“The medium you wanted.” The fancy Mexican placed Keitaro’s knife on the coffee table.
“Te cortó?” the smoking Mexican said.
The fancy Mexican brushed his fat lip. “El puede pelear. Seguro que quieres hacer esto?”
“Tienes miedo? Huh, Victor?”
The fancy Mexican stepped off, turning his head with an insulted pout.
“Aye, Kim. You speak English?” The boss nodded to Keitaro.
“Keitaro.” Keitaro fell to his right hand for support.
“Yeah, fuck his first name,” Gunner said with a snicker. He moved behind the boss to the desk in the far right corner where he picked up a stack of cash and started counting.
“You shot him?” the boss said over his left shoulder.
“I told you, Cobra.” Victor unbuttoned the cuff of his silk dress shirt to tend to his knife wound. “He can fight.”
To Keitaro, that sounded like a warning.
Cobra scoffed. “He’s about to pass out on my fucking floor.”
“Tell me what you want,” Keitaro said.
“Thiago, quitarse la camisa.”
The buff Mexican pulled the remaining sleeve of Keitaro’s suit jacket off. Cobra picked up the Keitaro’s knife, marveled at it, and moved to the trophy case.
Thiago ripped off the belt wrapped around Keitaro’s arm.
Reflexively, Keitaro punched Thiago in the face. Thiago dropped to the floor then pounced back at Keitaro, throwing a punch. Keitaro’s head whipped to the side, and something white and bloody flew to the floor with a tick-tick.
“Puta. Hold still.” Thiago ripped open the buttons on Keitaro’s shirt and yanked it off his body, throwing it across the room.
Keitaro squeezed his bullet wound.