The Justin rides atop a slow boxcar, transposing a Buddy Holly song to E minor. His Martin leaves notes like tissues in the moonlit wind.
Then there are ninjas.
“Did you really think it was over?” asks their kunoichi. “That you were free?”
“Lord Riaa is dead,” he says gravely.
Does she smile beneath the mask? “Perhaps. But he was only one of a Cartel–none of whom have any interest in seeing you as ronin. Come with us or die.”
The Justin nods. Then he draws the neck of the Martin from its body, and slices them all in half.