By the Sword rj-12

by F. Paul Wilson

  Gone. The weasel had run off.

  Jack stomped around in a circle, calling the little Thai bastard every name he could think of. When he finished he felt a tiny bit better, but he was no closer to Manhattan. He had a phone and he could call a cab, but if this tertiary road had a name, he didn't know it. So where could he tell them to pick him up?

  He broke into a run toward the house lights a half mile away. He'd find a street there. Then he'd have an address.

  SUNDAY

  1

  Shiro watched the time on his cell phone, waiting for the 4 of the 1:14 on its screen to advance. He and his three companions, Jun, Fumio, and Koji—two guards and another acolyte—would enter from above, while Yukio and the others would break in through the back.

  As he gazed down at the rooftop two stories below, he felt his blood pounding in his ears, his palms slick with sweat. Even though he had company, he felt alone. He and Yukio knew the most about the Kicker building—and not much at that—so they were in charge. Shiro had never been in charge of anything before. His every move since being taken from his fishing village had been directed and guided by the sensei of the Order. He found being in charge of his own actions as exhilarating as it was terrifying.

  He wished Akechi-sensei were at his side now. He could tell that his teacher had wanted to come along, but his vow prevented him from appearing in public without his mask, and they could not risk the attention he would attract if he appeared with it. So they had left him behind in the classroom.

  It had taken them almost an hour to reach Lower Manhattan. He had heard that the Staten Island ferry had once transported cars, but no more. So they had been forced to take the Verrazano Bridge into Brooklyn and cross back over via the Manhattan Bridge which left them only a few blocks from their destination. When they arrived at the building, passing it on the street, he had been relieved to see that most of the Kickers who had been milling around on the sidewalk earlier in the evening had drifted away. Only a few remained, clustered on the front steps.

  The Kicker building did not adjoin any of its neighbors. It sat unattached on its property, with a narrow alley on its east flank and wider spaces to the west and rear. That was good news for those invading from street level, but not so good for those entering from above.

  Using dramatic kicks and throws, Jun and Koji had got into a mock fight near the front of the building. While those on the steps were occupied cheering them on and calling for blood, Yukio had backed the van unseen into the alley on the building's west side. They were waiting below for the agreed-upon moment to invade via the rear entrance.

  Success or failure rested in the hands of him and other members of the Order's Outer Circles. Failure was unthinkable. They must succeed.

  And the first step to success was reaching the roof.

  An interesting roof. Someone had gone to the trouble to create a garden there—flower beds, potted trees, even an area of sod. He wondered who had done it. He could not imagine these Kickers…

  He shook off the questions and focused on his phone. This was taking—

  There! It changed to 1:15. He signaled to the others and they began to rappel down the wall of the building on the east side of the Kicker home. When he reached a point ten feet above roof level he kicked backward with everything he had, swinging away from the wall. He let the rope slide through his gloved hands as he glided through the air to land with a jolt on the Kicker roof, half a foot inside its low parapet. The others landed successfully as well.

  Without speaking he pointed to Fumio and then to the western edge of the roof. He would ready a rope there to lower to the van parked below when the time came, then he would stand guard to make sure no Kicker came up on the roof.

  Shiro, Jun, and Koji made their way through the potted trees—mostly decorative like cherry and dogwood, and even a delicate five-fingered maple. They reached the door to the floors below and, as expected, found it unlocked. With no adjoining roofs to allow trespassers access, there was no need to lock it.

  They crept down the stairs to the third floor and peered along the hallway, dark except for light from an open door that appeared to be a bathroom. It was empty. With luck, the few Kickers who remained in the building were asleep.

  Shiro had seen the katana through a second-floor window, so they continued down. Once there, they found it as dark and deserted as the floor above. Shiro led them along the hall to the third door and stopped there. By his calculation, this one opened into the room they wanted.

