To Honor: Vampire Assassin League #22

by Jackie Ivie

  To Honor

  by Jackie Ivie

  A Vampire Assassin League Novella

  “We Kill for Profit”

  22nd in series

  Copyright 2014, Jackie Ivie

  Smashwords Edition

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portion thereof, in any form. This book may not be resold or uploaded for distribution to others.

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The worst part was the duct tape.

  It exceeded the discomfort brought by going without food and water since yesterday afternoon, experiencing stifling heat and bone-chilling cold ever since, getting a concrete room for a setting, and what appeared to be twelve machine gun-toting terrorists for an escort. She didn’t know how many for certain. Could be more. Their captors all wore masks, and she hadn’t seen them grouped together since the abduction.

  Christine swiveled her chin, and looked about. The view hadn’t changed. Even the roof was a big, solid chunk of cement. Their bunker was interrupted only by one locked metal door and ten eight-inch horizontal openings that let in very little light, zero air flow, but more than enough insects. The last made her extremely grateful she wore a long-sleeve knitted shirt and khakis. Her travel attire never varied: a pull-on shirt, trousers with an elastic waistband, moisture-wicking socks, hiking boots. Sports bra. Basic panties. No zippers. Few buttons. No jewelry. No make-up. She’d wrapped her braid with a multitude of dark-colored bands. That would keep it neat regardless of travel interruptions. And finally, because she was a redhead and burned easily, she wore moisturizer with the highest SPF she could find. If she needed culturally appropriate clothing, she’d find it at a marketplace. She’d learned. The best way to travel overseas was with the minimum amount of fuss. Her travel pack had been slung over her shoulder. It contained everything needed for a somewhat comfortable flight: ear plugs, an eye mask, toothpaste and floss, fuzzy slippers with grippers on the bottom, and a sweater that doubled as a neck pillow.

  Then again, she’d also brought Hector.

  Hector was a football lineman-sized fellow, approaching middle-age with the same attention he used on his weight issues – none. He had to have the largest, ham-sized fists she’d ever seen. He was a huge man. He also traveled heavy. He’d had to pay fees for all his suitcases. Hector was her personal assistant and more than once, he’d doubled as bodyguard. Because traveling abroad could be dangerous. Especially some of the places she’d been sent. That’s how you broadened a company’s stock value. The firm she worked for sold and delivered medical supplies – to the highest bidders. The supplies were usually needed.

  It was a lucrative business. Christine Diachenko had a flat in New York City, a condo in Boulder, and a beachside address in West Hollywood. She could go on a shopping trip to Rodeo Drive if she wanted. Carry expensive, one-of-a-kind, bags. Wear designer clothes. Drive a premium automobile. For a woman approaching 29, it was a very nice, if somewhat lonely, life. But that’s what happened when you were proficient at eleven languages, had a knack for Eastern protocol, possessed a good dose of management skills, and had goals.

  You worked for a company that valued your skills...and paid premium dollar for them.

  Well.

  Christine rolled to her other side, grimacing as her bound wrists took the brunt of her move. The floor was just as comfortable as she’d expect a concrete floor in the jungle to be. She’d taken a lot of international trips. This was the first hostage situation. This trip had been to bring enough medical supplies to equip a small field hospital. The deal had been negotiated. Down payment had changed hands. Totally legit business transaction. Normal. Secure. Right on schedule...until the plane had landed and things took a dive.

  There were seven in the room, duct-taped almost beyond recognition. That’s what happened when one of them was a smart-ass from Boston Mass, who thought his daddy’s wealth guaranteed a different outcome. That described Irvin Kayne. Irvin was nineteen, self-absorbed to an unbelievable level, had two college degrees already, and a bank account to match his ego. Irvin was also a talker. He’d talked his daddy into this trip. His billionaire daddy probably wanted some silence. Irvin had already toured Cambodia, Myanmar, and Sri Lanka, getting through unscathed. Then, he’d decided to visit the TaKraby/Ta Moan temple areas, despite travel warnings about terroristic activities. That had been stupid. Irvin was a walking target, even with the three beefy-looking security guys at his back.

