The Rising Sea (NUMA Files 15)

“You can’t go to the arena,” she said. “That’s what they want you to do.”

“I’m going,” he said. “But not the way they expect. First, we have to get out of sight.”

A hidden door opened in the far wall and a cocktail waitress stepped through it with a tray of drinks.

“Back of the house,” Kurt said. “Every hotel has one.”

He led Akiko toward it, pulled up beside the smooth section of the wall and waited. It wasn’t long before the door swung wide and another waitress came out.

She passed them without a second glance, navigating through the crowd toward a table. By the time the door clicked shut, Kurt and Akiko had slipped inside.

They entered an unadorned service hall. A drink station lay in one direction, empty locker rooms in the other. With the sound of footsteps coming down the hall, Kurt angled toward one of the locker rooms, slipped inside and closed the door.

When the steps in the hall passed by, Kurt knew they were alone. “You came here looking for revenge,” he said. “What was your plan?”

She pulled a small plastic vial from a hidden pouch in her dress. Opening the top, she produced several white tablets. “Poison,” she said. “Slow-acting. It would give me enough time to get out before taking effect. No one would ever know who did it.”

“Mind if I borrow that?” he asked.

She placed the pills back inside and handed it over. “Do you think that will help?”

“I’d prefer an AK-47,” he said. “But this will be easier to smuggle, especially considering the wardrobe requirements of the night.”

“You seem very certain,” she said.

“I am,” he insisted. “All we have to do is take our complaints to the manager. I think he’ll see things our way. But to reach him, we’ll need to blend in. If you’d be so kind as to put on a cocktail server’s uniform, that would be a start.”

Akiko opened several lockers before finding the right uniform and then began to disrobe without a hint of modesty. Kurt turned his back to her to give her some privacy and went through several of the lockers before he found what he was looking for: another bottle of pills.

He slipped it into his pocket and turned around.

“Aren’t you going to change?” she asked.

“Not just yet,” he said.

“That white jacket stands out,” she said. “The

y’ll spot you as soon as you walk up.”

“I’m counting on it.”

* * *

• • •

IN A DIFFERENT locker room, down below the arena, Joe was told to dress for the fight. The pickings were slim, different types of athletic gear and martial arts robes. “I don’t suppose you have anything in suit of armor . . . say, early Middle Ages?”

The joke was wasted on his captors. They’d been ordered by Kashimora to get him ready for the fight and force him into the arena if he refused to go willingly. Other than that, they weren’t to speak with him.

With little choice, Joe picked out a two-piece martial arts uniform. The loose gray top had a V-neck collar; the pants had an elastic waistband, designed for ease of movement.

Several weapons were offered for him to practice with. He picked up a set of nunchucks and whirled them around, left and right. He’d toyed with nunchucks once before, but, without professional training, they were as dangerous to the user as to the opponent. After almost hitting himself in the face, he put them down.

The noise of the crowd reached them through the closed door. It rose and fell as a voice speaking in Japanese announced the coming bout.

“It’s time,” one of the guards said.

They marched him to the door and held him in place.