  Now the truly difficult part. They had to enter, subdue whoever might be within, and leave with the katana—all without a sound. Shiro had given it a lot of thought on the way over and had decided on a precipitous entry rather than a stealthy one.

  No light shone from under the door, so the room was either empty or its occupant asleep. If empty—easy. If occupied, they had to silence the occupant before he could raise an alarm.

  Shiro pulled out a flashlight and turned it on. As he reached for the doorknob he nodded to the others, each gripping a handle of the nunchaku looped over his neck. He knew where the bed was. He'd shine the light on it and Jun and Koji would take care of whoever was in it.

  He pushed open the door and glided inside. The man he'd seen with the sword lay in bed. He jolted upright, raising a hand against the light in his eyes.

  "What the f—?"

  Jun and Koji's nunchaku whipped through the air and cracked against the man's skull. He fell back without a sound and did not move. Blood began to leak onto his pillow.

  Shiro flashed the light around and found a katana in a scabbard leaning in a corner. He handed the flashlight to Jun and grabbed it. He pulled the blade free and held it in the flash beam. He had seen the photos so many times, he knew the pattern of holes and defects by heart. This was it. This was the katana the Order sought. Akechi-sensei would be so proud.

  A strange, vaguely unpleasant feeling coursed through him as he gripped the handle. He couldn't identify it… he'd never felt anything like it before. He felt strong… powerful…

  Suddenly a noise at the door and a voice—

  "Hey, what's goin on?"

  Jun swung the beam, revealing a disheveled man in underwear. Without thinking, Shiro thrust the sword at him and watched with shock as it sank into the left side of his chest.

  Immediately he withdrew it and staggered back, horrified. What had he done? He hadn't meant… he'd reacted… it almost seemed the sword had reacted for him… on its own.

  The man's eyes went wide, his mouth worked as blood spurted from his chest, then he sagged to his knees and held the worshipful pose for the last beats of his dying heart before slumping back onto the floor.

  Shiro looked around and saw Jun and Koji staring at him in awe.

  Then Jun bowed. "For the Order."

  "For the Order," Koji echoed, bowing as well.

  Shiro shook himself. "Yes, for the Order."

  But had it been for the Order? He felt as if it might have been for himself… or for the katana.

  As the other two dragged the body farther into the room, Shiro wiped the blade on the bedsheet, then, with strange reluctance, sheathed it. They closed the door behind them and headed back to the roof.

  There they found Yukio waiting with the rope. They lowered themselves to the alley and crawled into the van. The other three were softly congratulating one another and recounting the night's events. Shiro barely heard them. The shocked face of the man he'd killed filled his brain.

  2

  "Don't look so down in the mouth, girl. No one's gonna hurt you. You're gonna be taken good care of."

  Dawn slumped in one of the basement chairs and looked up at the man called Darryl. She totally wanted to scream at him to get out, but she was screamed out. Cried out too. She felt as if she were spiraling down through an endless black void, with nothing to grasp, nothing to break her fall.

  Why did they want this baby? What was the Plan?

  Did it matter now? She was goin
g to have to resign herself to the fact that she was doomed to have this baby. She didn't see any way around it.

  So okay. If that was the way it was going to be, she'd have to find a way to make the best of it, find a place in her head to totally retreat to for the next seven months while she waited for the baby. After that she'd get her life back and be on her way.

  Giving in… surrendering… getting all fatalistic. She didn't know if she could do that, didn't know if she could stop looking for an escape route.

  She clenched her fists and ground her teeth as she thought about how she had only one person to blame for all this.

  Me.

  Her mother had totally warned her from the start about Jerry, but did she listen? No way. She had all the answers and Mom had none. She'd let Jerry suck her in with that smooth line about designing video games for women and how she'd be the toast of the gaming world. Total bullshit. But it worked. She let him into her life and into her body, without a clue as to who he really was. And now she carried his baby.

  God, if she'd only known… she might have set his bed on fire and watched him burn. No, not might have—would have.

