Death Before Dishonor Read online

  “There are parts of Iga, such as Iga-Ueno Castle, which sees a large contingent of tourists annually. My village, however, is not a place that tourists would frequent.”

  “Why? Is it dangerous?”

  “Not particularly, no. However, my ancestors founded the village over five centuries ago, and my people have maintained it since. Jealously so. Why do you ask, Mrs. Ciccone?” Kintake asked.

  “Honestly, I was wondering why your English is so great, almost like you’ve been speaking it all your life.”

  “I have been speaking it all my life, Mrs. Ciccone.”

  “Where did you learn it?”

  “Oh, a little here, a little there. Mostly television, really.”

  “Really?”

  He grinned. “No, Mrs. Ciccone. Not really.”

  Francesca laughed. “So where did you learn it? In school?”

  Kintake looked away and shook his head.

  “Oh,” Francesca said, her face displaying confusion. “Did I offend you by asking?”

  He shook his head. “No, Mrs. Ciccone. I—I’m just not at liberty to disclose that information because”—he lowered his head and his voice—“I am a spy.”

  Francesca burst into laughter. Kintake was charming for a man his age. Pat wasn’t charmed at all, and his face showed it.

  “Well, I really must say, I like what you have here,” Francesca said with her hands. “It’s rather spartan and quaint all at the same time.”

  “Why, thank you, Mrs. Ciccone.” Kintake looked at Pat, who was vigilantly watching Yuri roughhouse with the older children. “What is your opinion, Mr. Ciccone?”

  Pat exhaled but never took his eyes off of his youngest son. “You’ll have to excuse me if I’m not as easily convinced as my wife—games and gardens won’t sell me.” Pat glanced at Kintake for a split second before returning his attention to Yuri. “I’ll level with you. I used—”

  Kintake interrupted with his hand. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Ciccone, but I did not quite understand you. You are going to level with me?”

  Pat’s mouth became a straight line. “That was a colloquial statement—sorry. What I meant was: I’m going to be honest with you.”

  “Oh. I’d prefer that, Mr. Ciccone. Thank you,” Kintake interjected.

  “I was a fighter—a boxer specifically. And like every fighter, I was fed lies, and I was sold dreams about championing a legacy. Those lies were for the express purpose of furthering someone else’s agenda. I spent years getting my head beat in so someone else could make a buck or achieve some goal.”

  “I understand your apprehension, sir. But perhaps I can alleviate some anxiety.” Kintake clasped his hands behind his back again. “You see, at this Ryu—or school in English—I teach taijutsu, which is the unarmed fighting tradition of the Shinobi—the ninja. It is a special discipline that has been passed down for generations to only the most exclusive group—only the most serious, focused minds.”

  Francesca’s smile stretched from ear to ear. She was very pleased with the uniqueness.

  Pat cracked a half-smile. “Ninja, huh?”

  “That is correct, Mr. Ciccone.”

  “Does that mean my son is going to be running around my house dressed in black and swinging nunchucks?”

  “I would hope not, Mr. Ciccone,” Kintake responded dryly. “You see, taijutsu is divided into two subsystems: daken-taijutsu and ju-taijutsu—fundamentally, striking and grappling. These two facets, combined with subtlety—”

  “Alright—alright, I’ve heard enough,” Pat professed, interrupting Kintake, whose face darkened. “I’m not impressed, not in the least bit,” Pat continued. “Fighting is fighting. I’m not okay with my son learning to hurt people. Thank you for your time, Mr. Omiyoshu, but no thanks.”

  Francesca's eyes poured embarrassment. Her gazed bounced between Pat and Kintake.

  “I’ll get the boys,” Pat said to her as he started walking towards the twirling circle of giggling children.

  Francesca called to him, and he stopped to look over his shoulder.

  “Why are we leaving?” she asked.

  “Because, Francesca, I’m over this.”

  “Is this—” She stopped, realizing she’d said that loudly and angrily; she lowered her voice. “Is this about you?” she asked in a more fitting tone, just above a whisper. “I thought we were here for Terry.”

  “Fighting is about ego and violence. There is no control to it despite what anyone will have you think.”

