The Ninja Daughter

by Tori Eldridge

  Something crashed. Men barked orders in Ukrainian. Kateryna begged and wailed for them to stop.

  “Kateryna. Answer me. What’s going on? Who’s there?”

  Ilya screamed in the distance, followed by another crash and the shatter of glass. It sounded as if someone were pulling him down the stairs because his cries for his mommy grew louder and louder.

  Romanko shoved something heavy off his desk and bellowed. “What is happening?”

  Neither Kateryna nor Ilya answered. They were too busy screaming for each other and at the men who seemed to be forcing them out the door. The scuffling noises grew fainter. An engine revved. Car doors opened and slammed. Tires screeched.

  Romanko ran out of the room. I crawled out from under the desk and raced after him. He had gone to the steel door and was trying, in vain, to turn the handle. He pounded on the steel. “I need to speak to Zherdev. Can you hear me? Open up.”

  No one answered, and no one opened the door.

  Romanko ran back toward his office and straight toward me. I stepped back, slipped my right arm under his left, and threw him into a cartwheeling fall onto the marble floor. He scrambled to his knees, and his eyes grew wide in recognition. I guess he had seen a photo of me after all.

  “What’s going on, Dmitry?” I asked as I advanced.

  He hurried to his feet and barged into his office. “I don’t have time for you.”

  I let him go and watched as he punched in numbers on his speakerphone.

  Zherdev’s raspy voice filled the room. “Think carefully before you speak.”

  Romanko pulled his hands away from the desk and spun, clenching and unclenching his fists in an attempt to regain control. He saw me standing a few feet away, a target on which to focus his rage, and expelled a warning blast of air. But he didn’t charge. Instead, he took a calming breath and returned to the speakerphone. “What have they done with them? Where are your men taking my wife and son?”

  “A debt must be paid, Dmitry, on time and in full. You know this. And yet, you beg like a child and bargain with paintings. Am I your father, that I should care about such things? No. But you should think of your father. And of your mother. A son should always care for his parents above all others.”

  Romanko looked to the ceiling for guidance and found none. “Please, don’t hurt them. Any of them. I’ll get you the money. I promise. Don’t worry.”

  Zherdev snorted. “Why should I worry? I will get a good price for Kateryna and Ilya. And they will bring much money for their new owners. Until they lose their looks. But then, that won’t be my problem.”

  “Give me until tonight. Please.”

  “Don’t bother yourself, Dmitry. You can always get another wife and make another son.” He chuckled “Oh. And I almost forgot: thank you for the painting.”

  The line disconnected. I waited to see if Romanko would smash the phone or sweep it off his desk. He did neither. He just straightened his spine, ran his hands down his shirt, and turned to glare at me. “What do you want?”

  Loaded question.

  I thought about the twisted path from Mia and Tran to Freddy and Metro. I thought about the gangster wannabes in the Koreatown garage and Evelyn Young’s goddaughter and Henrique Vasquez’ college sweetheart and anyone else who might have been killed to leverage the Copper Line vote. I thought about Kateryna’s bruised face and broken ribs and terrified son. And I tried, very hard, not to think about the terrors facing them.

  Dmitry Romanko had caused so much pain to so many people; he didn’t deserve to live. But I couldn’t afford for him to die. Not yet.

  “The same thing I’ve always wanted,” I said. “To keep Kateryna and Ilya safe.”

  He grunted. “And how do you propose to do that? I don’t know where Zherdev’s goons have taken them. Do you?”

  “No. But I’ll find out. And I’ll get them back.”

  “No, you won’t. Didn’t you hear what Zherdev said? He controls everything in my life. He could end me in an instant if he wanted to. No. The only way to make things right is to get him that money.”

  “Fine. When’s the deadline?”

  “Thirty minutes ago.”

  “Then it’s too late for money.” I was so angry I had started to sweat. “Where would he take them? Would he bring them here? Lock them in the back?”

  “No.”

