Ilunga's address was an old brownstone building. The ground floor contained about eight stores, several with windows boarded or even bricked over. A telephone booth outside had all its glass broken. There was no elevator, and the interior hallways reeked of dirt, cooking grease and urine. The paint was peeling; I could hardly blame it.
I found her apartment, but she was not in, and no one would tell me where she was. I was white, and my eyes were white; no one trusted me.
I took a last look at the two padlocks on her door and departed. Even a black karate mistress had to lock all strangers out. So I went to the park, and walked among the quiet trees. It was a chill November night, but pleasant in its contrast to the slum and in its solitude. A man needs to be alone, on occasion, and no doubt the same was true for a woman.
I thought about Chiyako, recovering now in the hospital, and about Amalita, so loyal a friend, so savage an enemy. Could things turn sour with the Oriental girl, just as they had with the Latin American one? No, the Shaolin philosophy provided a stability that others lacked.
Then I spied Ilunga. She was standing under a light, in a flowing African dashiki, and she was an ebony beauty. I had formed two mental pictures of her: first as the black karate mistress who had maimed me, a cruel attacker; second as a young girl, victim of multiple rapes and mutilation and injustice. Now the two images gave way to a third: neither maiden nor fighting woman, but a lovely, lonely figure, dark in the dark night.
"I am Jason Striker," I said. "I have come to talk to you."
Her head turned to face me, her black hair flinging out momentarily. All I could really see was her silhouette; her broken nose did not show. "I know you," she said.
"Yes, we've met," I agreed.
Her smile was white in the shadow. "Come closer, white man."
"I give you fair warning," I said grimly. "I promised a man I would try to talk to you, but if you make a move, I will break you in half." That surprised me; bluster is not my way. But there was a score to settle, and I knew how dangerous she was. Her first hostile motion would activate an automatic response in me, and not a gentle one.
"You are champion of the world."
Now I stepped closer. "No. You are thinking of the Martial Open. A formal tournament last year. I represented Judo, and the result was a tie with karate. Any of them could have taken it, with other breaks—kung-fu, aikido, even wrestling."
"Leave us alone," she said. It sounded more like a plea than a threat.
"I have a mission. I have to eradicate Kill-Thirteen."
"Because I kicked you?" she asked derisively.
"Because I owe it to the memory of a kung-fu monastery."
"Kung-fu. We are kung-fu!"
"You are not kung-fu. You are a sick imitation that disgraces the name."
She attacked without warning, a fast kick aimed at my groin. I had anticipated such a motion, but still that demon reflex was too swift for me. If it had been as accurate as the first one, I would have been gelded for sure. In the darkness I did not see it coming. But maybe it was that same darkness that helped me, throwing off her aim. The point of her shoe missed my crotch and connected to the inside of my thigh: painful but not disabling.
So it was to be this way. I was relieved; I had done my best to talk, and now she had started the fight I wanted so much to finish. This was one woman I would not hesitate to pulverize.
Yet that story of Kobi's nagged at me, and I knew I was doing wrong.
I tried to grapple with her, but she danced out of my reach, scoring to the side of my face with a half-clenched fist, hiraken. With a feminine twist: her long nails left a trail of blood down my cheek. That made me mad. I pursued her, throwing a series of fist-blows. Any reluctance I had had about striking a female had vanished.
If that first disabling kick, the one that had put me in the hospital, hadn't changed my attitude, Amalita's attack on Chiyako had. Women were every bit as vicious as men. Now I was using a universal language Ilunga understood, the language of hard knocks. She blocked my fists, but then I let fly with a kick of my own. I caught her on the left buttock with the side of my foot, and a handsome buttock it was, too. She was propelled forward, and almost fell before she recovered her balance. She would have a bruise there.