  “But look at this place. Look at the children. Look at how much fun they’re having. That doesn’t please you?”

  “There’s nothing pleasing about violence. When children find it fun, they live by it. They grow with it. Then they abuse others when they’re men because violence is the only thing they know; it’s the only thing that brings them pleasure. This place is no different than any other fighting establishment. These people are just wowing you with karate kicks, gardens, and children’s games.”

  “What if you’re wrong?” She pointed over his shoulder at the children. “Look at Terry over there. He’s having the time of his life—Yuri is too. Terry is playing with children his age right now. He’s not keeping to himself like normal. Can’t you see that?”

  He could see it, but his son was still going to learn to fight in the process. “If this trip is about finding him playmates, we can put him in soccer or something.”

  “Pat!” Francesca snapped angrily. She lowered her voice again. “Terry’s the one with the black eye, remember?” she said, her head snaking side to side with each syllable. “I'm supposed to watch my son get bullied and beaten? As his father, if you won’t teach him to protect himself, then I have to find someone who will.”

  Pat’s face flashed red, sweat suddenly beading on his forehead. Just as he pointed an accusing finger at his wife and opened his mouth to speak, Kintake burst into the disagreement, trying to prevent it from disturbing the class.

  “My apologies, Mr. and Mrs. Ciccone,” he said, showing them the palms of his hands. “I think we are at a supreme misunderstanding. Perhaps a demonstration of why taijutsu was developed would be advantageous? If I may demonstrate.” Kintake steepled his fingers and barked something in Japanese, and an instructor—the skinny one this time—again approached with the same ardor that his colleague had displayed earlier. “Mr. Ciccone, you said you are a boxer, no?”

  “Was,” Pat corrected.

  “Very good,” Kintake replied with a mild smile. “I assume, like most western boxers, you are adept at throwing punches?”

  Pat’s expression hardened. “Get to the point, Mr. Omiyoshu. My patience is running low.”

  Kintake bid the young man to come close and then spoke into his ear. The young man nodded as Kintake spoke and then stood, spun, and approached Pat. The young man bowed when he made eye contact with Pat. Kintake presented the young man with a hand. “Mr. Ciccone, please throw a punch at Ichiro.”

  Pat instead threw Kintake a perplexed, doubtful look.

  Kintake gestured again towards Ichiro’s direction. “Please, throw a punch at Ichiro.”

  Ichiro locked Pat’s gaze and bowed again. Pat looked anxiously at his family, Kintake, and then Ichiro. He had mixed feelings. How was challenging him going to change his mind? Admittedly, though, Pat’s pride was compelling him to lay the kid out on principal. Pat nearly felt obligated, and that made him angry.

  Kintake raised his brow.

  Pat rolled his eyes and scoffed, throwing a half-hearted, apathetic jab, which Ichiro dodged with barely a movement of his head. Ichiro glanced back at Kintake.

  “I don’t have time for this shit or your ridiculous games,” Pat said.

  Kintake nodded at Ichiro, and Ichiro returned his attention to Pat.

  “Come now, Mr. Ciccone,” Kintake said with a hint of disappointment, “I am sure you are far more capable than that. I assure you that Ichiro will not be so easily broken that you must hold back.”

  Pat didn�
��t want to do this, but his wife was watching, and his sons were probably watching too. He couldn’t just walk out of here; what would they think? He shook his head, loosening the muscles in his neck and shoulders, and then exhaled audibly as he settled into a fighting stance. He sneered at Francesca before he raised his hands. “I doubt that, but if you want a broken ninja, I’ll give you one.”

  Pat locked Ichiro’s eyes once more and clenched his fists. He focused his mind on the location that he planned to land a punch against Ichiro’s face. Then he chose a different location, a location on the young man’s chest, not wanting to allow his pride to influence him to hurt the young man too badly. When Pat was ready, his breathing shallowed, and with blinding speed and a snap-hiss, he struck.

  Ichiro’s eyes flickered to Pat’s shoulder, then elbow, and then his hand. He displaced his head outside of the punch and reset as the punch withdrew.

  Pat, visibly irritated, looked at Kintake.

  “A combination now, Mr. Ciccone,” Kintake said coolly. “Go on.”

