Clara remained still. She focused on the blade resting in her lap. Both her hands, and the knife, were covered with blood.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Standing next to the passenger’s door of the van, Rick finished his conversation and closed the cell phone. He tossed the gray phone through the open window onto the seat. The black ski hat perched on his head matched the color of his shirt and pants. He glanced across the large front yard at the extravagant mansion. Although they were approximately fifty feet from the home of their intended target, impatience ate at him like a cancer.
“Let’s do this.” He rubbed the deadly weapon hanging from his belt. The knife was one of two very similar Wakizashi blades on the display wall in Derrick’s basement, one fairly new and one old and rusty. Rick had made sure Jen took the new blade for Clara to use on her mission. Rick wanted the old, rusty one. Sanaga had wanted to do a refurbishing job on the thing but Rick wouldn’t let him. For this job, rusty was best. If stabbing Straker in the heart didn’t kill him, maybe the fat bastard would die from blood poisoning.
The driver’s door slammed shut and Derrick made his way around to the passenger side, the strap of a black duffel bag draped over his right shoulder. A pair of small black binoculars hung from a second strap around his neck. He dropped the bag on the ground in front of Rick.
Light emanated from a window on the top floor at the south end. Derrick brought the binoculars up to his eyes and spent some time watching the house. He let the binoculars drop back to his chest and eased a smart phone out from his back pocket. He examined the screen a moment before whispering, “Ricky, you see the room with the light on?”
Rick nodded.
“That’s Straker’s bedroom. If the light is on, he’s probably awake.”
“How do you know that’s his bedroom?”
“The arrogant asshole has an interactive online tour on his website. Supposedly his manor is some sort of landmark. A president slept there once.”
Rick grabbed the binoculars from around his partner’s neck for a better look. Derrick bent his upper body in response. Rick let go of the binoculars. “Okay then, that’s the room I’m headed for.”
The van’s side door whooshed open. Jorge and Sanaga, both dressed in head-to-toe black, exited, ready for action. Jorge was armed with a pistol. He quickly unlatched the safety at the top. Sanaga carried two small, sharp blades in scabbards against his hips. They stood at near-attention, awaiting Rick’s orders.
It brought back memories for him, memories from a lifetime ago—a life he missed and wanted back. The retrieval of his past would begin with the death of the man who took it away from him in the first place.
He’d waited long enough. The time had come to lead again. “You two take the front door, just in case he gets away from me. I don’t want him escaping.”
“I’ll stay with the van,” Derrick added, “just in case you need a quick getaway.”
Derrick unzipped the duffel bag and pulled out a small shiny glasscutter. He nodded his chin toward the window while holding the cutter out for Rick to take. Rick, however, waved it off.
“Suit yourself.” Derrick re-entered the van through the driver’s door. “Are you at least wearing the vest I gave you?”
“Yes, Dad.” Rick stuck a booted toe between the wrought iron uprights and hefted himself over the fence. He took off at a run across the yard followed closely by Jorge and Sanaga.
Fifteen feet from the house, Rick split away from the other two. He made his way around the bushes and stopped under the window Derrick had pointed out as Straker’s bedroom. It was late—1 a.m.—but the bedroom light remained on. This could mean Straker was still awake, maybe even awaiting their arrival. Rick didn’t care either way.
He gripped the drainpipe and followed the length of it with his eyes. Perfect, it reached all the way to the roof, just a few inches away from Straker’s bedroom window. His black boots each sported a black medal blade stuck in the toe. The triangular shaped point was to grip between the bricks. Rick wrapped his fingers around the drainpipe and inched himself up. One at a time, he jammed his toes into the brick mortar, giving himself a foothold. Step by painstaking step, he climbed up the side of the house. The only sound, a gentle thick-thick when he tapped each toe into the mortar. Finally, he made it to General William P. Straker’s bedroom window.
Rick could hear a shower running. The bathroom must be attached to the bedroom and the door must have been open. The windows clouded with steam. The situation couldn’t be any more perfect.
