I had forgotten how the plane bucks and bends under the weight of the ocean winds. My mind wandered as it does. My ribs creaked as the memories of the night before returned unbidden. The dull thud of piston-like punches held a violent rhythm as they smashed all sense out of the men bound on the floor. A pool of dark water sat idle five feet away— occasional tremors spreading across its surface. I hadn’t been able to watch the improvised re-sculpture of the man on the ground. The boss didn’t like that. But he didn’t like much. I’d be fine.

A slow mechanic whirl announced the landing gears and prompt arrival at the airfield. Great. My bladder happier than my mind. Flying into Kansai was a pain. But at least it wasn’t O’Hare. Nothing’s worse than fucking O’Hare.

I should start over. My name is Desmond Kane— and I’m an arms dealer. Well, more of a “purveyor of selected goods,” but the United States government and other sovereign nations like that dispute that bit. Pity for them I didn’t have to dance the tune for ordinary citizens. Not now, at least.

There are a set number of independent arms dealers in the world. There’s a reason behind this that extends beyond economics— it’s a matter of global safety. It’s bad for business if you’re customers are all overly prepared for an offensive. How are you supposed to continue good business if there’s no one left to sell to? That’s why the Boss crafted the Accords. Standard rules don’t apply to those in the trade— but that doesn’t mean none do.

Sharp men with pressed suits and strict manners accompanied me from security to a waiting town car. No one spoke— they didn’t need to. The Yamaguchi family had done deals with me before. They know I’m not particularly eager to talk before we sit at the table. Not that there was much to be said. I don’t speak Japanese. At least not the kind the men who wait by the doors would understand.

“What a wonderful surprise. I had heard you quit negotiations,” the man said, handing me a whiskey-filled glass. One round ball of ice, two fingers of brown, just how I like it.

“I reconsidered,” I said, taking a sip. Hakushu twelve. Not a bad choice to start with. “You remembered.”

“Small details have no small tasks.” Kenshin Takamura gave me a small smile and passed me a folder. I didn’t open it. That would be bad manners when I still had a full glass. “I heard a former associate tried to arrange a deal.” Tried being the opportune word.

“The Boss didn’t appreciate the impropriety. We respect the relationships we already have. The dance card is full,” I said with a tight smile. I hoped it covered the nausea. There hadn’t been more than a smear of paste left last night. I took another sip. Steady. Even with the three thousand dollar suit and slicked hair, I didn’t forget that I sat across from a man known for flaying the fingertips of disobedient members as leverage against future “mistakes.”