The Ninja's Blade

by Tori Eldridge

  Car doors slammed shut. I didn’t have much time. I had good cover and a sharp knife. But if I wanted to use it, I’d needed something else to close the distance.

  A bucket of nail stakes caught my eye.

  I grabbed a bunch with my left hand and positioned a single twelve-inch stake in my right. Although it was twice the length of the bo shuriken I normally used for throwing, the added weight of the steel would drive the spike deeper into flesh. I hurried to the end of the bricks where I could see my targets around the side without popping up my head like a gopher.

  The smartass passenger crested the fence first, followed by the driver, who, as his nickname suggested, was armed with two pistols, one in hand and the other wedged in his pants. I’d need to strike first and strike to kill.

  Would that make me like Tran?

  “Leave me alone,” I whispered, as Tran’s smug face flashed before me. I didn’t have time to ponder morality: The first Varrio had already landed on the ground.

  “She’s behind the bricks,” Smartass yelled.

  Two Guns paused at the top of the fence, legs over the side, teetering on one hip as he prepared to jump. He spotted me and raised his pistol.

  I leapt into Doko no Kamae, left hand full of twelve-inch nail stakes pointing at my target and my throwing hand coiled beside my head. Then, with the accuracy born of a thousand repetitions, I brushed my hand forward and loosed the weapon.

  Slow is smooth. Smooth is fast. Fast is deadly.

  The nail stake flew from my fingers and sunk deep into Two Guns’ throat.

  The gun fired and chipped the bricks beside me. Two Guns lowered his weapon, grabbed the stake in his throat, lost his balance, and fell.

  The other Varrio charged toward me, drawing his own gun as he ran. But I had already reloaded another nail stake and sent it flying at his face. It hit him just above the eye.

  The man gaped and fell like a tree, hitting the ground at the perfect angle to drive the twelve-inch stake through his skull and out the back of his head.

  Another gruesome sight for my mind to replay.

  I didn’t have time to dwell on it because a pistol hit me in the head. The stake in Two Guns’ throat hadn’t killed him. He’d secured it in place with his hand and plugged the wound so the blood wouldn’t spurt. Without that hand, he couldn’t reload the gun, so he had thrown it at me instead.

  My head throbbed from the blow as I charged to stop him from drawing his second gun. He swayed on his feet, drained from blood loss and pain. He wouldn’t last long, but he wouldn’t need to if he reached the gun and fired.

  Armed with a long nail stake in each hand, I reverted to my Wushu training. Thirteen years of practice and competition made fighting with two short swords as natural as brushing my hair. Before Two Guns’ pistol had left his waist band, my whirling stakes had cut him across the arm, waist, neck, and torso.

  He reeled from my assault and grabbed at the fresh wounds. The stake fell from his throat. Blood spurted from the hole. Two Guns, trying desperately to stop the flow of blood, but it was too late. Now that the stake had fallen out, there was nothing to plug the hole. He collapsed on the ground, rolled onto his side, and stared up at me with astonishment.

  And then he died.

  My limbs trembled as the adrenaline ebbed from my system. My sweaty back shivered from the cold. I lowered my weapons. I didn’t have time for flashbacks or regret. And I certainly didn’t have time to waste a milliliter of guilt for killing two murderous gang members. They’d fired bullets and tried to run me down with a car. They’d chased me into this construction sight with the intent to kill. They’d lost. I’d won. The only thing left to do was clean up the scene and get on with the night.

  I collected all the stakes I had touched, wiped off my fingerprints, and—as an extra precaution—dumped them in a can of paint. My forehead hurt from where the pistol had hit me. When I touched the lump, my hand came away bloody. I wiped it on my shorts and checked the ground for blood. Most of it belonged to Two Guns. The other Varrio, lying dead on his face with the stake protruding out the back of his head, hadn’t bled nearly as much. I gathered the clumps of dirt that I thought might have had my blood and tossed them over the fence into the adjacent property. Then I made my escape over the wall.