  I grabbed him by his shirt. “Then where?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I have to get the money. Now go away. You’re slowing me down.”

  He went to shove me aside, but I had known it was coming. Bullies like Romanko were predictable. He hit the ground fast as I locked his arm and prepared to break it. “Where are they?”

  “I don’t know,” he cried. “I don’t. Why do you think I need the money? Let me go, so I can get it.”

  He was telling the truth, but I didn’t like it. I released his arm and stepped back. I needed to think.

  Romanko stood up and brushed me off. “This is my problem; I will solve it.” He rubbed his elbow and glared. “And if I don’t, Zherdev’s right: I can always find another wife and make another son.”

  Anything else he might have said after that was swallowed in anguish along with his testicles.

  I snapped open the karambit and jabbed the talon claw blade against his crotch. “Get the money, Romanko. Because if anything happens to Kateryna or Ilya, you won’t have the necessary parts to get another wife or make another anything.”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Still seething, I marched back to my bike and gear. If not for the danger to Kateryna and Ilya, Romanko would be bleeding out on his office floor. If I didn’t get to them in time, I’d go back and finish the job.

  I growled with frustration. For all I knew, it was already too late to save them. They could be locked in the back of a car on their way to the border, or in a boxcar on a freight train, or in the cargo hold of a ship. Unspeakable things could be happening to them right now.

  Stop it, Lily.

  I couldn’t let myself go there. I had to stay optimistic. I had to believe I could save them.

  But this time, conviction wasn’t enough. I needed help.

  I retrieved my backpack from behind the plumbing company’s wall and dug into the outside pocket.

  Tran’s business card looked as elegant as it had when it landed on my sushi plate: gray on black, name and phone, no address. I thought of his smirking face as he had watched my reaction from his seat across the chef’s station. “Give me a call if you change your mind,” he had said. Of course, that was before I had stomp-kicked him down the cement stairs of the city hall garage. Hopefully, he didn’t hold a grudge.

  He answered after two rings. “Speak.”

  I paused, taken aback by the terse command. Who answered their phone like they were training a dog? Then again, who would be calling someone like Tran except a mongrel like Romanko? And apparently, me.

  “It’s K,” I said, using the name I had given him, the one that had burst from my mouth like a call response to his own single initial name—J and K, good and evil. I shivered and switched the last pair around to evil and good. My superstitious nature couldn’t let the misalignment stand. Tran was the evil one, not me. I had to get this straight in my head. I was the one who fought on the side of good. Me, not Tran.

  I hovered my thumb over the end call icon. This was a terrible mistake. But before I could decide whether or not to press it, Tran spoke in a quiet, amused, and infuriatingly sexy voice. “It’s been two days since our lunch. I had given up hope.”

  I could feel the smirk through the phone and would have given a hundred bucks to slap it off his face. But Kateryna and Ilya were in jeopardy, and as much as I hated it, the smug assassin was the only lead I had.

  I took a deep breath and did what had to be done. “I know what you are. I know who you’re working for. And I need your help.”

  He chuckled. “Well, that was unexpected.�
�

  “Knock it off, Tran. Dmitry Romanko reneged on a deal, and Zherdev—I assume you know who he is—took Romanko’s wife and son in payment. Romanko won’t tell me where they are. He’s too afraid Zherdev will kill his parents or fire him from the mob. I’m not sure which he thinks is worse.”

  “Zherdev took the child?”

  “Keep up. I don’t have time to repeat myself. He took Kateryna and Ilya. I need to know where they are.”

  When Tran didn’t respond, I shook my head. This was a stupid idea. What made me think an assassin would ever—

  “Why do you care?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “Keep up, K.” His tone reeked of menace.

  Truth was a dangerous and valuable commodity. I didn’t want to waste it. But what choice did I have? Tran’s tone had made it clear: If I wanted his help, I’d have to cough up the truth.

  “Romanko beats his wife and possibly his son. I’m trying to protect them.”

  “Ah,” he said, as though a piece of the puzzle had just fallen into place. “Not doing a very good job of it, are you?”

