"because they've got it in for Tae Kwon Do. Especially for Master Soon. Hiring you for Nakahatchi is another way of sneering at us.

We're the best, but nobody wants to admit it.

"We don't need you here. We don't need your fucking security. We take care of our own. So why don't you just get out of here before I show you how we do it?"

He was probably serious. An extravagant, almost rabid glare darkened his face. His fists tightened at his sides. Following his example, the brown belts clenched themselves, tensing to jump at me.

"Well," I drawled, "I still think you should tell me your name. It's the polite thing to do."

Hell, it was probably the martial thing to do. Hadn't I heard people talking about "respect" and "perfection of character"?

Deliberately freckles hawked and spat at my feet.

So much for respect.

The poor bozo couldn't spit worth a damn. His mouth was too dry. The little saliva he produced came out in an ineffectual spray. A bit of it got on my pants, but mostly it dribbled down his chin.

He was more frightened than he wanted to admit. That's what made him so belligerent. He'd been hit far too often for his own good, but he kept picking fights and getting clobbered so that he wouldn't have to recognize his own fear.

I didn't let that stop me, however. Some days scared fighters are more dangerous than nerveless thugs who know what they're doing. And if freckles was frightened, half his brown belts were downright petrified.

Before any of them could move, I swept out the .45 and lined it up on the startled face of the nearest brown belt. My left index finger I pointed like another gun at freckles' forehead.

Instantly he froze, and the blood rushed out of his face. Instead of glaring, he gaped like I'd stuck a knife into his crotch. For a second there, I thought he might piss himself.

Quietly very quietly I said, "Listen to me, junior. Before someone gets hurt. I don't have to think I'm tough. And I certainly don't need to prove it to you. I've been stomping on punks like you since high school."

Then I repeated, "I didn't catch your name."

He didn't answer. Maybe he couldn't. The poor clot didn't realize that I hadn't chambered a round.

"His name is Harrison, Mr. Axbrewder," a voice behind me said, full of compressed ease and violence.

"Cloyd Hamson."

Past my right shoulder, I saw Song Duk Soon at the foot of the stairs.

"Perhaps you would do well," he went on, "to set your weapon aside and step into our dojo." He didn't move.

"Allow Mr. Ham-son to measure himself against you. We would all profit by observing how you 'stomp on punks." It might be quite instructive."

I couldn't help noticing that he didn't reprimand Hamson. Or the brown belts.

"Master Soon." I wanted to wheel toward him, cover him with the .45, but instead I lowered it immediately, put it away under my left arm.

"Do your students always treat visitors this way, or am I getting special treatment?"

He lifted an eyebrow. His brows were stark and black against his brown skin. They arched over his muddy eyes like lines of surprise, but the hard lines of his jaw and the inflexibility of his mouth contradicted them.

"Are you a visitor, Mr. Axbrewder?"

Touche.

"I guess not," I admitted.

"I've been hired to take a look at security for Martial America. That practically makes me a resident."

Which to me meant that I deserved more courtesy, not less. But apparently he didn't see it that way.

"Then enter our dojo, Mr. Axbrewder," he retorted.

"Demonstrate yourself to us. Or depart. I have no interest in the needs of those who cannot defend their own."

Damn, I was tempted. Life isn't much fun if you aren't willing to put your muscle where your mouth is. Besides, he pissed me off. I hadn't forgotten the way he'd humiliated one of his students at the tournament. I felt hot and ready, and all my frustration and alarm wanted to boil over at once.

But he'd left the tournament ahead of Bernie and Hardshorn.

That made me think again.

In addition, getting into a brawl here didn't exactly fit my job description. I was supposed to ease tensions, reduce potential security problems, not alienate Soon and his entire school.

Swallowing my pride, as they say, I attempted a smile.

"Master Soon, I apologize. I got off on the wrong foot with Mr.

Hamson. There's a serious misunderstanding here, and I'd like to correct it if I can."

By then my knees quivered with anger, and the frustration in my shoulders felt like overstretched cables. I hated backing down.

Loathed it. Always had.

"Bullshit," Hamson muttered again. He sounded stronger with his sensei to back him up.

Somehow I ignored him.

"Truly?" Soon's eyebrows signaled disbelief again.

"You were swift to exert yourself against a defeated brown belt, a mere youth. Yet now you decline to confront a black belt who challenges you. Are you not a coward?" His tone held no sarcasm. He didn't need any.

"What have I misunderstood?"

"Everything, apparently," I snarled before I could catch myself. Then I bit down on my anger.

"Whether or not I'm a coward" my mouth twisted involuntarily "is beside the point.

"The point," I pronounced more carefully, "is that Nakahatchi sensei owns a rather controversial treasure, and you need my protection."

My right palm ached for the necessary weight of the .45.

"I?" Soon scowled. This time I'd surprised him for real.