by Anne Stuart
“Shit.” The word muttered against the delicate skin of her neck was enough to throw her right out of the moment. Her eyes flashed open, and she looked into his, momentarily dazed.
She opened her mouth to say something, but he shook his head, silencing her, and the hot, stolen moments might never have happened. He was still pressed up against her, pinning her to the wall, but there was no sex in the air. There was violence.
“They’re here,” he mouthed.
“Shit,” she said, just a breath of sound.
His eyes met hers, for a long, silent moment, and she had the sudden, terrible feeling that he was saying goodbye. And then he grabbed her shoulders and shoved her, hard, practically throwing her across the room, so that she slammed against the computer chair, knocking over the small table and landing hard on the floor.
She scrambled as far back as she could into the corner, trying to stay out of the way of the melee. It seemed as if an army had invaded, and it took her a moment to realize there were only three of them, in their fancy suits and their pomaded hair, closing in on Reno.
He wasn’t going down without a fight. He was a blur of motion, leaping in the air and kicking one man in the throat, and the man went down, choking, as Reno spun around. He slammed his fist into the second man’s belly, then brought them down on his neck, knocking the man flat.
But the third man was on him, bigger, catching him around the neck and pulling his head back. Reno kicked out, struggling, but the man was too strong, and he was being pulled backward as he struggled, clawing at his captor’s hands.
He was going to die. The man would either choke him to death or break his neck, and then he’d turn to her. And she didn’t have any choice.
The gun had fallen on the floor when she’d knocked over the table, and she picked it up, cold, deadly metal, as Reno and his opponent flailed around the apartment. Reno was strong, knocking the man holding him back against the wall, but the man didn’t break his grip. She could hear Reno choking, and his struggles were getting frantic.
She should have said something. A warning, anything. She didn’t. The man smashed Reno down on the floor, and for a moment Reno lay still, dazed, staring up at him as the larger man loomed over him, and Jilly could see the gun in his hand, and there wasn’t any time.
She wouldn’t have thought it would be so easy. She pointed the gun and pulled the trigger, and the kickback knocked her hand up, the sound deafening in the tiny apartment. She squeezed her eyes shut, horrified.
She heard the thud of a body falling, but then nothing but someone’s labored breathing. Her own?
She knew someone was moving toward her, and she didn’t care who it was. She must be in shock, she thought dazedly. Any of those men could have gotten up and come after her, and it wouldn’t matter. If Reno was dead, then nothing mattered.
Someone squatted down in front of her, and she felt a hand touch her face. She flinched, but the hand was gentle, brushing the hair out of her face, and she recognized his touch, the scent of almond soap on his skin, and she knew she should open her eyes, just to make certain he was still alive, but she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t move.
And then he leaned over and kissed her, the soft, light brushing of his lips against her closed eyelids. He took the gun from her limp hand. “We need to get out of here,” he said, his voice oddly gentle. “Someone will have heard the gunshot. We need to leave before the police get here.”
She opened her eyes. He was all she could see; he was blocking her view of the trashed apartment.
“You need to come with me.” He was still being oddly gentle with her, and she wondered why. “Give me your hand.”
She put her hand in his, the hand that had pulled the trigger, that still tingled from the feel of the gun, and let him draw her to her feet. “Don’t look,” he said.
But she did. The man she shot lay facedown on the floor in a pool of blood. Half of his head was blown away.
She started to gag, but Reno caught her, holding her. “Take deep breaths,” he whispered. “Don’t think about it, don’t look. Just look straight ahead and come with me.”
She had no choice. She stumbled forward, and then realized she was still wearing only fishnet stockings on her feet. She started to turn back to look for the platform shoes, but he wouldn’t let her, pulling her away from the horrifying scene. He put her into the hallway, and she leaned back against the wall, trying to breathe, while he disappeared into the apartment for a moment. Then he was back, with her sneakers and his boots. And the gun, the gun that she’d used, was tucked in the waist of his dark pants, almost hidden by his black jacket.
She stood patiently while he put the sneakers on her feet, and then she followed him, down the three flights of stairs, out into the bright winter daylight of a Tokyo morning.
Reno wasn’t used to feeling powerless. He didn’t believe in coddling himself or others; he did what he needed to do without hesitation, and expected others to do the same.
But he hadn’t expected Jilly Lovitz to blow someone’s head off to save his life. And he wasn’t sure how to make it better.
She was in shock, which he supposed was a good thing. She hadn’t said a word since she’d fired the gun, and she’d done everything he’d told her to do, an obedient robot, silent and lost. Things would have been easier if she’d been this way from the start—he wouldn’t have had to explain, to fight her, to fight himself. If she’d been like this he would have taken care of her, put her someplace safe and forgotten all about her. This ghost woman made him think of the grave, not a bed.
He needed her to wake up, but he wasn’t sure how to do it. And maybe it was better this way, letting her retreat into a safe place of shock and denial. He didn’t make the mistake of thinking killing was easy. It never was, no matter how well trained you were, no matter how many times you had to do it. For Jilly it would be devastating.