  I ignored the dig. “Zherdev’s goons have taken them, and I think you know where. Am I right?” His silence made me want to scream. I needed him to say yes, and I hated myself for that. “Are you going to help me or not?”

  “I think not.”

  I raised the phone away from my mouth so he wouldn’t hear my grunts of frustration. What did I think he would say? Sure, K, I’ll be right over. Just let me saddle up my white stallion, and I’ll come to save the day. What a fool. Did I really think he was so fascinated with me that he would risk his reputation and snitch on his employers? Ma was right: I was born vain. Although, according to Farmor, I was more stubborn than Baba and Bestefar put together.

  J Tran didn’t know it yet, but he was going to help me whether he wanted to or not.

  “I videotaped you. In the Koreatown garage. When you assassinated those kids.”

  Tran paused. “I see.”

  “Good. Then you’ll tell me where they’ve taken Kateryna and Ilya.”

  “No.” He chuckled. “I don’t think I will.”

  “You want me to send the footage to the cops? Because I will. I’ll hand deliver the video to the freaking D.A. Don’t you think I won’t.”

  “Relax, K. I’m not going to tell you where they are.”

  I slumped against my bike. I was all out of cards to play. I didn’t even have a video. I only said it because I thought it sounded more incriminating than photos—as if Tran wiping a stiletto over the body of dying man wasn’t enough to convict. It didn’t matter: I’d tried truth and lies, and neither had worked. I’d have to find Kateryna and Ilya on my own.

  Tran interrupted my thoughts. “I won’t tell you where they are. I’ll take you there.”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  The bike ride to the Alondra Library where Tran wanted to meet took five minutes, which left me ample time to pace the lot, battle with my conscience, and consider the very likely possibility that Tran would simply drive up and shoot me in the head.

  What the hell was I thinking? I had blackmailed an assassin. How could he not get rid of me?

  As I asked this question for the dozenth time, Tran’s black BMW drove into the lot. Too late to run. I flexed my legs, preparing to pull a Matrix at the first sign of a gun’s muzzle—as if that would do any good—but none appeared. Instead of rolling down the window, Tran cut off the engine and stepped out, setting the car alarm with a chirp as if it was a normal day and he was meeting a girl for a date. He even had on nice clothes. Although to be fair, that’s what he always wore: tight black tee, black jeans, the familiar soft-soled boots, and a dark gray jacket loose enough to hide myriad weapons.

  All I had was the karambit under my black polo, clipped to the waistband of my black pants.

  He approached with the graceful swagger I had admired in the sushi bar rather than the stalking gait I had witnessed in the Koreatown garage. Although the sexier walk promised a better outcome, I would have been more comfortable with the stalk: at least then I would have understood his intention.

  He stopped a sword’s length away and nodded in greeting. “K.”

  I nodded back. “J.”

  “So…” he said, letting the word hang and the implications free for me to fill.

  “Yep,” I said, not really sure to what I was referring: we had more crap flowing between us than the LA River after a storm.

  Tran bridged the gap. “I was surprised to hear from you.”

  “Understandable. How’s your head?”

  He pursed his lips as though reliving the pain of cracking it on cement then smiled. “I’ll live.” Then he headed for the sidewalk at an infuriatingly slow pace.

  I matched it but said nothing. Words had become a form of currency, and like any negotiation, the first one to speak lost.

  After half a block, he chuckled. “This is interesting. You. Me. Working together.”

  “Who said we’re working together?”

  He raised a brow. “You did.”

  “No. I said I needed to know where Zherdev had taken Kateryna and Ilya. You’re the one who insisted on tagging along.”

  He held out his hands in mock innocence. “Well, you’ve shown yourself to be a violent person. I have a reputation to protect. Can you blame me for wanting to safeguard it?”

  “Oh, give me a break. What are you going to do? Lead me to the kidnappers then stop me from bashing in their heads?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Then what? Why are you even bothering to help? And don’t tell me you’re worried about the video, because I don’t believe it. You could have shut me up with a drive-by shooting and no one would have been the wiser. But you didn’t. Why?”

