Diane Joplin sat in the van listening to the discordant melee of the voices. The voices were not in agreement. One of them had risen above the din and instructed her to slide open the doors of the moving van and jump out. Yet, the other voices, her mother’s and one that sounded vaguely like her father’s, told her to be patient. All the while, she kept her eyes trained on the man with the smooth long face who had saved her from the Yakuza. There was a pretty girl driving the van and from the way she was switching lanes she looked like an excellent driver. Diane wasn’t sure, but she thought she heard the man refer to her as Seven, which she concluded was an odd name even for a girl. It had to be a code name, she figured. They’d dropped the two identikit heavies off not far from Kabukicho and then the van had driven up one of those flyovers.

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