  A mile down the road, I turned on my phone and called Lieutenant Payns.

  He answered on the second ring. “This is Payns.”

  “It’s Lily.”

  “About time you called.”

  “I’ve been busy making bank for Manolo.”

  “You met with him?”

  “Yes. And the price of admission is a thousand bucks.”

  “Tough quota. I don’t have that much on me.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I took care of it.”

  “Do I want to know how?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Is that why you haven’t turned on the cam?”

  I smiled. Did he really expect me to incriminate myself?

  “I pulled the money out of my bank. I haven’t turned on the camera because I didn’t want to wear down the battery, but since I’m heading back to Manolo, I’ll turn it on now.”

  “Good. And keep your phone on so I can track you.”

  I thought of the corpses I’d left in the construction site. If I hadn’t been concerned about my phone lighting up as it jostled inside my boot, I would have kept it on mute instead of turning it off. Payns could have tracked my movements. And when the Varrios were eventually found, he could have placed me at the scene of the crime.

  Lucky break.

  “Did you hear me?” Payns asked. “Because that wasn’t a request.”

  “What wasn’t?”

  “Your phone. Keep it on.”

  “Right.” From now on, I’d do everything by the letter of the law—or as close as I could without getting myself or any of the girls killed. “But I might need to stash it somewhere safe. I have names, addresses, emails, and a history of my chats and calls with you. I don’t have time to disable my apps and clear my records, and I can’t risk Manolo discovering my phone and ordering me to unlock it.”

  “What then?”

  “If I stash it in the house, will the signal be strong enough to locate?”

  “Maybe. Outside is better.”

  “Okay. I’ll try.”

  “Well, try hard. The camera you’re wearing doesn’t transmit audio. The only way we’ll find you is through the clues we see and the location of your phone.”

  “Or if I call you from someone else’s phone.”

  “That works too, providing you know where you are. He might hood you.”

  “Are you always this encouraging?”

  “When a civilian’s involved? Yes.” He paused. “I’d rather you didn’t go through with this. We can still set up a proper sting. Do this right.”

  “And by right, you mean without me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then, no. Emma’s been missing for five days. She can’t afford to wait for warrants, and procedure, and whatever else you need to set up a sting. This needs to happen tonight. Sanctioned or not, I’m going in.”

  Chapter

  Forty-Nine

  “What the fuck?” Manolo asked, as he took in the lump on my head and the blood on my shorts. “If you gonna tell me you didn’t make bank, you should have crawled back to Orange. I don’t accept failure from my bitches.”

  I pulled the cash from my bra and fanned it in front of my face. “Does this look like failure to you?”

  He grabbed the money and counted out five Franklins and twenty-five Jacksons. “Where’s the rest?”

  “What do you mean? You told me to earn a thousand, and I did.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed, eyeing me suspiciously. “And how did you manage to do that in only two hours?”

  Dolla bit her lip. She had introduced me to Manolo. Her ass was on the line, same as mine.

>   I held her gaze for a moment then looked at Manolo. “I scored a party. Bunch of college guys looking for a thrill. I showed them a good time, but they got rough. Decided they could do whatever they wanted.”

  Manolo’s eyes narrowed. “And did they?”

  “No. I don’t put up with that shit. But I did what I agreed to do, and they paid.”

  Manolo shook his head. “You see…I’m not buying this. I think you’re holding out on me. I think you let them do whatever they wanted and they tipped you for the pleasure.” He held out his hand. “Pass it over.”

  I crossed my arms. “What’s my cut?”

  He laughed. “It don’t work like that with me. You want to keep your money? Stay out of pocket. You want protection? Hand it over, and I give you everything you need.”

  Out of pocket meant prostituting on my own without a pimp, which was what I’d claimed I’d done in Santa Ana. Although it seemed unreasonable to me that a prostitute should have to give up a hundred percent of her earnings, Dolla was nodding as though Manolo’s demands were expected and normal.