  Make that two.

  One hadn’t made it through the confrontation.

  Christine had to admit it, though. Irvin had smarts. He just wasn’t quiet. The guy had licked his way free of his mouth tape then told them all to try it. Supposedly, with enough moisture, duct tape wouldn’t stay stuck. If you stretched your face while you licked, the tape could be maneuvered out of the way. Irvin then told them to get behind each other and chew through the tape binding their arms. That had happened sometime during the night. Irvin had gotten his mouth free. He’d almost freed one of his men before getting caught. Christine had started licking her tape, but only to alter Irvin’s plan. They were up against men with machine guns. They’d been transported via a large, windowless truck to this bunker. Nobody knew where they were. Escape was foolhardy without a plan. Management might be her job title, but planning was her forte. Irvin wasn’t looking at the big picture. Escape wasn’t viable. Not at first. First requirement was basic needs for the hostages. Medical assistance for the wounded. Drinking water. Restroom breaks.

  Irvin was a fool.

  Christine hadn’t gotten her gag loose. It hadn’t mattered. She’d still reaped the punishment. She’d been hauled to an empty spot. Everybody got the same treatment. Separated. And then they got wrapped with so much tape around their arms and legs, it was difficult to move. They’d received the same across their mouths and around their heads, guaranteeing silence, and a good dose of hair pulling if they moved. She was really glad she’d covered her braid with so many ties. The other female captive wasn’t so lucky. She wore her hair short, but not short enough. At the thought of Sharon, the woman moaned. Again.

  Sharon was injured. She’d probably broken something when she’d been shoved while descending the plane steps. Sharon was a nurse. Her services were part of the package deal. She’d been hired through the Bangkok office. The woman must need the paycheck. It had been a high figure. And maybe nobody else wanted the hazardous duty pay. Sharon was well into her middle years. Spindly. Frail-looking.

  And not remotely stoic.

  Hector was Christine’s main worry, however. The guy was a large lump along one wall, his limbs duct-taped into a mummy position. He hadn’t regained consciousness since four of them nailed him with stunners even before the private plane had finished taxiing. Christine had been working toward him, surreptitiously inching her way. She didn’t have anyone else to help. Sharon was too focused on her own injury. There wasn’t any way to speak to the others. But if they managed to get free, or their captor’s ransom demands got met, Hector was going to be pure hell to carry out of here.

  She was starting to feel thirsty, too. No. That wouldn’t do. If she drank right now, her need for a restroom would be painful. It couldn’t get much worse.

  “I did it!”

  Christine froze. A moment later, she peeked in Irvin’s direction. He was rolling b
ack and forth like a rupturing cocoon. Damned if he hadn’t gotten his mouth free again. Somebody really needed to shush him. Irvin’s exultation was going to get them all punished again. A heavy-duty thump sounded from the other side of the door. Gunshots immediately answered it. Light flashed through some window openings, highlighting the interior for a second. And then the door flew inward, accompanied by a groan of wrenching metal, and more gunfire.

  Even if she’d had the capability, her scream wouldn’t have sounded. It was stuck in her throat. The door landed right next to her, lifting a film from whatever debris was on the floor, and...

  Holy shit!

  There was a body impaled onto the door, the spear shaft from its chest still trembling. Panic sent her heart into overdrive. That organ slammed against the obstruction in her throat, making every heartbeat hurt, and every breath painful. And then adrenaline kicked in. Christine started rolling, shoving with her fists when on her back to make the move easier. Again. Over and over. The movement was awkward. Rushed. A mass of abductors entered the doorway. They were facing outward, firing into the opening. Shit. They had a lot of light out there. She couldn’t tell what it came from. Nor did it matter. It was bright. And she’d been in the dark. Christine narrowed her eyes, but not soon enough. The light stung, warping the scene. Making ghostly images. Shadowy motion. A snake-thing shot through the space right at her viewpoint level. Maybe a rope? Wire? It hurt to watch, but she couldn’t drag her eyes away. It looked like wire, but wasn’t distinct enough to verify. It grabbed at ankles, dropping the armed men to their backs. It was so quick they were still pumping bullets into the ceiling for a moment. Concrete dust rained into the scene, almost obscuring a flash of something slicing through bodies. Lightning fast. Amazingly slim. Sharp. Deadly.

