resembled oversize forks, the kama or paired sicles deadly in trained hands, the tonfa or the original which the police nightstick was based on, and finally the exotic flail known as nunchaku immortalized by the legendary Bruce Lee, he was lethal both with and without weapons. If need be, he could break the average troll (kawaruhito, or "changed person" to polite Japanese) with his bare hands, and had been known to do so. Once, it had been anger. Another time, it had been professional, a job he had been commanded by his oyabun to do. And the third time it had been pleasure.

It wouldn't be the first time he acted as an assassin for his oyabun. Though the resurgence of magic after the event known as The Awakening in these rude, Western lands had lead to the resurrection of the ninja, the legendary assassins, spies, and masters of martial arts, he was often called in nevertheless. For instance, when a point had to be made, for instance crushing someone that had tried to maneuver against the yakuza. He particularly liked demolishing Italians and Corsicans. They had the most amusing habit of pulling knives when he advanced on them bare-handed. As if mere three or four inches of steel would help them against his perfect techniques.

Once, he even got to kill a member of a Seoulpa Ring, those pale, Korean imitators of the yakuza. He had thought his 8th degree black belt in Moo Sok TaeKwon Do would defeat anyone foolish enough to attack him. It had been most amusing to break all the larger bones in his body, one by one, starting with his clavicle.

It had taken him almost three hours to die. After the first two breaks, however, the fight had sadly left the Korean. Oh well, they were closer to dogs than to humans, after all. It wasn't as if he had expected that TaeKwon Do kicker to last much longer after he had shattered the Korean's left shin with a koppojutsu strike timed so that the spin kick the Korean had executed would impact with his fudo ken at the most auspicious moment.

"This time", the oyabun had said to him after the usual exchange about nonsensical pleasantries, "you have to make a strong example out of someone." Kenji only nodded eagerly, but concealing his eagerness. It seemed that a gaijin, together with two kawaruhito, had destroyed one of the yakuza-affiliated gangs in one particular area of the town, after the gang had done nothing but their duty - which was to harass and badly beat any kawaruhito fool enough to walk through their turf.

All of the kawaruhito had fled the country, of course. Two of them, a troll and a dwarf, seemed to have business in England. The third, an elf, had run away to some Native American Nation or other. But the gaijin - and worse, a kawaruhito-lover!, had been located, here in Seattle. And this person, one Michael Chodosh, a nonsensical gaijin name, was to be made an example of. Noone obstructed the yakuza and lived!

Kenji decided that the direct approach would be most efficient, and drove (with his henchmen, of course) to the stylish apartment building that this stupid, stupid gaijin were supposed to live. After bluffing his way in with faked credentials as journalists, and a few nuyen along the way to grease the greedy palms of the stupid pair of gaijin security guards in the lobby, Kenji and his companions took the elevator to the third floor, where the offender lived.

It was but the work of seconds to locate the apartment. After all, there were only four doors to choose from, and one of them denoted 0303, which was the apartment where the victim lived. He already considered this Michael Chodosh as another victim. He hoped, briefly, that this gaijin would be tougher than he looked in the photo he had been shown. Perhaps he would live more than the three hours of pleasure the Korean had given him. Making a particularly gruesome example of him might let him rise even higher in the esteem of the oyabun, perhaps even to the position of right-hand man.

Kenji smiled ferally, and cracked his knuckles. Motioning for the henchmen to stand back, he advanced to the door alone, and gently rang the door bell. "Yes," a voice answered him over the door's intercom. "I am Mr. Johnson. I wondered if we might discuss business," Kenji replied, suppressing a smile at the irony of it all. Shortly, the door was opened. A man clad in a loose- fitting sweater and jeans opened the door. Oddly enough, he wore sunglasses, even though the apartment was in twilight. And even odder, he was barefoot.

Kenji noticed with pleasure that he was at least two centimeters taller than the gaijin. Deciding to end this charade quickly and get down to the pleasurable part of his assignment - making an example out of this annoying gaijin - he abruptly slammed the edge of his hand, palm upwards, towards the jaw of the gaijin, a technique designed to stun, or even knock unconscious, but not to kill. He didn't even focus his ki, his life force, in that blow.

Amazingly enough, the blow never landed. Kenji was totally dumbfounded. It was unthinkable! that his flawless technique would miss! Deciding that a trick of the light had caused him to miscalculate the distance to the target, he stepped inside the apartment - wooden floor, just like a dojo, he noticed - and brought his arms up in the traditional Shotokan Karate stance. Focusing his ki into his arms and upper body, he started to glow, quite faintly yet distinctly, in the twilit apartment.

For a moment, the gaijin seemed to stand there, paralyzed by this unexpected turn of events no doubt. He didn't even raise a hand to defend himself. Not that it would have helped him much anyways, against the martial perfection that he, Kenji Makamura, possessed. Directing a hand strike with stiff fingers against the sternum hidden by the "Seattle Supersonics" sweatshirt the victim wore, Kenji fully expected his iron-hard fingers to hit soft gaijin flesh with stunning force.

That blow never landed either. For a moment, it seemed like the gaijin shimmered, then he wasn't there anymore. A mage? No, there he was, over by the table, doing something. Probably trying to call for help from his kawaruhito friends, no doubt. The distance to the table wasn't more than six meters, he judged. Jumping up in that spectacular technique known as a jumping side kick, the magic aiding his perfectly trained body allowed him to easily cover that distance from a standing position. Focusing his internal energies in the shout known as a kiai, he suddenly felt a tremendous blow to his chest, and landed back first on the table, shattering it.