Then I had her. My arms went around her as I tried to wrestle her to the ground, where I could use my greater weight to advantage. But the bitch knew too much; a blinding pain hit me under the ears. She had dug her thumbs in and was pushing in the pain centers. I had to let her go, knowing I was lucky she had not chosen to strike instead, possibly breaking my ear drums. I grabbed at her bright colored shirt with my right hand and went into a morote-seoi-nage shoulder throw. But my hand cushioned her fall, and she knew how to take a fall. Even so, she must have had quite a jolt. I fell on her, trying to get her in an arm lock, ude-garami, to force submission. But she bit my armpit. It hurt, but I could have sworn I felt her tongue caress my skin for a moment.
She rolled free and stood up again. She tried a jumping front kick. I moved aside, caught her ankle, and brought her down. I forced her to fall on her stomach in the brush at the edge of the path, and I hooked my legs under hers as my body squashed her on top. I put a naked strangle on her, hadaka-jime, to subdue her, but she struggled mightily, her buttocks flexing against me. My face was buried in her thick hair, fragrant and slightly oily. Her struggles ceased. I realized I had strangled her too hard, and I remembered my promise to Kobi. In the dark I could not see how she was, so I gave her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. I did not want her dead. Yet.
And she bit me, her teeth cutting through my lip. I tasted my own blood. "Now that Chinese bitch will know you were with me!" she whispered.
I pulled back, flipped her over, and put my weight on her torso again, pinning her to the ground. It was now mainly a matter of weight and muscle; my combat skill was becoming irrelevant to the situation. I had to have a moment to think.
Of course I am used to feminine anatomy in combat; I have trained many young women in self defense. Some very attractive ones, too. But this situation was special. First Ilunga was not my trainee; she was fighting in earnest (at least, I assumed she was). Second, she had wounded me in an exceedingly painful and embarrassing manner, and I was not thinking of the lip-bite. I had a special score to settle. Third, I knew her history, so compassionately narrated by Kobi Chija; that gave me a kind of perspective. Fourth, I hated what she stood for: a killer drug and the emasculation of men.
Hate is an emotion often akin to love, and the boundary can be vague.
I had an emotional involvement with Ilunga, however negatively, and now a physical one. She was one hell of a specimen, and we were in one hell of a position. My crotch was wedged hard against her generous buttocks. I couldn't let go of her; she might kill me. Literally. She could be trying to trick me by a few suggestive words, making me pause, setting me up again. Because she had found she couldn't overcome my black belt judo skill, undoubtedly the best she had yet encountered.
I couldn't reason with her; her mind was under the spell of the drug. I had the physical advantage at the moment, but Kill-13 gave her awesome reflexes and coordination. I had to see that she did not get into a position to use them again. Yet I did not want to hurt her unnecessarily.
I could knock her out and leave her; a simple renewal of my stranglehold would do it. But that would not get the information I needed. And it wouldn't stop her from coming after me later and trying to kill me by stealth. All my fighting skill would not avail me against a knife in the dark. And a Kill-13 addict would hardly stop at murder.
She struggled again, turning part way over. I let her have some play because that close contact with her posterior was extraordinarily stimulating. Forget about all the moralities of the true martial artist, and about Chiyako; there was a growing sexual compulsion.
"I hate you!" she gasped. She bared her teeth and bit my shoulder, hard. I shouldn't have let her have that much leeway. Now I had to jam down close
again and force her back, and to hell with what it did to my groin.
She worked her jaws again, and I made ready to push her face down into the dirt, to break her bite. But I hesitated, moved by some intuitive impulse, and let her bite. And the sensation was more like a kiss, this time. Her teeth were resting on my skin, not painfully, and her tongue was moving.
Was she actually trying to seduce me? I hardly believed that; all she wanted was to subvert my guard, to give her the physical advantage. I sure as hell was not about to let go of her!
I bit her back, on the neck, not hard. I tasted the flavor of her skin, smelled the musky aroma. The effect was aphrodisiac. Then her face turned, and her chin lifted, and her lips met mine. For a long, long moment we held it, that kiss of adverse passion. I felt her tongue, as lithe and strong as the rest of her, like a serpent probing my mouth. A suitable opponent.
"Honky, I know a thousand ways," she murmured as we broke. "Too bad you're castrated."
