The Samurai Inheritance by James Douglas Page B

opened.
    ‘ Schwarz-weiss-blau. Haa-ess-fau. Schwarz-weiss-blau. Haa-ess-fau .’
    ‘Hamburg fans,’ Magda shouted above the racket. ‘There must be a Bundesliga game tonight.’
    Jamie nodded and glanced towards the chanting supporters. The instant his eyes locked on the teenager with close-cropped hair he knew he’d made a mistake. It was no surprise that every male in the carriage would be drawn to Magda Ross, but these eyes burned with hatred. As he watched, a snarl of feral savagery distorted the young man’s features before he turned back to his friends. He must have been giving instructions because other faces turned towards them and Jamie saw one or two of the Hamburg supporters nod.
    ‘Trouble,’ he said, pulling Magda to her feet.
    The chanting faded as if his movement had triggered an off-switch and the phalanx of blue-and-white-clad men began to move purposefully towards them. In the hush that followed it seemed the entire carriage held its breath.
    ‘Get behind me and stay there.’ Jamie didn’t wait for an acknowledgement and he was thankful that Magda Ross wasn’t the kind of woman to argue or hesitate in a tight situation. He had no idea what had caused the young man’s reaction, but he knew they were in danger. The other passengers were the usual mix of young and old, tourists and backpackers, but unfortunately not any gun-toting Berlin cops. A middle-aged couple looked up, the man’s face twisted with frustration and anger. Jamie could tell he wanted to intervene, but wouldn’t risk putting his wife in any danger. The others kept their heads down as if, because they didn’t see what was about to happen, it was none of their business.
    The young man with the burning eyes took the lead. He wore a dark blue replica football shirt with the words ‘Fly Emirates’ on the front and a curious badge of a black and white diamond on a blue background. Gym-toned muscles rippled beneath the material of the shirt and he approached with the steady, measured pace of a man with a job to do. His right hand hung over his jeans pocket like a gunfighter about to draw and Jamie tensed as he understood what the pose meant. Behind him, one or two of his supporters carried beer bottles by the neck. They were smiling.
    As Jamie backed away he searched his memory for a reason. This was no spontaneous attack. The supporters had been boisterous and intimidating when they boarded, but any violence was being kept for their rival fans. No, it had all started when the young man had recognized him. The last time he’d been in Berlin he’d been kidnapped by neo-Nazis from a group called the Vril Society, but there’d been a reason for that and the reason was long gone, tortured to death in the shower room of Jamie’s Kensington flat. A shiver ran through him. He felt fear, but he wasn’t frightened. In some men, fear slowed the reactions and froze the brain. Others – and Jamie was one – learned to channel that fear and turn it into energy and speed.
    He reached the point where the narrow corridor between the seats widened into the open area at the doors. ‘Magda?’
    ‘Yes.’ Her voice came from next to his right ear and the determination in her tone lifted his spirits.
    ‘This is as far as we go. Get to the door and stay there. How far to the next stop?’
    ‘A minute, maybe two.’
    He looked up at the wall of blue and white less than five paces away now. All he had to do was survive for a hundred and twenty seconds and pray that they could get out of this death trap. He dropped into the classic self-defence crouch, hands bunched into fists and ready to react. Jamie Saintclair had learned his gutter fighting from an expert, a Royal Marine commando instructor who could kill you with a single finger but advocated tearing your opponent’s throat out with your teeth if that got the job done more quickly.
    Jamie grinned at the memory, and there was a momentary hesitation in the blue and white ranks.
    ‘ Holen Sie