Eternal Samurai Read Online Free Page A

fog. He swore and squirmed, trying to remove his hip-length leather coat. Tatsu ignored the rank odor of someone who picked up a drink more often than a bar of soap and helped by pulling off one sleeve. Bana flailed his arms with an uncoordinated intensity, gave one heave of his thick body and disentangled himself. With a grunt, he fell backwards onto the couch and passed out again.
    Holding the coat, Tatsu stepped back in surprise at the sight of a pair of automatic guns held snugly in a much-worn shoulder harness. What the hell? Was this guy insane? Possession of a firearm meant an immediate death penalty in any Quarantine.
    Tatsu placed the jacket on the floor and removed both weapons—the drunk might shoot himself, or worse, him. The guns were beautiful, a match pair of Beretta 93 R-Xs capable of firing several rounds in a single burst. He could tell by the weight that each magazine was full, a round chambered in the slide. At least the safeties were still on. With quick efficiency, he unloaded the guns and laid them on the coffee table.
    As Tatsu folded Bana’s coat over the couch arm, a cell phone dropped to the carpet. He snatched it up half-fearing it had broken. Why the hell bother with a cell phone? Damn things were almost useless in a city so plagued by atmospheric interference that transmission was erratic at best. None of his business, though, if the man wasted his money. Tatsu tucked the instrument back into Bana’s pocket.
    Still wondering about the cell phone and those Berettas, Tatsu capped the fallen bottle and placed it on the bar. He worried about leaving. The unconscious man might vomit and choke. Jigoku , what was he thinking? The puke was already all over his jacket.
    A thin, grey light showed through the thin curtains. Tatsu knew he should leave. But fatigue dogged him. He sure wasn’t looking forward to that two-mile hike home in the freezing rain. A cup of coffee would help. Hell, the man owed him that much.
    Tatsu rummaged among the kitchen cupboards until he found a round silver can. This guy had expensive taste. Real Arabica coffee cost the average worker a week’s pay. Soon, the nutty aroma of the percolating brew filled the compact room.
    Blowing on the hot coffee, he wandered back into the living room and eyed the plush recliner opposite the couch. Maybe he could stay until Bana woke up, maybe ask him a few questions. Maybe not. Good chance when the drunk roused he’d mistake Tatsu for a burglar. A man who packed that kind of firepower seemed like the sort who would shoot first, ask questions of the corpse later.
    Bana snored away, occasionally grunting and farting. Tatsu guessed him to be somewhere in his mid-forties with the blocky physique of a boxer. The man was handsome in a grizzled sort of way with swarthy skin, dark brows and a head of unruly, black curls dusted with grey. The Irishman’s large nose, clearly broken at some time, bore the beginnings of a spider web of blue veins. A two-day stubble covered Bana’s florid cheeks. Not Tatsu’s type but still attractive.
    Still asleep, the man smacked his lips before scrubbing his palm across his mouth. A tattoo, “Ireland Forever,” twined around his left wrist. Bana scratched down his neck, dragging down his knit collar. The action drew Tatsu’s attention to the four symmetrical puckers just right of the Adam’s apple, the exact place where the jugular artery pulsed. Only one thing left those kinds of scars—a vampire.
    Feeling rude for staring at an unconscious man, Tatsu turned his attention to the spacious room. Chinese-made electronics including sound system and a wall-mounted screen were hooked to a computer. Very high-dollar equipment. However, the bookshelves crammed with dozens of books surprised him. So, the drunk likes to read?
    Sipping his coffee, Tatsu scanned the odd assortment of titles. Dozens of books on vampirology, medicine and Irish history shared space with tattered manuals on weapons, tactical warfare and