  Christine hit a wall and tried to meld into it, jerking up just in time to avoid a severed head that thudded into the concrete with a sickening splat sound. Christine’s view followed it as it rolled back into the room leaking a trail of dark fluid as it stopped finally, lit perfectly in the stream of light from the doorway. Was that...blood? No. Oh no. No. No, Christine. But before she could even admit the answer, the head was followed by more of them, and then a series of limbs, each spewing its own dark stream.

  That’s when the screaming started.

  Glimpses of something came into view more than once. Nothing definitive. A slice of blackness that moved with insane speed. As if the air had come alive. Motion blurred. Shadows spun and shifted. Flashes of light hit upon...was that a sword? Something just as wickedly sharp? Maybe a scythe? No. It couldn’t be just one. It looked like dozens of blades accelerated into machine-driven swiftness. Her eyes were adjusting. That made it more poignant. Intense. Unbelievable. Christine worked at following the blur of blackness. Her eyes went wide, her heart increased its hammering motion against the knot in her throat, and each breath came as a gasp. This wasn’t possible. She’d grown up watching horror and slasher flicks. It was her escape. She loved the thrill. The heart-pounding scare. The stimulation. The possibility of death, delivered instantly. It was a rush, making life feel so much more precious. She’d seen this sort of carnage hundreds of times.

  On film.

  Reality was something else. It was damned gory. The film-makers were pretty accurate, too. Only this time it was real blood getting spattered everywhere. The air was full of it. The view was shaded a misty pink as the dark mass swirled to a column of smoke and then it disappeared completely.

  “Holy shit! Holy shit! Holy shit! Did you see that?”

  If she hadn’t been silenced with duct tape, Christine would have echoed Irvin’s exclamations. Exactly. And just then the floor in front of her shifted, rising to become a figure.

  Christine slammed backwards, hitting her head and bound wrists against the concrete in her effort to escape. It should’ve smarted. She didn’t feel it. It was a man, outfitted entirely in black, except for a slice of space for his eyes. He had a sword in one hand that streamed dark fluid from the tip, a chain holding two mini-scythe-things across his shoulder, and his hand out to her.

  Damn this duct tape!

  The only sound available to her was a moan. That’s exactly what she did as he leaned toward her, put one arm about her shoulders, and lifted her. Right off the floor. As if she was weightless. Without mass. Or substance. Christine didn’t dare blink as he just held her, mere inches from his gaze while the whole world held its breath. He smiled. Rather, the eyes she could see held that expression. And for some reason the most amazing sensation loomed all the way through her. She’d never felt anything like it. No one could have. Warmth flooded her, reaching every toe and fingertip. It was accompanied by a buzzing sound through her ears and a thump of wonder that hit her heart. She grasped at fulfillment. Strove for pleasure. Came into contact with gratification. And...no way, Christine. She was feeling...joy?

  A shout came through the door, breaking the spell. A moment later she was lying on her side, watching a wisp of smoke slide right out the door before dissipating into thin air.

  “Holy shit! As I live and breathe! That was a frickin’ ninja! Holy shit! A ninja! A real ninja! What did he want? Geez, lady! And you didn’t even get him to cut our tape? Thanks.”

  Christine barely heard Irvin. Somebody grumbled. Somebody else answered. There wasn’t a description for what had just occurred, but for some reason she had the instant desire to weep. As if she’d lost something incredibly precious. Necessary. Vital. But Irvin was right. They were all still secured with duct tape.