  Tran grinned. “I’m here because I want to see what you’ll do.”

  “Not good enough. I need to know why.”

  He stopped and placed his hands on his hips, exposing the butt of a pistol holstered under his arm. “Why I want to see what you’ll do? Or why you’re not already dead?”

  I held his gaze and tried not to flinch. “Why are you so interested in me?”

  He smiled—a truly happy smile. “Because we’re the same. I felt it at the sushi bar. And I saw it again at the train station.”

  “You followed me.”

  “Only so far. I had other things to do, after all. But long enough to recognize violence.”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  He chuckled. “You didn’t have to. Violence recognizes its own.”

  He started walking again, and not knowing what else to do, I joined him.

  “Where are we going?” I asked, choosing the least dangerous question in my mind. “I need to know what I’m walking into.”

  “Fair enough. On occasion, the Ukrainian mob does business with the Varrio Norwalk 66. If Zherdev has sold Romanko’s wife and son, it would most likely be to them.”

  I felt ill. Although not the largest or most notorious street gang in Los Angeles, the Varrio Norwalk 66 had a nasty reputation. “Human trafficking?”

  He nodded. “Unrestricted. Anything goes.”

  I closed my eyes and walked blind for several yards—something I often did on fire roads where the surface was smooth and the traffic scarce. It calmed my mind and raised my awareness. Right now, my mind needed a whole lot of calming. When I felt more under control, I opened my eyes.

  “I do that,” said Tran.

  “What?”

  “Walk with my eyes closed.”

  “Great.”

  He grinned. “Yes. It is.”

  I sighed. The last thing I needed was another point in common with Tran.

  “Does Romanko know where they’ve taken Kateryna and Ilya?”

  He shook his head. “I doubt it.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think so either. Zherdev would want his money before he told hi
m. And by then, they’d be—”

  I couldn’t say it. The devil didn’t need my help to do his work. If I was going to speak any words of power, they’d be positive.

  “They’re alive,” I said, infusing the statement with absolute conviction. “And I’m going to save them.”

  Tran laughed. “You see? This is why you fascinate me— determined, unpredictable, ferocious.”

  I turned away, not wanting to encourage this line of conversation. I didn’t know what kind of game Tran was playing, and I didn’t care. I just wanted to find Kateryna and Ilya before the Varrio Norwalk 66 sold them, killed them—or worse.

  “So where are we headed?” I asked. “All I see are houses.”

  “Why not houses? They have rooms and privacy. What else would the Varrios need to sell their goods?”

  I thought of Ilya tied up and tortured in a cutesy home with plastic slides in the front yard. It made me want to kill. “They’re not goods.”

  Tran shrugged. “They are to the Varrios.”

  “Why do you call them that? A varrio is a neighborhood, not a person.”

  “What do you want me to call them? Gangsters?” He snorted. “I don’t think so.”

  “Whatever. Call them anything you like as long as you kill them.” I didn’t mean to say it. I just wanted Tran to knock off the smart remarks. Instead, he stopped walking.

  “There’s something you need to understand, K. This gang is repulsive, no question, but they serve a purpose. Like carrion birds, they dispose of things. And sooner or later, everyone has something or someone they want gone. So you can’t just go in there maiming and killing whoever you like, or the rest of the criminal community will get testy.”

  “Testy?” I didn’t appreciate the lecture. “And what if I kill you?”

  I meant it to sound clever, but when Tran’s brow peak again, I knew I had made a dangerous mistake. My fascination index had jumped another level. If I didn’t put an end to his attraction, I’d find myself digging my own grave. Nothing good could come from being a killer’s crush.

  “You don’t get to tell me what I can and can’t do. Not after what you’ve done. Not after you murdered those Korean punks, and Vasquez’s college girlfriend, and Evelyn Chang’s goddaughter. She was twenty years old. Don’t you have a conscience?”