With his right leg, Rick reached for the narrow strip of ledge that outlined the lower edge of this story. He gripped with the side of his boot, got a finger-hold on the window frame, and heaved himself onto the ledge. Inches away from his target—his anticipation was akin to the victory sex he planned to have with Jen as soon as they met up, both victorious in their missions.
He pulled back his left foot and slammed it through the window. The glass shattered with a loud crash. Just in case Straker heard, Rick seized the window frame and flung himself through the window.
A big room, at least three times the size of the master bedroom in Derrick’s house, contained redwood furniture, heavy stuff with ornate knobs on the end of the bedstead. The thick carpet muffled the tinkle of glass. Rick removed the Wakizashi from its holster.
The door to the hallway stood ajar. The lights out there were off.
The shower was still running. Steam wafted into the room through the open bathroom door. “Straker, you fat bastard, you have lived far longer than you deserve.” General Straker had cost him seven years of his life. Time for redemption.
Rick soft-footed his steps to the bathroom even though an elephant wouldn’t be heard traipsing across this carpet. He smiled, looking forward to seeing the look on the fat man’s face when he realized what was about to happen. The very thought of driving his blade through the heart of his most hated enemy brought on an erection the size of Mount Vesuvius.
He took hold of the gold shower door handle and yanked. He had been impatiently waiting for this moment and now it was finally his! He lunged forward, knife poised and ready—only—no one there, the bathtub was empty.
It had been years since Rick worked in the field. During those years, he’d been forced into a passive life without benefit of his own memories or his past training to guide him. The past seven years had dulled his senses, but despite this, he still knew enough to recognize a set-up. He damned himself for stumbling into one and not realizing it until that moment.
The bedroom door smashed against the wall shaking the entire bathroom. Rick dropped the knife, drew his gun from its holster, and charged into the bedroom. A large shadow moved into the room. The silhouette had a pistol. And it aimed his way.
Rick pointed his weapon and leaped at the intruder.
“Jorge, shit.” Rick stopped mid-leap. He inhaled a short blast of air and put his handgun away. “What the hell’s going on? Did you see Straker anywhere?”
Rick couldn’t understand Jorge’s answer since his knowledge of Spanish was useless at best. Then again, maybe he did understand Spanish at one time and that was one of the memories that hadn’t caught up to him yet. It didn’t matter though, because Rick already knew the answer to his question. Straker wasn’t anywhere near his home. Derrick’s information had been wrong. The running shower was a set-up, but by who, and where the hell were they now?
Bang! The sound of a gunshot spun Rick toward the door. Jorge shrieked and slumped to his knees. The gun dropped to the floor. Jorge reached behind himself. His eyes widened in surprise, as his upper body tumbled face-first on top of his weapon.
Blood poured from a gaping hole in Jorge’s back, engulfing his torso and dripping down his sides. Rick couldn’t tell if Jorge still lived or not, but that wasn’t his main concern at the moment. He aimed his gun at the door and took a step.
“Don’t even think about it!” The voice came from the dark just beyond the door. “Hands where I can see th
em!”
From those shadows, a familiar figure stepped into the room. He held a rifle clutched in both hands. The gun’s laser point rested dead-center on Rick’s chest.
“Rick Rasner, long time, no see.”
A memory, triggered by the familiar voice, entered Rick’s mind. The voice belonged to the mercenary hired by General Straker. His job—to take him and the entire Duke Organization down. Rick recalled a conversation he had with Jen where he referred to the merc as an annoying mouse that would keep showing up no matter how many traps they set. He also remembered the fateful night when it all ended on the bridge.
This was the man he faced just before being strapped to a lab table where the General and Obenchain mocked him. Just before everything…
If only he could remember the guy’s name. He did prefer to know the names of those he intended on killing. It started with a “J,” perhaps?
The man stepped into full view and said, “You’re looking good for a dead man.”
Rick shook his head and laughed as he was now face to face with the trap he had waltzed into. He considered options, but figured the only one that came to mind—lunging at the guy’s weapon—probably wasn’t a very good idea right this moment. Keeping him talking might provide an opening.