  "Whatsamatter?" Darryl said. "Cat gotcha tongue?"

  "When's Jerry coming?"

  That was what she dreaded most—facing that sick, perverted son of a bitch, watching him totally gloat over her, telling her she could run but not hide from him.

  Darryl frowned. "Jerry? Jerry who?"

  So that was how it was going to be—play games with her till he showed up.

  She stared at the floor. "Leave me alone."

  "Hey, don't be mean to me now. We're gonna be seeing a lot of each other. We might as well be friends. It'll make the time go faster and easier, know what I mean?"

  She looked up at him. What was he implying? Give him a little something and he'd make things easier for her?

  Her stomach turned. Henry had been clean and neat and she'd still had to force herself to do him. This dirty creep… God, she'd rather die.

  "Could you just leave me alone? I've had—"

  Something thumped against the door. Darryl spun.

  "Menck? That you?"

  Another thump.

  He started for the door. "Hey, Menck. Whatta you think—?"

  The door burst open and three black-clad figures piled in. They didn't hesitate or break stride as they swarmed toward Darryl. He tried to backpedal but two of them were on him in a second, whacking him with their nunchucks. She knew what they were because some kid at school had split his scalp trying to show off with a set. His head had bled like Darryl's was bleeding now.

  She opened her mouth to scream but the third was already in her face, clamping a hand over her mouth.

  He looked Japanese—all three did. He had some sort of black scarf wrapped around his head and the lower half of his face, but she could tell he was Japanese.

  "Shhh!" He put a finger to his lips in a surprisingly gentle gesture. "We are here to rescue you," he said in thickly accented English.

  Rescue? That could only mean Mr. Osala. He must have hired these… these ninjas to bring her back.

  She was totally ready to go. She'd thought his place was a prison. This was a hundred, a thousand times worse. And he had no agenda beyond keeping her safe from Jerry.

  She nodded and pulled the ninja's hand away. "Let's go. Let's get out of here."

  He pushed her in front of him and signaled the other two who led the way out. She had to step over Darryl, and then over the one called Menck. She noticed both were still breathing.

  Her rescuers guided her up to the ground floor, out a back door, and into a waiting van that held five more of their kind. They all cheered when they saw her. She was squeezed between a couple of them and largely ignored as they yammered away in Japanese. One of them held up a sword and those with her cheered.

  As they pulled out of the alley and onto the street, it finally became real that she was free. So easy. These guys had just waltzed in, busted a few heads, and led her out.

  Jerry was going to be so totally pissed.

  The driver wound this way and that until they came to a parked van just like this one. Half of them switched over, and then her van got rolling again.

  "Where's Mister Osala?" she said.

  The three surrounding her in the back stared her way but said nothing. Their flat black eyes held no hint that they had any idea what she was talking about.

  Maybe it's a language thing, she thought, fighting a twinge of unease. They don't understand English.

  But when the van turned east onto the ramp to the Manhattan Bridge, the unease bloomed into alarm.

  "This isn't the way to Mister Osala's. Where are you taking me?"

  They continued to stare and say nothing.

  3

  Jack found Kicker HQ in chaos.

  Obviously too late to sneak in behind the Kakureta Kao's boys and spirit Dawn away.

  It had taken half a forever for the cab to show up, and then the guy refused to drive him to Manhattan. Jack had offered him all the cash on him but the driver would take him as far as the ferry and that was it. So he'd had to wait for the ferry, then find a cab to bring him back here.

  All for nothing.

  Looked like some sort of call had gone out because the Lodge building was crammed with Kickers, all looking shocked and furious. He scanned the crowd and spotted the blond guy in the work shirt who'd bummed a ciggy earlier.

  He sidled over and said, "Dude, what happened?"

  The guy looked at him like he'd just asked what year it was. "Where've you been?"

  Jack shrugged. "Grabbing some food, downing a few beers. I left the place quiet with a few folks outside, now I wander back and find a ton of folks inside. What gives?"