  And that really was the worst part.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “You’ve reached VAL Headquarters, where regret and loss are the rewards of—”

  “Nigel Beathan.”

  Akron’s booming voice came through the earpiece. The man might be thousands of miles distant, but his voice could project such quality he might as well be sitting next to Takeshi, partaking afternoon tea. Takeshi moved the phone quickly away from his head, aware of a glimmer of sensation. What was this? Reanimation brought pain, too? That was amazing. And not altogether pleasant. Takeshi’s shoulders clenched as the echo of Akron’s voice rattled the tea set before him.

  “Oh. Hello, Sir. I didn’t know you were listening in...although I should by now.”

  “I need you to jump off the pity train, Nigel. At least for this stop.”

  “The pity train?”

  “It’s my phrase. For how the world just keeps moving along in one direction, but you’re stuck in another. Everywhere you look is the same shade of gray. Nothing has value anymore. Your entire existence is a wasteland as far as the eye can see. This is one stage of the grief process. There are more, unfortunately. Sound familiar?”

  “Wow. Yes. That’s it, Sir. Exactly. The pity train.”

  “You earned a ticket when you sacrificed your own happiness. You also earned respect, unlike parroting my every word. I knew you had it in you, too. I was honored to witness it.”

  “Well. I have to tell you, Sir. Honor and respect are piss-poor companions.”

  “As many a poet will attest. You want to find out who is calling us now?”

  “Oh. Yeah. VAL Headquarters. Who is calling, please?”

  “Takeshi Asourah. Only surviving member of the Aka-sourah Clan.”

  “Weren’t you handling a hostage situation in the east somewhere?”

  “Hai.”

  “What?”

  “That is the Japanese word for yes, Nigel,” Akron answered.

  “Oh. Well. Fine. Of course you’d know that, Sir. Can I ask you something? How long did it take you?”

  “To learn Japanese?”

  “No. To get off the pity train.”

  “We are not discussing me, Nigel.”

  “Oh. Wow. Way to avoid the question, Sir.”

  This entire exchange was mystifying. Time-consuming. Random. And far from why Takeshi had called. He took a sip of tea, placed his teacup down, and practiced at maintaining patience while Akron an
d Nigel continued speaking with each other.

  “We’ll discuss it in a moment. Takeshi? Forgive us. Are you still there?”

  “Hai, Akron-San.”

  “Good. You took care of the hit? Kidnappers all deceased? Irvin Kayne is now rescued, in good health, and on his way back to our client, his daddy?”

  “Oh. Hai.”

  “What can we do for you?”

  “I...do not know how to explain it.”

  “You just said the assignment was accomplished successfully.”

  “It. Uh. I. Uh. It—”

  “Yes?” Akron prompted.

  “I...was seen.”

  “Were you wearing the Aka-sourah Clan shinobi shozoku?”

  “The attire? Hai. Except I modified it to the Kabuki theatre version. It is not a shade of dark blue. It is full black.”

  “No trouble there. That outfit covers everything but your eyes.”

  “Yes. My eyes. That is the issue. And hers.”

  “Hers?”

  “Her eyes are of the greenest jade. Deep. Mystical. The root of all fascination. The center of all emotion. I do not know what happened. I was...overcome.”

  “Anata go anata no nakama o mitsukemashita?”

  “Hai. Kanojo wa watasha ga sozo shita subetedesu. “

  “Watakushiha o sansho shite kudasai.”

  “Wow, Sir. You really do know Japanese,” Nigel inserted.

  “I know all the languages, Nigel.”

  “That must have taken some time.”

  “I had a lot of time. And a lot of self-pity to overcome. Takeshi? Forgive our inattention. We have about ten seconds left on this connection. You will call back?”

  “Hai. I will call again.”

  Takeshi slid the cover shut on the now-useless cell phone, placed it on his tea table in a spot exactly perpendicular to his placemat before pulling another from the pack in his back pocket. He pressed his one-number code. Akron and Nigel were still talking when the connection went though.

  “...derail your progress at this stage.”