Travis Justice by Colleen Shannon

out in, oh, twenty years or so.”
    Hana couldn’t sustain his gaze. Staring over his head at the wall, she said, “Yes, I was trying to get the sword back. But not for the reason you think. I’d never sell it . . . sir.”
    His stiff spine relaxed slightly and he looked at the gray-haired man.
    The man leaned forward with a tentative hand extended. It was as close to a peace offering as she’d get in this room, so Hana shook it as firmly as her cuffed hands would allow.
    â€œI’m Captain Ross Sinclair, on temporary assignment as investigative lead in this matter,” the gray-haired man said. “This is my associate Doctor Abigail Doyle, a forensics expert. We’re compiling the evidence against you for presentation to the DA. We’ll be doing the majority of the questioning today.”
    Hana nodded stiffly.
    â€œMs. Nakatomi, Zach told us you asked to hold the blade. Would you like to do so now?” Ross asked.
    Hana’s eyes flashed with eagerness as she looked back at him. “Yes, please.”
    With a questioning look at Travis, who nodded, Ross removed the handcuffs, leaving her in leg irons. John Travis stood and carefully unwrapped the blade. He offered it to her, still sheathed. All three of the interrogators then stood and moved back, well out of range, John and Ross with hands hovering above their pistols.
    On some level, Hana realized two things: These tough men obviously considered her dangerous, and they were not just being kind in allowing her to handle the blade.
    They were testing her.
    Even knowing she was being watched, Hana couldn’t stifle her emotions as she touched her family legacy for the first time. She stood and moved aside from the table for room to maneuver. The sibilant hiss as the steel escaped the sheath sent goose bumps down her spine. Hana had held many katanas, but never one that felt as right as this one. Not just the balance, nor the shining blade that went beyond deadly artistry to something sublime. For the first time in her life, she understood the concept of Bushido—the Way of the Warrior.
    She was the last of the Nakatomi line and had taken her grandfather’s name when he adopted her. The blade was hers. It felt like hers. The rightness of this hilt in her hand.
    It fit. It belonged. The sword awaited her bidding because she was the last Nakatomi.
    And every one of her blood cells, only half Japanese though she was, fired at the touch of the hilt that had been imprinted by fifty or more previous Nakatomi heirs, many times in battles to the death. Tears sparkled in her eyes, but since she refused to give in to her emotions, especially in this company, she stalled to minutely examine the steel. She slowly turned it blade-up so it caught the light.
    Holding it with both hands gripped around the long hilt, she moved it from side to side, lunging from the waist as far as she could, constrained by the leg irons, going through each of the eight samurai blade stations. Even limited as she was, the air whistled with the force of her fluid movements. Never had the ingrained movements felt so precise, but never had she held such a worthy weapon. She went through the stations that were second nature to her after so many years: left-right thrusts, right-left thrusts, left-right diagonals, right-left diagonals, rising diagonals both sides, and finally the head strike, the sword poised above her head and arced straight downward in a move designed to decapitate the enemy in one blow.
    She was totally unaware of the steely glare exchanged between the two men standing watching her, hands on their weapons. Or that behind the two-way window, Zach cursed at her amazingly fluid and practiced movements even in the leg irons. When she performed the head blow, he moved back a step from the window before he realized it. Yet at the same time he stared, rapt, for there was a terrible beauty about her movements. Had he not known the sword was her