  "We were invaded."

  Jack let his jaw drop. "What?"

  He nodded. "Bunch of ninja types worked over Hank and Menck and Darryl, and fucking killed Haber."

  "You're putting me on, right?"

  "Swear by the Kicker Man."

  "What the hell for?"

  "Hank's sword. Makes sense: Jap sword, Jap sneak attack, just like Pearl Harbor. Killed Haber with it and disappeared."

  "So where are they? The hospital?"

  "Nah. Carson's a paramedic so he's sewing up their heads. Says they look worse than they are." He shook his head. "Probably gonna have to call the cops about Haber, though nobody wants to do that." His face reddened. "Man, I ever get my hands on those fuckers—"

  "You do, you let me know, 'cause I want a piece of them too."

  Jack wound his way through the throng to the front steps where he stood and stared at nothing.

  Timing was everything and he'd blown that. The place was packed with Kickers. Even on the outside chance he could find Dawn, he'd never be able to sneak her out.

  Something he'd just heard nagged at him.

  Man, I ever get my hands on those fuckers…

  Yeah. No doubt they all felt that way.

  He made his way back inside and wove through the first-floor corridors, checking room after room, looking for one with a computer—and for Dawn. Not that he expected to find her. They wouldn't keep her on the first floor—too easy to escape. They'd hold her upstairs or in the basement. And if anyone asked what he was doing, he'd say he was looking for a bathroom.

  As expected, no Dawn, but he did find a dark office with a monitor glowing on the desk. He eased in and closed the door behind him. The screensaver was the Septimus Lodge sigil bouncing around a black background.

  He wiggled the mouse and looked for Google Earth on the desktop but didn't see it. Checked the program list—not there either. Didn't have time to download it, so he went to Flashearth instead. He typed "staten island, ny" into the little search box and was immediately rewarded with a satellite view.

  And yeah, the cabbie had been right—the Fresh Kills landfill was visible from space. He coned down until he found the roof of a rectangular building sitting in an empty area with a
clear view of the mounds. Had to be it. He put the crosshairs in the center of the roof and copied the latitude and longitude coordinates down to the second. Then he closed Explorer and rejoined the Kickers.

  Now… how to get the word out? He couldn't stand here and shout it, because then they'd want to know how he knew. He needed anonymity—like phoning it in. Problem was he didn't have a number for Hank or the Lodge or any Kicker for that matter.

  But he knew his own.

  He edged over to a side table in the foyer and slipped his TracFone from his pocket. After memorizing a number from his call history, he erased everything and thumbed the volume to max. Then he slipped the phone onto the table and headed for the door.

  Once outside, he hurried up toward Allen Street. After cadging some change from an all-night bodega along the way, he found a pay phone. He called his TracFone.

  Nearly a dozen rings before someone picked up.

  "Yeah?"

  "Hey, I know who raided your place and I know where you can find them."

  "The fuck is this?"

  "The guy who's gonna help you get even with those ninja pricks. I'm gonna tell you zackly where they are, so listen up."

  Jack heard the guy yelling away from the phone. "Hey, everybody shut the fuck up! This could be important." Then he came back to Jack. "Whatcha got?"

  "Write this down: They're hiding on Staten Island and I can give you the exact coordinates of where they are."

  "Coordinates?"

  Jeez.

  "Yeah. Numbers you can plug into a car's GPS and it'll take you to their front door. Got a pen and paper?"

  Jack heard the guy yelling for paper. After a few seconds he came back. "Okay. Shoot."

  Jack gave him the coordinates and made him repeat them.

  "How do I know you ain't pullin my chain?"

  "If I'm lyin I'm dyin. Check with Hank. Suggest he send one guy out there. If he finds a buncha Japs in a two-story building, that's the place. Then you can send out a raiding party for some payback—and Hank's sword."

  "The sword's there?"

  "Guaranteed."

  Jack hung up, then started dialing again.