Free Relentless by Robin Parrish Page A

intricate pattern was pressed into the blade, which bore all the hallmarks of a Japanese daito —thin blade, curved upward at the end. The sword was powerfully sharp with a crystallized edge, made entirely of one of the world’s strongest metals—save for its unusually long hilt, which was nearly two feet long by itself. The oversized wooden handle was wrapped in overlapping black leather straps.
    The Thresher held the sword out to his side in one hand while guiding the motorcycle in the other, eyes still watching the passing streets to the right. His eyes were a glassy void, his breathing slow and cunning. As always, once the hunt was nearing its final moments, he relaxed and allowed himself to become an embodiment of undiluted reflex and instinct.
    Suddenly he stood on the bike’s foot pegs, calling on every last bit of torque the machine had to offer. It roared in protest but obeyed its master, streaking along the twilight pavement at suicidal speeds. Two more side alleys lay ahead, separated by wide blocks of buildings. And though he had no practical idea of how many seconds there would be before he reached the last of the two, he knew precisely when it would occur. He could feel it approaching . . .
    The first street passed, and this time he was almost neck-and-neck with the bright red motorcycle he was chasing. He’d gained a second or two on the other man, which was all he needed. He increased his speed to the machine’s last ounce of capability, and at the final moment, preparing to strike, he leaned forward as far as the bike’s balance would allow.
    Milliseconds before clearing the second alleyway, the Thresher flung the sword down the last street with a brutal swing of his right arm. The thin blade reacted as an arrow springing from a bow, darting through the dirty alleyway.
    As the red bike came into view, it passed to the immediate left of a large, rusted-out, double-wide Dumpster. The Thresher’s sword passed straight in front of his quarry’s line of sight and pierced the side of the Dumpster. The sword’s oversized hilt stuck out as a blunt instrument— directly in front of the passing motorcyclist’s face.
    The driver of the red machine didn’t have time to realize what was happening until it was too late.
    The Thresher watched as his quarry’s head collided violently with the sword’s protruding hilt, the man’s neck wrenching itself sickeningly backward. He fell from the crimson bike with the unmistakable crack of breaking bones, while the bike continued moving out of sight.
    In what seemed like only an instant, the Thresher had retrieved his sword from the Dumpster and was on top of the other man, holding his dazed and battered form in a brutal headlock with one arm. His other hand pressed the razor-sharp side edge of the sword against the man’s throat with a tight, back-handed grip. He barely seemed to be exerting himself, with practiced, measured movements that applied only the exact amount of energy and force required, and nothing more.
    The man flailed and struggled, but his body was still in shock from the blow, and his coordination faltered.
    He spat into the bald man’s face.
    There was a buzzing sound and the Thresher turned loose of the headlock, yet the sword held the other man steadily in place.
    ‘‘One move, and I’ll sever your windpipe,’’ the Thresher said in a calm, gravelly voice that was every bit as frightening as the sword he held with such perfect stillness. The words were marked with a refined British clip.
    The hunted man tried to hold his breath as sweat mingled with his own blood, streaming into his eyes and down his face. He felt the edge of the sword prick the skin around his neck, yet he remained as still as he could manage.
    The Thresher wiped the spit from his face and fished into one of his pockets, retrieving a tiny phone. He thumbed it open casually. ‘‘Yes?’’ his serious voice intoned.
    ‘‘Konrad is finished,’’ said the voice on the