  “What do I get for my money?”

  “Food, clothes, hair, nails—everything a girl could want.” He gestured to the backpack still strapped to my shoulders. “I’ll even give you a place to live. Pretty good, right? And if someone messes you up again, I’ll fuck them up so bad they’ll wish they were dead. But if you want to be my bitch, you gotta pay me in full. Understand?”

  He had a thousand bucks in one hand and was still holding out for more. Good thing I had planned in advance.

  I took an arm out of my backpack so I could swing it in front of me, and unzipped the outside pocket. I had stashed two hundred and fifty dollars just for this purpose.

  “This is all I have.”

  Manolo smiled. “That’s my girl. But hand over that backpack while you’re at it. Daddy wants to look inside.”

  I hugged it tight. “It’s just my stuff. I already gave you my money.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Or maybe you’ve got a gun, or stash of coke that could earn me hard time. Either way, I’m gonna have to see for myself.”

  I made a show of thinking it over. Then I raised my chin so the choker cam at my neck could capture a clean view of Manolo for Lieutenant Payns. “You’ll give it back?”

  “Depends what I find inside. But if you don’t show me what’s in your backpack, you don’t get inside my house.” He rested a hand at the small of his back, as if holding the handle of a gun, and chuckled. “You might not even leave The Blade.”

  Would Manolo risk having cops catch him with a gun? I had no idea, but it didn’t make a difference. I had chosen the contents of my pack with care and had no problem turning it over for inspection. I just didn’t want him to know that. So I clung to my meager possessions, a moment longer, then handed it over.

  Manolo smiled. “Let’s see what you got.”

  He carried my pack to his car and examined the contents in the light.

  Dolla sidled toward me. “If you brought weapons, you’re dead. You know that, right?”

  “Don’t worry. He won’t find anything.”

  “You better hope not.”

  She moved back as Manolo shut his car door and returned to us, dangling my backpack on his fingers. “That’s quite a first aid kit. You get hurt much?”

  “Often enough.” I snatched the pack from his hand and swung it onto my shoulders. “So? You have my money. You’ve seen my stuff. What more do you—”

  Manolo’s hand gripped my throat and cut off my air. He’d moved so fast, without any shift in emotion or the slightest hint of intention. One moment he was three feet away, and the next, he was up in my face, choking me. “I have my money, and I’ve let you keep my stuff. Whatever else I want from this body that I own, you will give me freely.”

  I fought the urge to attack and forced myself to remain still and obedient.

  “Nod if you understand.”

  I did, then gasped for air when he released my throat. I didn’t have to feign my relief, but I had to fight damn hard to subdue my rage. The last time I had allowed an attack to go unanswered, I’d been drugged.

  I rubbed my hand over the spots where his fingers had dug and adjusted my choker cam back into position. Had Payns been watching? Was he on his way to help? I checked the boulevard for signs of his task force or any vehicles that screamed unmarked cop.

  Manolo eyed my warily. “You want to run? Go ahead. But I’m keeping the money.”

  I shook my head. “It’s not that. I’m just…tired.”

  Manolo chuckled. “Scared more like. But that’s okay. I get it. You’ve had a rough night. What you need is hot food and good loving. Ain’t that right, Dolla?”

  She sauntered over and rubbed against him like a cat. “Sure is, Daddy.” She cupped his face and nibbled on his ear, purring promises only meant for him.

  He pushed away her face but kept hold of her arm. “Relax, bitch. You’ll get your turn.” He looked at me. “So, what’s it gonna be?”

  I scanned the street again. No sign of Payns, and no guarantee that he’d come when I needed him. Did I really want to take this risk?

  “I’m in.”

  “All right. Let’s go meet your new family.”

  I slouched as I walked toward the Manolo’s car, trying to aim the choker cam at his license plate. If Manuel Rodriguez had registered his Camaro using the address of our destination, Payns and his task force would have a head start on the bust. If not, I had willingly given up my freedom on the gamble that I could protect myself, locked in a house with a violent rapist, armed with a karambit, and forbidden to kill.