  By now, the children were slowing as they noticed the adults squaring off. Pat could feel their eyes: Francesca’s eyes, Terry’s eyes, and Yuri’s eyes. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face, and he readied a combo in his mind. He envisioned Ichiro’s stance and saw his strikes leaving his guard for Ichiro’s body. He saw Ichiro’s movements and saw where his own fists could land. He considered where his arms and body would be when he threw, trying to anticipate from where the counters would come, if at all. Then he loosed his hands, launching strikes in a combo of six: two jabs, a straight, a hook, another straight and hook. Ichiro weaved outside the first two; then he drove the straight away with a hand before jamming the hook by wedging his elbow into the crook of Pat’s. At that point, Pat’s guard was spread so far apart that the last two punches were sloppy and desperate. Ichiro’s crowding had rendered them ineffective.

  Ichiro grappled Pat, pinning his arm, at the elbow, between his own body and arm. Ichiro pressed his fingers into a nerve cluster at the base of Pat’s neck, suspending him at arm’s length. Pat grimaced.

  Francesca’s mouth dropped open. She had seen her husband fight many times in his youth, but never had she seen anyone intercept his punches so deftly or surgically. It almost seemed unreal.

  Kintake grunted, “Hai!” and Ichiro kindly released Pat, who took a few steps backward, and whipped around to face his teacher. Pat cradled his numb arm and did his best to hide the creeping feeling of humiliation. Kintake sharply gestured to Ichiro, who immediately lowered his eyes, faced Pat, and honored him with a deep bow before backing away with a low head.

  “As you can see, Mr. Ciccone,” Kintake noted, “our students are more than mere nunchuck-swinging athletes. Each student is taught that control, respect, and obedience are values held above all others. Early in their training, they learn that just because one has the ability to destroy, doesn’t mean one has the right, despite the ability. This, Mr. Ciccone, stands in stark contrast to your assessments of fighters. While most fighters may thrive on violence, we do not. We thrive on enlightenment and self-actualization. I will note, however, a component of self-actualization is understanding the rights with which we are inherently born. One right that is relevant to your son’s condition is the right of self-defense and prosperity. I can teach him this.”

  “I’m sold,” Francesca said without hesitation.

  Pat shot her a frigid look and then returned his eyes to Kintake. “So that what’s this whole thing was about: You were just trying to prove that you were better?”

  “No, Mr. Ciccone,” Kintake said, shaking his head, “it was simply a means to get your attention. You’re a fighter by trade. Therefore, you speak the language of combat. And now the words that were once falling on deaf ears are ringing loudly. I can help your son if you will allow me.”

  “How much will it cost?” asked Francesca, clapping her hands together beneath a brimming smile.

  “Prices are negotiable, madam, but not a concern at this point. Would Yuri attend as well?”

  Yuri leaped into the discussion to present his own counsel, “Please, Mommy, can I do it too? Please! I want to go with Terry!”

  “You don’t think Yuri is too young, Mr. Omiyoshu?”

  “Heavens no—not at all, Mrs. Ciccone. Yuri is of perfect age. He is like fresh bamboo in a strong wind. Before the early adolescent years, most drills and exercises are cognitive at the core or based on agility and self-improvement.”

  “Perfect!” she exclaimed. She was so excited one would think that she was starting the class and not her boys. “What’s the schedule? When can they start?”

  “They already have, madam.”

  “Well, can I bring them tomorrow?”

  “Yes, bring them at a time that is most convenient for you.”

  “Great! I’ll bring them after school.”

  “Splendid,” he said, bowing his head humbly.

  “Well, I guess we should get going. Let’s go, honey,” she said satirically, punching Pat in the shoulder. It was still numb, so he just looked at her sourly before turning to make his way toward the front door. Francesca waved to the boys and told them to follow their dad.

  The Ciccones were filing toward the door when Kintake stopped them one last time. “Mr. and Mrs. Ciccone, would it be inconvenient if I gave Terry his first lesson—it will only take a moment.”

  Francesca looked at Pat, who shrugged his shoulder in defeat, and then nodded.