The people of Tokyo were too polite to stare as he led her through the subway system, still holding her hand. When they emerged at Harajuku she didn’t even look up at the brightly dressed cosplayers parading around in the chilly air. She was lost.
And he was taking her to the only place he could think of that would be quiet and soothing. The Meiji Shrine was a huge park in the middle of the Harajuku district, but a world and a century removed from the shopping and dress-up. He drew her through the huge cypress torii entrance, down the winding path. There was no one else in the gardens that early in the day—the place was deserted, away from prying eyes, away from men with guns. Even the notorious Yamaguchi-gumi, the worst gurentai gang in history, wouldn’t defile a sacred place with gunfire. They would be safe in the gardens, at least until they chose to leave.
She looked cold in the tight-fitting corset and the short, frilly skirt, but he couldn’t give her his coat. There was blood on his shirt, and he needed to keep it hidden from her until she managed to pull herself out of this wounded daze.
He pulled her arm through his, still holding her hand, and he knew they looked like two cosplaying lovers who’d wandered in from the street. But no one would mind—the Meiji Shrine was a calming, welcoming place for whoever chose to come there. He drew her closer to him, trying to share some of his body heat, and she let him, not putting up any kind of fight. She was even colder than she should be, and she felt light, almost weightless.
“I’ll find you some food,” he said, trying to sound casual. “They’ve got a cafeteria here. More miso soup will do the trick.”
She said nothing. Her face was expressionless, eerily so, as she let him guide her along the pebbled path. Why the fuck did he ever think he wanted her to be docile? She was annoying as hell when she was talking back to him, but anything was better than this passive, lifeless doll.
He circled the shrine itself—there were people there, and he’d failed to bring anything to cover his telltale hair. He was an idiot to keep it. The first thing he was going to do when they got someplace safe was cut it off and dye it black.
He was like a walking neon sign—in the past his notoriety and that of his grandfather’s had kept him safe. Now it was drawing the enemy closer to him like a beacon of light.
He bought her a can of coffee from one of the vending machines, and he made her sit while she drank it. She swallowed miso soup and picked at the bento box from the cafeteria—another sign of hope. As long as she could eat, she’d be all right. He’d never known anyone so intent on food, which would have been annoying if it didn’t turn him on.
Right now, on this rare occasion, sex was the last thing on his mind. He had to keep her safe and hidden until she snapped out of this, and wandering down the hidden pathways of the park could only take so long. Besides, she looked as if she was freezing in her skimpy, undeniably erotic get-up.
Okay, he wasn’t going to think about sex. He’d keep his eyes straight ahead, remember she was in shock, and forget about the glimpse of black lace garter he could see if he stepped back. Besides, she needed him beside her, not lusting after her.
It was late afternoon by the time they left the massive gardens and she still hadn’t said a word. Businesses were spilling out onto the brightly lit streets, and in Harajuku it was easy enough to blend in, even with a giant female gaijin. He managed to cram her onto one of the trains, shielding her with his body from curious looks or the roaming hands of salarymen. He switched them over to the Marounouchi Line, which circled around the center of the city, put her into a seat and guarded her. They could ride for hours while he figured out what the hell he was going to do with her.
She was in shock, and he knew people could die from shock. But the last thing he was going to do was take her to a hospital; there’d be too many questions, not enough answers. And if they decided to keep her there, he wouldn’t be able to protect her.
But he had to do something. The blank-faced, eerie silence was making him crazy. He wasn’t stupid enough to feel guilty that he hadn’t been able to protect her—he’d done his best, and if she hadn’t capped the man, they’d both be dead. She’d get over it. As soon as he found her a safe place to crash.
Jilly supposed she was cold. Her hands felt numb, her legs and knees were icy, but it didn’t seem to matter. She didn’t know where she was, but that didn’t matter, either. As long as she kept hold of Reno, she didn’t have to think. She could stay in the safe place she’d found, where nothing could touch her, nothing could intrude on the peaceful cloud she’d enveloped herself in.
The cold was nagging at her, pulling at her short skirt, trying to drag her back into the present, and that was the one place she refused to go.
He put his arm around her, only it wasn’t the iron grip he usually used. He must have known she’d given up. She wasn’t going to argue anymore. She was going to do exactly what he wanted her to do. As long as he didn’t try to talk to her, she was fine, perfectly fine. Because if she opened her mouth, she’d start screaming, and she didn’t think she’d be able to stop.
But everything was safe around her, a bubble of tranquillity that nothing could break. And she tucked her arm in Reno’s, leaned against him and followed him wherever he led her.
In the end the hotel was probably a stupid idea, but he couldn’t think of anywhere else to take her. He considered a love hotel, just to see if that would jar her out of her blank-faced stare, but most of them were run by the various yakuza families, and it was too great a risk for them to take.
A hotel built for rich Western businessmen was a compromise, and even if word got out that they’d been seen, the security at those hotels was usually excellent. He could be reasonably sure they’d be safe for at least a few hours, probably for a night or more. If anyone tracked them, they’d simply wait for them to emerge from the hotel.
