Dragon (Dirk Pitt 10)

Pitt stared at the blank ceiling, his mind at ease. It wasn't exactly what Jordan and Kern would call an earth-shattering master plan, but it was all he had, and he intended to play it to the hilt.

Moro Kamatori didn't merely look evil, he was evil. The pupils of his eyes never changed from the violent black poisonous stare, and when the tight lips parted in a smile, which was seldom, they revealed a set of teeth laced with more gold than the Comstock Lode.

Even at that early hour-- at five o'clock the sky was still dark-- he had a fastidious arrogance about him. He was immaculately dressed in a hakama, baggy trousers that were almost a divided skirt, and an Edo-period kataginu, a brocaded silk style of sleeveless hunting jacket. He wore only sandals on his feet.

Pitt, on the other hand, looked like a refugee from a rag picker's bin. He was clad only in a T-shirt and a pair of shorts cut off from the bottoms of his flying suit. His feet were clad in a pair of white sweat socks.

After being awakened and escorted to Kamatori's personal study, he stood shivering in the unheated room, taking in every detail of the walls that were filled with antique weapons of every historic era from around the world. Suits of armor, European and Japanese, stood like soldiers at attention in the middle of the room. Pitt felt a wave of revulsion in his stomach at the trophies neatly spaced between hundreds of swords, spears, bows, and guns.

He counted thirty mounted heads of Kamatori's hapless human victims staring sightlessly into space from unblinking glass eyes. Most were Asian, but four had Caucasian features. His blood iced as he recognized Jim Hanam

ura's head.

"Come in, Mr. Pitt, and have a cup of coffee," invited Kamatori, motioning Pitt to a vacant cushion beside a low table. "We'll talk a few minutes before--"

"Where are the others?" Pitt interrupted.

Kamatori stared coldly. "They are seated in a small auditorium next door, where they will view the hunt on a video screen."

"Like an audience watching a bad late-night movie."

"Perhaps the last to run the hunt will profit by the mistakes of those who go before."

"Or perhaps they'll close their eyes and miss the show."

Kamatori sat very still, the barest hint of a smile touching the corner of his taut lips. "This is not an experiment. The procedure has been refined through experience. The prey wait their turn tied to chairs, and if need be, with their eyes taped open. They have every opportunity to witness your demise."

"I trust you'll send my residuals from the reruns to my estate," Pitt said, seemingly gazing at the heads adorning the walls, fighting to ignore the horrifying display while concentrating on a rack of swords.

"You put up a very good facade of courage," Kamatori observed. "I'd have expected no less from a man of your reputation."

"Who goes next?" Pitt asked abruptly.

The butcher shrugged. "Your friend Mr. Giordino, or maybe the female operative. Yes, I think hunting her down will raise the others to a furious pitch, inciting them to become more dangerous as prey."

Pitt turned. "And if you cannot catch one of us?"

"The island is small. No one has eluded me for more than eight hours."

"And you give no quarter.

"None," said Kamatori, the evil smile widening. "This is not a child's game of hide-and-seek with winners and losers. Your death will be quick and clean. That's a promise."

Pitt stared the samurai in the eye. "Not a game? Seems to me I'm to play Sanger Rainsford to your General Zaroff."

Kamatori's eyes squinted. "The names are not familiar to me."

"You've never read The Most Dangerous Game by Richard Connell? It's a classic story of a man who hunts his fellow man for sport."

"I do not taint my mind by reading Western literature."

"Glad to hear it," Pitt said, mentally adding a slight edge to his chances of staying alive.

Kamatori pointed toward the door. "The time has come."

Pitt held his mark. "You haven't explained the ground rules."