  Kintake drew a wicker basket from a nearby shelf, squatted to eye level with Terry, and bid him to approach and remove the cover. Terry did as he was asked and looked in to find the contents to be an assortment of colored stones. Then Kintake returned the cover to the basket. Terry lifted his eyes and met Kintake’s gaze.

  “What is it that you observed within, Terry?” Kintake asked.

  “Um, beads,” Terry replied, rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand.

  “Very good,” Kintake affirmed, inclining his head. “What kind of beads?”

  “Colored beads.”

  Kintake nodded, encouraging Terry to continue with his assessment. “Mm-hmm.”

  “Red ones, blue ones, yellow ones, and purple ones.”

  “How many red beads were there?”

  “I don’t know.” Terry’s eyes darted up to the right corner of their sockets as if he were searching through a catalog for an answer. “Seven or eight maybe.”

  “Maybe?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You may call me Sensei, Terry.”

  “Yes, Sensei.”

  “Let’s have a look.” Kintake removed the cover again and picked out all the red stones, holding them up in his hand. “You see, Terry, there are eleven red beads, are there not?”

  Terry simply nodded in agreement. “Yes, Sensei.”

  Kintake shook his head. “Terry, count them.”

  Terry did. There were nine, not eleven. “Nine, Sensei,” he admitted.

  Kintake poured them back into the basket. “You must always observe precisely and never accept hearsay. You should always confirm information with your own senses. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Sensei.”

  “Very good,” Kintake said genially, returning the basket to the shelf. “One last question: Will you describe the basket for me?”

  “It’s made of wood.”

  “What type of wood?”

  Terry’s eyes and mouth took on u-shapes. “I don’t know.”

  “How was the wood bound?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, what did you think of the engravings on the side? Did you like them?”

  “I didn’t see any.” Terry wasn’t going to fall for the same thing twice.

  “Very good,” Kintake applauded, climbing to his feet. “He is a remarkable boy. You should be proud.”

  Francesca bristled again. “Oh, we are.”

  “Can I be of any further service, Mr. and Mrs. Ciccone?”
r />   “Nope,” Pat said sharply, resuming his exit. “Let’s go.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Omiyoshu,” said Francesca, guiding her boys to the door.

  Kintake raised a welcoming hand.

  Once they were through the door, Francesca stopped to straighten Yuri’s disheveled clothes. “What was that about?” Francesca asked.

  “How should I know?” Pat said, clearly still irritated.

  Then they heard Kintake’s voice from the door one last time: “Terry.”

  Terry turned to look when he heard his name.

  Kintake continued, “You have learned a valuable lesson today: Never forsake the forest for the trees.” Then he disappeared back inside the door.

  The Ciccones all looked at each other. Pat shook his head and started for the car. Francesca picked Yuri up and followed.

  “I liked him!” she said.

  Pat wasn’t amused. “I just want silence the entire drive home.”

  Chapter Six: What Goes Around Comes Around

  A Shinobi’s greatest weapon is silence. Let not the anonymity nor the sanctity of the ways be violated.

  The Third Mandate, translated from Ninpo.

  Houston, Texas. Today.

  Finally, Yuri thought to himself, a job without ethics or morals. The last handful of jobs had included too many ethical variables that had stifled Terry’s objectivity during operations and made him wishy-washy when the time to kill came. Yuri followed the code as strictly as the next person, but Terry’s need for higher understanding was cumbersome, and it made Terry difficult to work with at times. Make no mistake that Yuri loved his brother, but Terry’s strict adherence to his personal interpretations of Ninpo made jobs more taxing than Yuri liked. This job, however, was hardly going to prove as taxing since there wasn’t going to be any collateral to make Terry squishy.

  The entire executive board from a multi-billion-dollar energy conglomerate called Energy Solutions International had been arrested and indicted for accounting fraud, money laundering, and criminal business and were due to be tried in the coming weeks. If convicted, each person could look forward to a hefty prison sentence as well as all their assets being seized. As Terry and Yuri saw it, the prosecution was not batting a thousand in its attempt to pitch a conviction. The attorneys needed someone close to the executive board that would turn state’s evidence and testify against the tight-lipped defendants; that person was the financial planner and chief of accounting, Carlos Irizarry.