  I had barely shut the door when Manolo revved the engine and shifted into reverse. The Camaro jolted, knocking me forward into the back of Dolla’s seat, jolted again, and tossed me around the car like a doll. I straightened up and turned toward the window, hoping to capture our route on my choker cam, but the window was tinted so dark I doubted any of it would show. To make matters worse, Manolo turned right into a maze of residential streets he negotiated with seemingly arbitrary decisions until I could no longer tell which direction we were headed. I only knew we had traveled east far enough to have reached a part of Compton known as East Rancho Dominguez.

  I braced myself as the car swung onto another street. “Do you always drive like this?” I asked, hoping he might slow if I engaged him in conversation.

  As it turned out, he had already slowed onto a road lined with stark little houses divided by low walls and iron fences. Some of the homes had play equipment in the front yard, but most had nothing but grass, cement, and a couple of cars. As I tried to guess which house was his, Manolo turned into an alley, illuminated by the headlight beams of his Camaro.

  It took a moment to make sense of what I saw.

  We had driven into what appeared to be an alley for garbage. Plastic tarps hung in torn strips from chain-link fences. Bulging lawn bags and discarded mattresses leaned against ugly brick walls. Paint-chipped houses peeked over rusted fences and warped wooden slats. Every property had a crude gate that led to a rustic garage or cars wedged into a cement driveway. Only a few had room for both. The dilapidation and junkyard condition of these homes shocked me, especially when I realized that this no-name alley wasn’t the back of the properties: It was the front.

  Manolo clicked a remote and his metal gate slid open. A second remote flipped open the wooden door to his garage. There was only a foot of space between them. When leaving, he’d have to open them in this order to avoid crashing his garage door into the gate.

  I removed the phone from my boot and tucked it under the leg of my shorts as I exited the car. I needed to plant it outside without Manolo noticing, somewhere between the garage and the house.

  Assorted junk lined the building—broken chairs, rusted microwave, old paneling—I stashed the phone out of sight as Manolo closed the garage door and metal gate.

  Had he seen m
e do it? Had Dolla? Would she crumble and confess? Would Payns be able to track my phone? Would he show up before I was forced to kill somebody in self-defense?

  Would he show up at all?

  The questions tumbled into my mind and landed with one inescapable truth: the only person I could count on was me.

  Chapter Fifty

  Oil stains marked the narrow driveway, suggesting that Manolo had frequent visitors or roommates. Was he expecting anyone tonight? One more variable in an already fluid plan.

  I followed Manolo to the stoop where he kicked aside a discarded beer can and unlocked the front door.

  The first thing that hit me was the odor of soiled clothes, unwashed dishes, and the skunk-like residue of pot. The second thing I noticed was how menacing a room could seem in the dark.

  Dolla entered and remedied the situation with a flick of a switch. What I saw did little to relieve my concern. The living area and dining room were sparsely furnished with sturdy tables and easy-to-clean vinyl. Dirty ashtrays and liquor bottles offered the only decoration to an otherwise stark room. The only comfortable element was an entertainment console that supported a seventy-inch television, Blu-ray player, Xbox, PlayStation, wireless gaming controllers, and an impressive library of games and videos.

  “I can live here?” I asked, infusing my voice with hope and incredulity.

  Manolo nodded. “Like I told you, everything you need.” He turned the keys and locked us inside with two separate deadbolts. Then he turned to Dolla. “Take her in the back and clean her up. And make sure she washes that blood off her clothes. I don’t want that shit anywhere near me.”

  “Sure thing, Daddy. Whatever you say.”

  He smacked her ass and grinned at me. “See how good she is? Sure thing, Daddy. Whatever you say, Daddy. That’s how it is in my house.”

  “Yes, Daddy,” I said, earning a nod of approval.