He managed to pick up a baseball cap from one of the street vendors. He put it on backward, the bill hiding the bright red hair as it trailed down inside his jacket. It wasn’t much of a disguise, but it would have to do. And they wouldn’t be looking for a gaijin Gothic Lolita who was taller than most Japanese men, either. If luck, which had been piss-poor so far, decided to improve they might just be able to buy a little time. Enough time to get in touch with Ojiisan and warn him about Hitomi and Kobayashi.
At least he’d been smart enough to bring the extra passports and credit cards the Committee always provided. Jilly’s documentation wasn’t as flawless, but he’d had to take what he could get on such short notice from his friend Kyo. He checked in as a Korean American and his girlfriend, and the exquisitely polite staff of the Trans-Pacific Grand Hotel didn’t give them a second look. If they did, they probably thought Jilly was so stoned she couldn’t walk on her own, but they wisely said nothing, ushering them to a corner room on the thirty-second floor.
Once alone he gently pushed Jilly into a chair and headed for the door, planning on checking out the emergency exits and stairwells in case someone caught up with them. But before his hand was even on the door she was behind him, the same dazed look on her face.
He put his hands on her arms, moving her back to the chair once more. “You need to stay here,” he said patiently, kneeling down and taking off her sneakers. “I have to make sure we have another way out.” He started to move away and she rose again, ready to follow him.
He began to curse. “You know, you’re really beginning to annoy me,” he said. “I get it—you’re traumatized. But unless you want to get over it you’re going to get us both killed. Sit the fuck down and wait for me.”
She sat. When he slipped back inside the hotel room, she was still there, unmoving, her hands clasped lightly in her lap.
He double-locked the door, then pulled the curtains on the winter-dark night. He went straight to the minibar, removed a tiny bottle of Scotch, opened it and poured it down his throat. Then he took another, twisting off the cap and advancing toward her.
“Drink this.”
She ignored him, averting her gaze. He grabbed her chin, rough, and forced her mouth open, pouring the Scotch down her throat.
She started to choke, and for the first time she moved, hitting at him, and the tiny bottle went flying across the room.
“Say something!” he said in a fierce voice. “Holy motherfucker, just say one goddamned thing.”
She closed her eyes, shutting him out. That was the final straw. He caught her arms and hauled her up against him. “You killed a man,” he said. “You didn’t have a choice. If you hadn’t, he would have killed me and then you and then he would’ve gone out and killed more people. He was a bad man and he deserved to die and you did the world a service by blowing his fucking head off.”
She blinked at that, her first sign of life, and he shook her, hard. “Would you rather be dead? Maybe you would, if you’d known just how empty you’d feel once you’d done it. And it doesn’t get easier. Each death takes a little piece of you, a piece you can never get back. You’ll never be the same, Ji-chan, and it won’t do you any good to fight it.”
Another blink. He slid his hands up her neck, forcing her to look at him, and frustration and pain boiled over. “Well, if you’re not going to talk to me, I may as well take advantage of it,” he said in a savage voice.
He scooped her up, all six feet of her, and carried her into the bedroom, throwing her down on the king-size bed as he stood over her.
“It’s up to you, Ji-chan. I’m not going to stop until you tell me no.” And he pulled off his jacket, tossing it on a chair, only to meet her horrified gaze. Staring at the blood that had stained his shirt, blood from the man she’d killed.
And she opened her mouth to scream.
13
No sound came out. She was frozen, staring at his bloodstained shirt. With a muttered curse he ripped it off, buttons flying across the room. Then he reached for the gun tucked at his waist, and she suddenly moved, trying to scramble away from him, across the wide king-size bed, but he caught her leg and hauled her back.
“It’s a gun, Ji-chan,” he said. “You used it to save our lives. It’
s just a tool.”
She was fighting now, kicking at him, beginning to come alive beneath his hard hands. He took her hand in his, placing the gun there, forcing her to hold it. She let out an agonized whimper, the first sound he’d heard from her in hours, as she tried to shove it away.
“You have to accept it. You have to accept what you’ve done, that you had no choice.” Was he talking to her, or was he talking to himself? He was no longer sure. For some reason he had to make her come to terms with what she’d done, because if she couldn’t, what hope was there for him?
He wrapped her long fingers around the handle, and suddenly she moved, away from him, clutching the gun. She was pointing it at him, her hands shaking, pointing it at his head.
And she was just freaked enough to kill him, he realized. Her hands were trembling so badly she only had a fifty-fifty chance of hitting him, but he didn’t like those odds. If he moved any closer, she’d shoot him.
“Do you want to kill me, Ji-chan?” His voice was low, calm. “I’m your best chance at staying alive, but maybe you don’t want to stay alive. Maybe you want to take the coward’s way out.”
The gun was still shakily trained on his chest, and he knew it could go off at any minute. She’d managed to get the safety off the first time, in the heat of the moment, she could easily do it again. “Put the gun down,” he said. “Or use it. One or the other.”
She froze. And he moved, onto the bed, crawling toward her, and took the gun out of her hand. He set it on the nightstand, safely within reach. He sat back on his heels, looking at her. Watching her as she tried to retreat back behind the wall of blankness.
“Then we’ll have to try it this way,” he said. “Turn around.”