Don’t you have assassins of your own? Send that bitch Norika after him.”
“We tried. For years she posed as one of Joko Daishi’s concubines—originally to serve as a bodyguard, you understand. That was when we thought we could control him. Terminal 2 changed all of that. Norika was given the order. She tried to kill him but failed; the man is too well protected. It was all she could do to recapture the mask and escape. I sent her straight to you.”
“Why me?”
“Because we believe you are the only person who can kill him.”
“Then you’re an idiot.” When he gave her a quizzical frown, she aped it right back at him. “Seriously? What do you not get about this? I’m not doing it.”
“It is the only way to stop his reign of terror.”
“It’s first-degree murder!”
Mariko thought that was pretty self-explanatory. When she saw it didn’t move him, she turned and headed for the door. “I’m a cop. You want a vigilante. We’re done, Furukawa-san. Have a nice day.”
“Detective Oshiro, I haven’t given you permission to leave.”
Mariko press-checked the Glock, confirming she had a round chambered. Waving good-bye with the gun, she said, “I’ve got my permission slip right here, thanks.”
“You’ve killed before.”
That stopped Mariko in her tracks. “Excuse me?”
“Akahata Daisuke. You shot him right through the head.”
Mariko didn’t need a reminder. She had replayed that nightmare in her mind a thousand times. “That’s none of your damn business,” she said coldly. “And it was in self-defense, by the way.”
“Oh, you don’t believe that’s relevant, do you? There were fifty-two people on that subway platform. You saved them all. If you hadn’t been there—if you had been a sniper far out of harm’s way—you’d still have taken the shot, wouldn’t you?”
Damn right I would, Mariko thought. But she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of hearing her say it.
“Do you know what I think? I think you’d have shot him even if he were innocent.”
A hot tear rolled down Mariko’s cheek. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“Oh, but I do. What do guilt and innocence matter in the face of arithmetic?” Furukawa laughed as much as spoke. “Suppose I put you there again. Suppose this time Akahata’s only crime is bad luck. I have wired a bomb to him. In ten seconds it will explode, but only if he is alive. Shoot him and you disarm the bomb. Hold your fire and he will innocently blow himself to pieces, and fifty-two others besides. Can you tell me the law matters?”
It does matter, Mariko thought. It has to. That was the oath she swore when they gave her the badge. The law was supposed to matter, even when morals and logic and everything else said it shouldn’t.
Suppose I put you there again, he’d said, but he didn’t have to. She’d placed herself on that platform as soon as he started comparing numbers. That’s what got the tears flowing.
The vision stood out in her mind as clearly as if Akahata were in the same room. Her left hand squeezed smoothly; a black circle appeared in Akahata’s forehead. The kick of the gun seemed to come much later. Its deafening thunderclap too. Even in the moment, Akahata seemed to stand on his feet for an eternity, clutching that high school boy he’d grabbed as a human shield. When they finally fell together, Mariko was dead sure she’d shot the kid.
What would that mean, shooting the hostage instead of the bomber? Mariko didn’t believe in karma, but if there were such a thing, would it matter that Mariko was the one who killed the kid, and Akahata who blew up everyone else? Did it matter that the kid would have died anyway?
It did matter. It had to matter. Didn’t it?
Furukawa gave her no time to ponder the question. “The proposition before you is simple, Detective Oshiro. Join us, kill Koji Makoto, and make your city safe again. Or do not, and live with the guilt of doing nothing.”
Mariko looked down at the gun in her hand. A teardrop fell from her eye. She watched it fall all the way down until it splashed against the front sight of the pistol.
She rubbed her eyes with the nub of her right forefinger. It came away wet and glistening. Shaking her head, she told herself, “I can’t believe I’m going to do this.”
“You must,” Furukawa said. His voice was gentle now, almost grandfatherly.
“No.” Mariko looked him right in the eye. “I’m not a pool ball. You