“Just so you know, I was asked to bring you in alive. But since you’re dead anyway, I’m hoping you give me a good reason to forget all about that foolish request.”
Rick struggled to remember his name…something with a “J”…Jake! Jake…something, that was it!
Jake brought the laser light from Rick’s chest to his head.
Rick maintained his composure. He would not give Jake the satisfaction of seeing him squirm. He brought his arms out away from his body. “You look vaguely familiar,” Rick said, a bluff, however, as his memory of this man, while not complete, was far from vivid. “Didn’t I kill you sometime back?”
“You killed my brother, asshole, and for no good goddamned reason.”
“Did I? Well in that case, my bad.” Rick had heard the kids use that in the facility as some sort of apology attempt. By Jake’s facial expression, Rick could see the apology only managed to piss him off, just as intended.
Jake tipped his head, indicating Rick should move away from the bathroom. “I’m going to give you one chance to put your hands on the back of your head, drop to your knees, and surrender.”
“And if I choose not to?”
“Then you’re dead. This time for real.”
Rick’s left hand moved up to touch the now-deactivated chip under his forehead skin. Jake’s presence was a sign the military forces were on their way, if they weren’t here already. Jake was the distraction that led to his capture the first time, why wouldn’t it be the case this time as well?
He took a step toward the window. Jake took a similar step closer.
“Don’t try anything.”
When Rick took yet another step, Jake added, “Yeah, go ahead, make a try for the window. It’ll be the perfect explanation for the general. I can tell him I just had to kill you—you were trying to escape.”
“I know you hated me, but I’m a different person than what you remember,” Rick said. “Things have changed.”
“That right?”
“No, really, I mean it. I’m older and more mature. I’m even sort of a family man now. It’s like I’ve turned over a new leaf or something, you know?”
“And what are you doing here, looking for the general’s approval?”
Rick laughed. He placed a palm on his stomach like he tried to hold all the pieces inside, and bent over, chuckling non-stop. This left Jake bewildered. Rick caught a glimpse of raised brows. “You just kill me,” Rick laughed, as he pointed a finger at Jake. “Well, not literally, I hope.”
“Don’t count on it, nutcase.”
Rick kicked out with his right foot. Jake stepped back avoiding the attack. As he squeezed the trigger, Rick dropped to the floor. A bullet thudded into the wall near the bed. Rick clambered to his knees and then rose into a crouch. He was about to dive out the window when he realized Jake had the barrel of the rifle pointed in his direction.
From his knees, Rick inched his hands up over his head. His eyes darted back and forth, looking for a respite. It came in the form of a large figure launching itself over Jorge’s body and plowing into Jake, who thumped like a rag doll against the wall.
Jun Sanaga took up a martial arts stance, ready for battle. As Jake regained his balance, Sanaga ripped the rifle from his hands and threw it on the floor.
Jake whipped a handgun from his belt. Before he could raise it to aim, Sanaga, with a loud scream, swung his body around and brought his right leg down on Jake’s gun hand. The pistol flew across the room and thudded against the wall.
“Another time, perhaps,” Rick said as he climbed out the window.
“God dammit,” Jake shouted at Rick’s retreating back.
Outside, Rick balanced himself on the ledge, then dropped, bending his legs to absorb the landing. A broom shrub broke his fall.
Rick pulled himself to his feet and ran across the yard. The right leg hurt like a bitch, but he wasn’t about to stop. After a few feet, he got a rhythm going and managed to pick up speed. His eyes darted left and right, not that the Feds would be hanging in plain sight, but keeping alert couldn’t hurt. He should’ve done more of it indoors. Rick cursed himself for the night’s shoddy result. How the hell had they known he’d be there? Had they learned so much about him seven years ago that they could predict his every move?
He reached the fence at the property edge without seeing any military soldiers. He did not want, under any circumstances, to be captured again. There were only two options if that did happen, they’d reactivate the chip in his head or kill him outright.
Rick heaved himself over the fence, ran around to the passenger side of the van, yanked the door open, and climbed inside.
“Damn Rick, what’s going on?” Derrick asked as Rick slammed the door.