So that was what she thought. To weaken me by reminding me of what I had lost. "Yeah?" I shifted on top of bet, letting her feel my arousal. I had her right between the legs, right below the crease of her buttocks, and a little shifting about would shove aside the barriers of our clothing. "How sure are you that I'm castrated?"
Her eyes opened wide, so that even in this shadow I could see the orange. "You have to be!"
I drove, and not with my foot or fist. "Okay, I have to be, and that's my big toe I'm poking you with. Call my bluff. Get your pants down." I encouraged her by reaching down with one hand to do the job, exposing that magnificent posterior.
She called it. The fight was on another level now, but no less desperate. Her hips thrust violently. The impact was painful, because my injury still was not completely healed, but steadily I moved toward the completion of the connection. "What do you think I've been doing with my Chinese girl? Teaching her karate?" Judo, maybe... "Why did you want to mark me, if you think I have nothing?"
"I loathe you, I despise you!" she gasped, wrestling against that rigidity. "You white prick!"
I could have laughed, but it wasn't so funny. It was literal. She was cursing the whiteness of my erection, the thing she thought she had abolished. But it was the passion behind the words that counted most.
Her thighs opened and closed spasmodically, and I saw her tongue flick over her lips. Now she knew I could conquer her this way, too. It was a slight on her karate competence, that a white man should have survived her kick.
I put my arm alongside of her head and brought her face toward mine. I kissed her again, risking the bite, but it did not come. Her passion was stronger than ever.
And I realized that this was what she really wanted. She knew I wasn't castrated; she was merely goading me to prove it. She might hate all men, but she was still a sexual creature. This was one way in which the drug left her unfulfilled, for male demons lacked the interest and capacity.
In the guise of masochism, she could indulge herself. Then she could expunge her guilt by castrating her partner. Thus I was playing into her hands, if that was the correct description. I had the advantage in this fight because she had carefully given it to me. I had the opportunity to rape her, here in the rapist's park, and prove I was no better than the usual bums.
My passion abated. I let her go and scrambled back. "I don't need to prove myself on you," I said. "When I want that kind of experience, I'll pay for it. Ten dollars. Or has your fee for perversion gone up?"
"You bastard!" Now she meant it.
"I'm a man. The terms are not synonymous."
"If they aren't, it's the first time!"
"If you ever went halfway to meet a real man, instead of bums in the park, you'd learn how twisted your values are."
She stood up, throwing off her remaining clothing. She was gloriously naked in the dim lamplight. "You sure you don't want it?"
I stayed well back. "Not your way!"
"I never wanted it before," she murmured wonderingly. "Not with a white man."
I knew better than to answer.
But she had not forgotten the situation, and she made no apologies. "Score a point for you," she said, her voice now bitter. "You made me plead for white prick." She set about repairing her scattered clothing. "There will be another time."
I didn't want any other time. "I took you fair and square," I said. "I stood still for your kick, and now you know I survived it. I beat you in even combat, on your terms, and I didn't cheat."
She made a harsh bark of laughter. "Yes you did. You didn't finish what you started."
"All I want is information. Then I will leave you alone. We could have saved a lot of trouble if you had only talked to me, instead of—"
"I will talk to you now," she said.
I was suspicious of this sudden appearance of reason. What was she up to? Surely nothing good for me. Yet, from all I knew of her, she was honest within her framework. I had beaten her openly, and she would have to respond openly. She was technically a woman scorned, but we had a détente. "I want the name of your supplier."
"He is dangerous."
"The fake kung-fu pusher? Just give me his name."
"No. Now I deal with his superior. He would kill you."
"Several demons have tried already," I said.
"This one is not a recruit from the streets. He is a weapons specialist. He will not meet you bare-handed."
"I'll take my chances."
"Miko. He's lame, but he can fight."
"If I find this man and destroy him," I said, "you'll be out of Kill-Thirteen."
"Perhaps not."
"You're too smart to risk that. How do I know you're telling the truth?" I thought she was, but feared that her loyalty to Kill-13 might be stronger than her integrity.
