JAMES

“Sakamoto Tomashi,” I said, walking towards him, a drink in hand, the bartender hovering just in front of him.

“It’s been a while.” I slid into the seat next to him. The bar wasn’t crowded most people were lost in the music or drowning themselves in their glasses.

Sakamoto turned his head to look at me, and that’s when I pulled my gun, pressing the cold metal against his back.

He smirked. “James,” he said, with no trace of Chinese in his accent though he looked ...