Death Before Dishonor Page 22

  He was going to need to take away Yuri’s ability to fight.

  Yuri went airborne, coming down with bone-shattering force against Kintake’s high block, driving him to a knee. The power of Yuri’s blow reverberated throughout Kintake’s body, causing his back teeth and joints to ring with pain. Yuri chained more attacks behind it.

  Kintake slipped Yuri’s blows and sneaked a fist through Yuri’s guard towards his ribs. Yuri thrust his elbow down, intercepting the strike, and drilled his other hand into Kintake’s mouth. Hard. Drawing blood.

  Kintake again rolled backward and found his feet. Yuri, an opportunistic predator by nature, saw the haymaker’s chance to finish the fight and launched a furious roundhouse aimed at Kintake’s guard. If he could shatter Kintake’s forearm, it would leave a wide-open hole for Yuri to drive a second spinning side kick through. If he could land it, he’d surely break all of Kintake’s ribs.

  The roundhouse finished its arc, battering Kintake’s forearms and slinging them away from his trunk, leaving it open for the second half of Yuri’s combo. He planted that foot and pooled all of the kinetic energy he could muster into his side kick.

  The foot raked low through the air until it was vectored against Kintake, and Yuri launched the knife of his foot for the opening with every ounce of force he had.

  Kintake tossed out his baited line, and the angry little fish bit.

  Kintake had kept giving ground, denying Yuri’s preferred rush tactics. Yuri had been forced to make large, extended strikes as his fury and desperation intensified. Kintake had feigned the strike to Yuri’s ribs knowing that Yuri would counter and overcommit once he saw blood. Then he’d placed a weak guard up that Yuri would instantly take advantage of.

  Yuri’s spin slowed in Kintake’s mind. He watched the concentric arcs that Yuri’s knee and foot transcribed in the air and saw the path that led to the opening that Kintake presented. He could also see the arch of Yuri’s foot—the delicate nexus of bones that made up its base. He timed it, held his breath, and then hooked his fist as hard as he could into Yuri’s arch.

  The closure between fist and foot was epic, and the thunderous impact even more so. Kintake’s hand shot back from the impulse, and Yuri crumpled, howling.

  He howled like an unsuspecting hound stepped on accidently, through gritted teeth, holding his mangled appendage in both hands. He rocked back and forth like a capsized turtle.

  Terry, Saki, and the rest of the Fujibayashi were a sea of blank stares.

  Kintake’s forearm trembled from the combined impact of Yuri’s sledgehammer-like foot and Kintake’s rock-like fist. He’d feel it for days to come; he didn’t recover as fast as he used to. “Get this animal off of these sacred grounds,” Kintake demanded of his disciples, looking at them hard, as if he had not just been in a fight with someone who’d had an intent to kill. “He doesn’t deserve to be here. None of you do. Only true Shinobi may walk these grounds. None of you are worthy. Begone!”

  Yuri yelled and cursed through the excruciating pain, trying to climb to his feet to continue the fight. The Fujibayashi hoisted him off the ground and began to carry him away. Yuri protested angrily.

  Kintake watched his disciples cart Yuri away from yorishiro and decided to stop the group as they were leaving. “Yuri, you are no longer worthy to be among the Fujibayashi. You are to leave Iga by first light.”

  Terry’s face twisted, and he turned towards Kintake. “What?” he asked. Kintake couldn’t be serious. “What do you mean?”

  Kintake’s face became as dark as the nighttime sky. “He has turned on his sensei and therefore has turned upon the clan. He will leave. He is no longer Shinobi, nor is he welcome here any longer.”

  “Sensei, do you hear what you’re suggesting?” Saki implored.

  Kintake’s head cut towards him. “You will be silent!”

  “This makes no sense,” Terry said, finally wiping the blood from his mouth. “He was defending me. That’s not against the code.”

  “If you wish to defend him, then you will leave with him.”

  “Sensei, you’re being unreasonable. Where are we supposed to go? You already won. What more do you want?”

  “You will leave.”

  Terry swore he’d heard an ultimatum in Kintake’s voice. “Or what?” Terry asked, just to be sure.

  “You are but a single person, Terry,” Kintake said deadpan. “Our clan is many.”

  “Why would you do this to us? We have nowhere to go.”