A strange weakness was in his body, and his ears were ringing. Weakly, he dabbed his fingers in the strange wetness that was spreading on his snow-white shirt. It was red. It was blood. But that was unthinkable! Feeling the magic rising in his body, battling this impossible wound, he felt more than heard three shots in rapid sucession from the direction of the door, the shots fired so rapidly that they sounded more like a sustained boom than three separate discharges of a weapon.

Just as the boom started to fade, he felt someone grasp his nose, and roughly turn his head. He stared into the cold, dark sunglasses covering the eyes of the gaijin. Trying to strike the target when it was so near, his arm didn't even form a proper fist. The punch was at least three inches short of the emotionless mask that was the face of the gaijin. Suddenly, a part of his field of vision was blocked out by something that just appeared like magic. Something black. A ... barrel?

His failing senses detected the faintest ripple of sakki, the intent to kill, in that which should have been his target. Resigning himself to his fate, something his father once had said to him flashed through his mind. Though he had loathed his father - just a lowly kobun in the Honjowara-gumi, and a drunkard at that - once he had said something... about taking a knife to a gunfight? The thought was abruptly cut short by a flash of white light. He was falling, falling...

Michael Chodosh straightened up. It looked like it was time to move again. Obviously, some of his enemies had found where he lived. Thus, it wasn't safe to stay here much longer. They were probably yakuza, by the look of it. The leader in particular was unmistakenly yakuza, what with the suit and the excellent Shotokan Karate techniques. It hadn't been wise, however, to try and surprise him like that. Though the yakuza thug had been fast, his reflexes had been faster.

Much faster. Thinking that it had been some sort of weird test, he hadn't gone for his gun right away. But the followup strike had obviously been with lethal intent. That weird glowing effect puzzled him a bit. Probably some sort of physical adept by the look of things, though he wasn't sure. And that expression in his eyes right before his life ended... it was as if he had had some sort of cosmic revelation?

Michael Chodosh shrugged it off. Tomorrow, he wouldn't even remember the face of the yakuza thug that had tried to kill him. They were just too many. Too many dead, too many dying... friends, enemies, unknowns...

He picked up the hand-held unit of his telecom, and dialed in a code he had memorized. He memorized all personal telecom codes. If he didn't write or store anything anywhere but his head, he had total control of what information was where. Obviously, that hadn't been enough in this case. He'd have to review his security routines, to tighten them so that this wouldn't happen again.

Startled out of his revelry by a melodious voice answering the com call, he was disoriented for a moment. "I already said this was Muriel. Who is it? I mean, if this is a crank call, I'll find you and I'll..."

"Chodosh."

"Oh, hey baby, why don't you activate the video pickup so that I can..."

"Spare me that. I need a new apartment. This one is compromised."

"Of course. I'll get right on it."

"Excellent. I will call you in three hours to verify the new location."

"You got any price range?"

"About the same as for this apartment. 12k or so per month. Untraceable."

"Of course. Three hours, then."

"Yes."

He hung up. Then, his preparations started. A thermite charge to eliminate the telecom. But first he'd have to call a cleaning agency to remove any fingerprints here in the apartment. He'd miss the wooden floor here, though. It reminded him of the dojo where he'd spent hours when he had undergone training in Kobudo. He decided to get wooden flooring installed in the new apartment as well. But now, he had to pack his weapons and other equipment. Fortunately, he wasn't one for personal possessions. However, he'd have to get someone with a large car. His bike just didn't cut it. Maybe Halloran was free... she was bound to have a large car or van on hand...

The oyabun wasn't very surprised when Makamura didn't report back, not even after eight hours. Oh well, at least he had eliminated one more ambitious pup before he had become a problem. Of course, if he had completed the mission, then he would have deserved a place at his side. If only so that the oyabun could keep a better eye on him. But that wasn't an issue now, at least. Good. It was obvious that the gaijin would have to be chastised some other way. But that wasn't important right now. If that Michael Chodosh was as skillful and as competent as he was supposed to be, he'd be gone from the house soon - and expecting trouble until he had left.

No need wasting additional resources on him right now. He was nothing but a minor pawn, after all. He thought for a moment. Actually, the Seoulpa had become increasingly bold of late. He'd have to nip it in the bud this time. Last time, they'd been most annoying when he had just warned them off in the beginning, and it had almost escalated in a full-on confrontation. Until he had firmed up a contract with the Kawarugami Jonin, he'd rather not have such a confrontation. With ninja at his beck and call, however, the situation would be somewhat different. For now, however, he'd have to just send a strong message that he wasn't old and weak - not now, not ever. He pressed down a button on his intercom. "Please ask Mr. Tagawara to meet me immediately." Before five minutes was gone, there was a polite knock on the door, and a young man of obvious Japanese ancestry entered the room, bowing deeply as a sign of respect.

At least Tagawara was well behaved. Makamura never bowed that deeply to him. Absentmindedly, the oyabun gestured at a chair placed in front of his desk.

Perhaps Makamura had believed his mastery of the martial arts made him special. The oyabun smiled faintly. Perhaps he should have told Makamura that the gaijin had been most competent with a heavy pistol - at least judging by the security discs they had been able to secure after that gang had been wiped out. And very fast, too. Oh well.

Perhaps he had learned the wisdom of not bringing a knife to a gunfight before he died. For some reason that struck him as hilarious, and he laughed out loud. Tagawara stopped on his way to the chair, and looked at the oyabun quizzically. The oyabun didn't offer any explanation for the sudden outburst, however, and soon grew serious again.

Tagawara sat down in the chair he had been directed to. The oyabun steepled his fingers and pursed his lips in thought. Now, how to best address this Seoulpa problem? ...