“We’re out of here!” Rick shouted, frantically in all directions.
“What happened in there?”
“Go! We have to leave now!”
Derrick looked out across the property. “Where are the others? Jun and Jorge…”
Rick drew out his pistol and placed the barrel against Derrick’s head just above his ear. “Drive!”
“All right, I’m driving. Relax, would you?” Derrick hit the gas and the van sped off.
Chapter Forty
The sole of Sanaga’s boot slammed into Jake’s chest. He thumped to his backside, most of the jolt broken by the carpet. He heaved to his knees and to his feet, prepared for another assault. Sanaga stood across the room, both huge feet planted firm, ready to take, or give, another dose. Whatever, he waited, leering.
“Jun Sanaga. Kobayashi, they called you,” Jake said. “I heard you went straight. In fact, your file even said you opened up a dojo in Chinatown under a new name.”
Neither Sanaga’s expression nor posture changed.
“So, why give that life up, just to come back and go through this bullshit again?”
Sanaga stretched out his right hand. In it was an open switchblade.
Jake stifled a reaction. Sanaga never used a gun. He was an aficionado with the blades. All shapes and sizes.
Finally, he spoke, “We have reunited the Duke Organization, a group your interference destroyed seven years ago. You ruined all we had and all we were. You broke us.”
Sanaga brought his left hand up, revealing a second open switchblade. “My turn, now.”
Smaller and skinnier than Jake, he was also younger, quicker, and possibly a lot deadlier. He’d earned the nickname of “Kobayashi,” given to him by Colonel Duke. He was also armed with two very sharp blades. Jake considered his experience, but quickly discounted it as a plus in this instance. The years he spent sweeping college dorm rooms most likely negated that advantage.
“We don’t have to do this, you kno
w. My fight doesn’t have to be with you.”
Jake meant what he said, he didn’t want a battle. His target, Rick Rasner was, at this very moment, putting distance between them. To engage Sanaga, Jake felt, would be a waste of time.
Then again, fighting for one’s life could never be considered a waste of time.
Jake spoke slowly, bringing his arms down from their defensive fighting positions. “Just let me know where Rasner’s going and where I can find him. Then we can both walk away from this. You can go back to your dojo and I’ll pretend I never saw you here. In fact, we’ll never have to see each other again.”
Sanaga pointed a switchblade at Jake. He turned it between the fingers of his left hand. Over and over. “Tell you what,” he offered after moments of silence. “If you can defeat me, then maybe I will tell you what you wish to know.”
“Can’t do this the easy way, can we?”
Sanaga answered by lunging forward like a rocket shot out of a cannon, the knife in his right hand held straight out. Jake lunged to his left, just barely moving out of the way before the sharp edge could slice through his chest.
Jake bounced up and dashed behind his smaller opponent. Sanaga spun around and attempted to thrust the right-hand knife into Jake’s gut. Jake snatched Sanaga’s wrist with the blade inches from his stomach.
Sanaga drove the switchblade in his left hand at the same target. Jake’s hands and body were a blur of motion, snapping and eluding Sanaga’s repeated thrusts.
Finally, Jake found himself with both of Sanaga’s wrists gripped in his fists. He maneuvered his fingers into specific pressure points, to cut off the circulation and force the weapons to drop from Sanaga’s hands. If only he would give Jake the time…
He did not.
A lightning quick head butt caught Jake on the bridge of the nose. His grip opened and Jake flew backward, stumbling over something on the floor. Jake spun his body and landed on his backside. And saw he’d tripped over Jorge’s carcass.
Jake couldn’t help but snicker. Despite death, this well-regulated group continued to back up one another in battle. With the quickness of a leopard, Sanaga leaped into the air and dove down on Jake, both blades pointed forward. Jake, however, was not without a few moves of his own. He folded his knees to his stomach, his feet up. Sanaga slammed into the soles of Jake’s boots. Jake pushed out with his legs, sending Sanaga reeling backward. Hooking the knives in his hands against the ends of the open doorway was the only reason the younger Asian warrior wasn’t sent flying out of the room.
The Rasner Effect Page 28