She faced me squarely. "Because I want you dead."
That I could believe. She had accepted defeat at my hands, though the mechanism of battle had not been confined to those precise members, and now knew no other way to recoup. She had given me fair warning.
"Tell Miko I'm coming," I said.
"There is no need," she said as she walked away. I wasn't sure exactly how she meant that.
CHAPTER 10
MIKO
Miko's address turned out to be inside a rusty old ship, a World War II vintage oil tanker anchored alongside a crummy pier on the river port. The name on it was LOLITA II—surely a misnomer for a sexless demon craft. It had a long open deck, a superstructure at one end, a mast at the other. I could see a couple of lifeboats on board, and one modern speedboat. The ship was tied to the pier by ropes or big cables. It had a small bridge that could be lifted out of the way for privacy; it was out of the way now. That was all I could make out; there was no light showing anywhere on it.
I stood on the dock, considering alternatives. I could summon the police, but even if they came quickly and quietly enough to trap the demons, the Kill-13 supplies would very likely be destroyed or dumped overboard, leaving no evidence against them.
Assuming there was any local ordinance against the drug. In fact, it wasn't even the drug I wanted, but information: where was the ultimate source? The police could arrest a thousand pushers and hardly make a dent on the drug trade—and the local police could very well be in the pay of the demons. This could be the branch of a great tree; unless I dug out the root, the deadly plant would always regenerate.
I checked myself over. I couldn't afford to be burdened with heavy tools or weapons, and wasn't sure they would be much use in this situation. All I wanted to do was reach Miko and make him talk, soon. I had come directly from my interview with Ilunga, knowing that even twelve hours could be disastrous. That meant scarcely an hour's rest while driving across town.
All I had was the armored vest made of fiberglass that Kobi had given me, and the pair of tonfas that Chiyako had let me have earlier. I had meant to add them to my display case, but had not yet gotten around to it. These were busy times.
The vest was bulky but light, de
signed to interfere minimally with the wearer's movement. I had used similar equipment in combat during the war. It would offer a lot of protection against shrapnel and certain hand weapons, but I hardly expected to sit still for such things anyway. What had Kobi had in mind? Well, I would gamble on his precognition, and wear it this time.
The tonfasI didn't know. I had had practice with them, along with many other obscure weapons, at the Shaolin monastery, but they were hardly the weapon of choice for a swift, silent attack. Each tonfa was a heavy wooden board about eighteen inches long, with a sturdy peghandle set at right angles in the flat side about three quarters of the distance in from the end. They had originally been used by the farmers of Okinawa for pounding rice and other grain crops. Later they had been adapted as a defensive weapon against the swords and spears of warriors, with such success that the tonfa had become a weapon in its own right. But would such a device serve me here in America, against the rabid demons?
I had to hope so. Ilunga would surely warn her supplier of my coming, but I hoped my immediate followup would foil that. I wanted to catch Miko by surprise. That was my only hope, for once he learned of my encounter with the black karate mistress, my life—and quite possibly hers as well—would be marked for rapid extinction. These were not sportsmen I was dealing with.
I tied the two tonfas to my waist and tucked them inside my pants in such a way that they would not bang together. Noise was unacceptable, with the acute hearing of the demons. I took firm hold of the guy-cable. It was much more than a wire, up close; it was a strongly twisted cord about two and a half inches in diameter. It offered good purchase for my hands and feet. But it was rusty, likely to cut my hands, and there was a sort of round plate on it, a little way along. A ratcatcher, I realized, to stop the rats from climbing the cable to the ship. "The rats are already aboard!" I thought. "Demon rats!" I had gloves to protect my hands, but it would be a struggle to get past that soup plate.
Well, I had to do it. I swung myself along, monkeylike, hand over hand. I almost fell, negotiating the ratcatcher; the vest didn't help, and I regretted having it on. Too late to take it off, though; the black water was waiting for me to try such a maneuver in midair.
Kiai! & Mistress of Death Page 33