Ezra had to speak to Kushina. If anyone knew what was happening, it was her. She moved fast up the street, boots crunching lightly on the gravel shoulder. A cold wind slid through her coat, needling past the seams. She tugged the collar higher, eyes locked on the house ahead.

Kushina’s place. The biggest in Serito. No surprise there. She was the master.

Ezra slowed as she neared the property. The gate stood open. The front lights were on. Voices carried through the still air. Shouting.

One of them was Kushina.

The other… a man.

Ezra slipped around the side of the house, careful not to crunch the dry grass under her feet. She reached the window that overlooked the living room and crouched low. She leaned up just enough to see inside.

There.

Kushina stood, her daughter clutching her leg. Across the room stood a man. Ezra couldn’t read the exact expression from here—shock, anger, something between the two—but she didn’t need to.

Not with that revolver in his hand.

Pointed directly at Kushina.

Ezra dropped, back against the wall, and pulled her pistol from her jacket. A Walther CP99. It was a compact piece, but it could get the job done as well as any other.

She stood, raised the gun. Lined up her shot through the window. Took a deep breath in. Held it.

And fired.

A flash of light. An explosion. Pain.

Ikari’s body jerked, his hand flying to the back of his neck where the searing burn radiated upward into his skull. He had to find the wound, stop the bleeding before it was too late.

A hole. The bullet had gone clean through the muscle at the back of his neck. Good. No pulse spurting out. It hadn’t hit the artery. He’d live.

Probably.

He pulled his hand back, fingers slick with blood. He could feel it running down his back. The smell of iron filled his nose. No matter. This wasn’t the first time he’d been shot.

“Ikari?” Kushina’s voice seemed distant. Soft, like she actually cared. He turned his head and saw her kneeling, arms around her daughter, whispering comfort as the child sobbed against her.

His daughter.

No time for that now.

He shifted, grimacing, and looked toward the window. The glass was cracked, fragments hanging loose in the frame. Just outside, beneath the glow of a streetlamp someone stood. A woman—tall, but not much else. Both her hands clutched a small pistol, the muzzle trembling. Her wide eyes locked on him, frozen.

He raised his revolver.

She blinked, jerked in fear, and fired again. He dropped, gritting his teeth, and fired twice in return. She yelped, but he couldn’t see how injured she was.

Didn’t matter.

He couldn’t kill Kushina. Not now. Probably not ever. She didn’t even know where Mysemi was, and that had been the whole point.

There was only one thing left to do.

Run.

Mysemi woke to pressure in the back of her skull and a sharp sting when she moved. Her head throbbed. Her neck ached. Her body was twisted awkwardly against a cold kitchen cupboard.

She groaned—and realized she couldn’t move her hands.

They were tied. Rough cord bit into her wrists behind her back. Ankles too. She rather liked being tied up, but not like this.

A shadow loomed. A girl. Standing above her.

Mysemi blinked, trying to clear the haze. The face wasn’t familiar.

Where the hell was she?

The last thing she remembered was Ongaku’s house. Falling asleep in her sister’s bed.

But this wasn’t Ongaku’s kitchen.

“Who are you?” the girl asked.

“Mysemi,” she mumbled. “Who are you?”

“Yusuka,” the girl said. “Now you want to tell me why you broke into my house?”

“What?”

Sakura folded her arms.

“You broke my window,” she said. “Why?”

“I don’t remem…” Mysemi paused, the woman looked like she’d been a rather rough fight,“Oh. I see.”

“See what?”

“I must’ve been drinking. I get a little… It doesn’t matter. Sorry.”

Sakura’s eyes narrowed. “Oh no, you’re going to be sorry.”

She crouched, grabbed Mysemi by the arm, and hauled her up with surprising strength. Still bound, Mysemi stumbled as Sakura dragged her out of the kitchen and down the hall.

“Hey! Hey—” she protested, but Sakura didn’t say a word.

She threw the bathroom door open, kicked Mysemi’s legs out from under her, and shoved her inside. Mysemi hit the tile hard. The door slammed shut and locked behind her.

“Let me out!” Mysemi shouted, rolling to her side and kicking the door. “You can’t just lock me in here!”

“I’ll deal with you in the morning!” Sakura shouted back. “For now, stay put!”

Mysemi groaned and sat up as best she could. The restraints made it awkward. The bathroom was small, white tile, a mirror that needed cleaning, a low window above the toilet. Too small to squeeze through, even if she could get to it.

She twisted, got her fingers into her pocket, and managed to fish out her phone.

Twelve missed calls. All from Ikari.

She stared at the screen for a long second. Then ignored the calls.

She opened a new message and started typing with one thumb, slow and awkward but it would work.

Baby, I need you.

Ikari staggered down the street, one hand pressed tight to the back of his neck, the other clutching his revolver. Blood dripped in slow, fat drops onto the tar, steaming faintly in the cold. His boots scuffed against broken pavement. He didn’t bother hiding his trail. Stealth was a luxury he couldn’t afford.

The outskirts of Serito blurred past—shuttered stores, rusted signs, flickering lights. He pushed through the pain, through the dizziness, through the roaring in his ears that refused to fade. The adrenaline kept him moving. Kept him alive. For now.

He had to get back to Amika. She could patch him up. Probably. He stopped, and darted in a small alley between two shops. A short cut, he hoped.

A flash of movement.

Ikari’s eyes snapped to up ahead, there was nothing. Just shadows between the low buildings. A glint of metal.

Too late.

A man burst out, swinging a length of pipe. Ikari ducked instinctively. The pipe whooshed over his head and slammed into the wall beside him with a clang that echoed down the street. Ikari drove his shoulder into the attacker’s gut, sent him stumbling backward, then brought his elbow up into the man’s chin. The attacker stumbled, Ikari grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled down hard. Ikari’s knee meeting the man’s face halfway. Bone crunched. The attacker dropped.

Three more came out of the dark.

Ikari fired once. One man fell, a hole between his eyes. The others closed in. One with a blade. The other bare-fisted, but fast.

The knife slashed toward his ribs. Ikari twisted, let it graze across his coat, and caught the attacker’s wrist. He twisted the man’s arm until the elbow face, then slammed his forearm into it, snapping the arm. A scream tore from the man’s throat. The blade clattered to the ground. He drove a knee into the man’s gut, then grabbed his head and crushed his temple against the wall. The man’s body slid down the wall, leaving a red trail. He wasn’t screaming now.

The last one came in swinging, wild and fast. Ikari blocked the punch with his forearm, jabbed into the man’s throat, then pivoted and used his momentum to flip him face-first into the pavement. His head bounced and cracked. He didn’t move again.

Ikari stood over the bodies, chest heaving. Blood ran down his spine. He felt cold, and hoped it was the night air and not his lack of blood.

Footsteps.

He turned just as a final man emerged from the shadows. He was tall and calm. A professional. A pistol in his hand.

They stared at each other across the few paces of cracked asphalt.

Ikari ducked and fired twice. The first shot went wide. The second punched into the man’s thigh. He grunted, staggered, and raised his pistol. Ikari aimed for his chest, pulled the trigger. Nothing. He’s ammo was out, again.

Ikari lunged, slammed into him, and they both hit the ground hard. Both guns skittered away. They grappled in the dirt, fists hammering, elbows landing hard. Ikari got a knee between them and shoved. The assassin rolled, reached for the weapon.

Ikari grabbed his coat collar and hauled him back, smashing his knee into the back of the man’s neck. He didn’t even have a chance to scream.

Ikari wiped blood from his mouth, retrieved his revolver, and limped back to the road.