Chapter 7

 

At the dawn of a Monday, the thunder came to Nakagusuku.

 

The man who had called down that thunder - Tien-Kai Tsong - meditated in the ruined castle's Utaki and offered a little smile to the situational irony. Hours ago, he had been angry at the world - the Shop for sending that boisterous fool to "take care of" Mark Simmons, his men for willingly following him into this mess, but most of all himself. At first, there was the anger at having been beaten, for Tsong was certain that victory had escaped his grasp. His dream was slowly but surely dying around him.

 

The sound of machinegun fire closed in. Tsong withdrew his sword from its scabbard and turned to face the entrance, while his personal guard readied their SMGs.

 

There are details to be told about what happened next, but they do not matter - when it was done, Tsong stood alone opposite a visibly roughed-up Mark. The Enforcer was cradling an M249 SAW that had, perhaps, not been used as proper military doctrine demanded. The gun was emitting worrisome amounts of smoke from both its muzzle and case ejection port, and Tsong thought that he could make out a faint red glow inside the barrel. Its user wasn't in the best shape, either; several rounds had flattened themselves against his heavy assault vest, but there was a trickle of blood from beneath that indicated reopened wounds. His left leg was immobilized with a metal brace - rather Road Warrior-ish, in fact, clearly fitted in a hurry over the objections of anyone with common sense.

 

"Don't bring a knife to a gunfight," Mark said.
Tsong smiled briefly, then cocked his head to the side, where Mark found a sheathed katana.
"I hope you like souvenirs," Tsong said. "I couldn't get a classical broadsword on such short notice, I'm afraid. I hope that won't be a problem."
"Or I could just shoot you."
"You can barely hold the spent gun. Do you think you can draw and aim a new one before I run you through? I'm giving you a fair chance."

 

Mark's right eye twitched, then he dropped the machinegun and drew the sword from its resting place.

 

"Where is Yun-Hee?"
"In a safe place. No harm has come to her."
"You are awfully considerate of your enemies."
"Yun-Hee is one of my most capable officers. And frankly, you don't look like you're going to survive the next fifteen minutes."
"Then there's no time to waste."

 

And with that, the battle was joined.

 

It didn't take long for Mark to start taking cuts and scrapes. No matter his martial talent, there was no way that he could overcome a trained swordsman with his injuries. The best he could manage was to defend himself, turn Tsong's blade away from vital areas and hope for an opening. After a particularly strong blow from the PAC control, Mark stumbled back against one of the castle's interior walls, his face clenched in pain as he felt some stitches give in under the stress. As such things went, Tsong hadn't actually inflicted any significant damage; this was sheer exhaustion and secondary bleeding, and although Mark wasn't physically disabled, he had to pour most of his will into just keeping his already quite weakened body conscious. Tsong refrained from a killing blow; instead, he recentered his stance and waited.

 

"I would have liked to fight you in your prime. What keeps you on your feet?"
"I have to...kill...all the Assassins..."
"What are you talking about?"

 

Mark reopened his eyes, and his feral grin was stained with blood. That old, familiar feeling...

 

"It takes a sick...man, a sick man...to torture his own...clone...to death."

 

For a second, Tsong was inclined to agree with Mark until he realized that the Enforcer was talking about Tsong himself.

 

"I did no such thing!"
"Somebody...did."
Tsong's blade dipped as he felt realization wash over him.
"Complete betrayal," he finally said. "I should have known."

 

To anyone else, it might have looked as if Tsong simply let himself fall upon Mark's blade in the vague manner of a dishonored samurai, but Mark noticed the flicker of something behind the old man. For his part, Tsong's face looked oddly composed, finally truly peaceful in the wake of his own death. He whispered "Archangel" to Mark, then slumped onto him. It wasn't a glorious end by far, but Mark couldn't think of anyone who'd have survived getting impaled on a razor-sharp katana like that.

 

As Mark pushed Tsong off him, he pondered Tsong's last words. Who betrayed Tsong?

 

GRAY!

 

Mark slumped down, literally, as far as the brace on his leg would allow, and - after a moment of sheer, dumbstruck terror - howled his fury at the perfect morning. After all this time, he was still doing Dennis Gray's dirty work. Liabilities like Tsong and Michael, enemies like the Assassins...he'd been played again. Worst of all, there was nowhere for his fury to go; he needed rest, he needed a plan, in short, he had to wait for his vengeance, and it was already feeling way too long.

 

With some effort, Mark rose from the wall he had leaned against, collected Tsong's gift and shuffled off. Spotting the Black Tiger in the distance, Mark walked towards him to deliver the news.

 

The sun rose behind him.