Inflight Escape!

Shoving off hard, I raced on my board toward the commotion. Halfway up the alley, I skidded to a stop. Between buildings on the left stood three teen thugs. Their backs to me, they slowly advanced on someone. All I could see over their shoulders was a flash of pink hair.

“Go away,” she cried. “I’ll call the cops!”

The boys laughed.

“Not till after we’re done playing with you, princess,” one said.

I did a quick mental frisk, like CIA had trained me. No weapons beneath their ratty T-shirts; just a jungle of tattoos writhing around each kid’s arms. But, judging by the bumps in the back pocket of their tight jeans, three switchblades.

I heard a smack. Their victim screamed in pain.

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“Let her go, now!” I shouted in Japanese, using my best cop voice.

“Aré?—huh?” one of them asked in confusion.

The three punks turned.

I brandished my skate like it was a broadsword.

“Let her go, now,” I repeated.

They laughed.

One whispered, “Hear that funny American accent? He’s a gaijin. A foreigner.”

The biggest one, the leader I guess, yelled, “Or what, Ainoko?” calling me a half-breed. “You’ll skate us to death?”

“This doesn’t concern you,” another replied.

The third chimed in. “Go away and find your mommy, before we shove that board up your shiri.”

With a shriek, the girl they had cornered broke through their line and raced toward me.

Her wild outfit threw me for a loop. She wore a frilly, red and black overall skirt and a ratty black leather jacket. Mismatched stockings ran above pink clod-stomper boots that glowed nearly as brightly as her pink-colored, bobbed hair.

“Harajuku Punk,” they called the crazy, cutesy-tough style. A bizarre mishmash of clothes and cultures, the looks were always changing, but the dress always wild.

I could tell that, even with a look of terror on her face, she was still one stunning Japanese beauty.

Continuing her panicked screaming, she raced past me, around the corner and down the alley.

She never even said, “Arigato.”

“Look what you’ve done,” the leader said.

The second one added, “Now we gotta go find a new play toy.”

The third added, “But first, you pay, Ainoko.”

Flipping out their switchblades, they charged me.

Holding my board like a baseball bat, I ducked below the first one’s thrust and swatted his knees. With a shriek, he fell to the ground, blade sailing away. I stepped aside, and the second stumbled over his buddy. As he fell, I beaned the back of his head with my skate for good measure. Two down.

With a Kamikaze war cry, the third lunged at me, chopping down from above. Grabbing both sets of wheels with my hands, I blocked the blade, his knife penetrating through the laminated center and almost slicing my nose. He tried to yank it loose, but the blade was stuck.

I kicked straight up his crotch line. On his way to the pavement, I bop-bopped him with both ends of the board.

Eyeing the damage, I stepped around the groaning, writhing, whining punks to continue my journey.

“This was my new board,” I growled, yanking the knife from the stick as I sauntered away. “You douchewipes know how much these things cost?”

I kicked into a jog, wondering if I should risk trying to ride on my precious, wounded board.

Rounding the corner back into the alley, I ran smack into the crazy-dressed Harajuku girl.

I nearly bowled her over, but caught myself. I stepped back, bowed and said, “Sumimasen.”

As I straightened, she raised a gloved hand.

In it, she held a pistol.

A tiny, 9 mm Ruger LC9. Painted bright pink, of course.

She aimed it at my gut. With a dimpled smile that could sell toothpaste, she said, “Apology accepted, gaijin.”

Sighing, I dropped the board and raised my hands.

She said, “My name’s Michiko. But my friends call me Miki. Hajimemashite,” she finished, nodding her head.

“Nice to meet you, too, Miki-san,” I mumbled, rolling my eyes and bowing slightly.

Holding a free hand to cover her mouth, Miki giggled. Every finger was adorned with random metal rings, from butterflies to skulls.

She said, “Sakura was right. All you have to do is scream like a damsel in distress, and Justin Malcomb Reed will come running straight into your arms.”

“What? How did you know my—”

A black Mercedes skidded around the corner and screeched up next to us.

I glanced around for an escape, but the three punks hobbled up to surround me, a look of murder in their eyes.

Gently holding a hand to my cheek, Miki giggled again. “I quite enjoyed our brief encounter, Justin Reed-san. You are much cuter in person.”

The door to the Mercedes opened. Miki stepped back. With the pink Ruger, she motioned for me to get in.

From inside the car, a ghost from my past said, ”Welcome home, Chika.”

My legs grew weak. I collapsed to my knees in shock.

“Mom,” I whispered.