  “You will live with his dishonor, and you will not return until such a time when he has found honor or the code commands your return. Leave now if you cherish his life”—Kintake paused for effect—“and your own. You are no longer recognized as Fujibayashi so long as his dishonor exists.”

  Kintake turned and left with his entourage in tow. Terry watched him leave, not knowing what to say; he could still hear Yuri yelling. What were they going to do now?

  Chapter Twelve: Ritual Revelation

  The Shinobi are ministers of justice; their duty is a righteous one. A Shinobi must execute his duty swiftly and precisely at all cost or be dishonored.

  The Sixth Mandate, translated from Ninpo.

  The Ciccone Residence. National Harbor, Oxen Hill, Maryland. Today.

  Yuri and Veronica stumbled out of the elevator inebriated, merged as one. The air around them was electric.

  Yuri came up for air, scanning the hallway insincerely. "Is this my floor?"

  She cradled his head in both hands and arched herself into him, her bottom lip touching his. "Does it matter?" she managed before devouring her lover again.

  Yuri couldn’t speak with his mouth overflowing with a mixture of his and her passion. He tried a look at condominium numbers adjacent the front doors, but the alcohol made it practically impossible. She was right, though, it didn’t matter.

  She peeled her face from his, holding his head with both hands. “These clothes are strangling my body. Get me home so you can get me out of them.”

  “I think it’s this way. But I’m not really sure because the numbers keep moving.” He staggered down the hallway towards the door he thought was his suite, trying to maintain his balance despite his intoxication. Veronica had convinced him to imbibe a little more alcohol than he had planned. She had been enticing him all evening, and he had been trying to play hard to get. The alcohol had allowed her to up the ante. Evil woman.

  Not that she was easily ignored, with her full, hour-glass figure, her bright, amber eyes, waist-length, sandy hair, and tender veneer that masked the predator beneath with a voracious sexual appetite. A woman after his own heart.

  Yuri hid from Veronica well. To her, he was not the fiery, tenacious hitman, but rather a calm, collected, and sometimes aloof man who authored fiction in Japanese and published his work abroad—or at least that's what he had been telling her for the past year and a half.

  He had kept up the facade this long; he was not going to buckle anytime soon and show her his true face—the face that Ninpo forbade any Shinobi to show. Granted, he wanted to open up to her from time to time. Who would not want to? It was only natural, right? That a man wanted to be with a woman and just surrender? She made him feel different. He could not quite explain it. But he was not just simply a man. He was more than that. He didn’t want to be, though. He wanted to be like everyone else. He wanted to be her truth. But he couldn’t be. The alcohol tried to persuade him otherwise.

  "You should have worn a tie," she said, her eyes piercing him deeply.

  "Why?"

  Veronica grabbed the collar of his jacket and jerked him forward, their mouths coming so close that their lips nearly touched. "Because it would be easier to make you do what I want." Then she licked his lips affectionately.

  Yuri swallowed hard, trying to cool the conflagration in his chest. He could hear his pulse pounding in his ears. His hands were beginning to sweat too. This was not the first time he and Veronica had been intimate, but it sure felt that way.
Hell, it felt like the first time he had ever been intimate. He was coming apart. It had to be the alcohol.

  They arrived at his door. Well, at least, he thought it was his door. Perhaps it wasn’t. He sure hoped it was, though. He squinted, trying to confirm the apartment number, and fumbled in and out of his pockets, searching for his card key—an otherwise unchallenging feat if not for his lover's persistent caressing.

  Veronica pressed herself against his back and stroked her hands from his chest to his thighs and gripped handfuls of slacks in both hands. "Hurry," she purred.

  Yuri was trying. It was just that the alcohol and the adrenaline were making his hands shake.

  Veronica's fingers were climbing his trunk again, and she rubbed his leg with the inside of her thigh.

  Yuri's hand dropped to his side, and he rubbed the exposed, smooth skin of her leg. The feeling made him grind his teeth.

  Veronica ripped open his shirt, launching the buttons in all directions. "Hurry, baby," she whispered again, craning her neck to kiss his. Electricity shot through his body. Veronica wormed her way between her lover and the door, her cleavage visible over the top of her form-fitting—yet sophisticated—dress. "Am I all you want?"

  "Sometimes," Yuri aspirated.

  "You sure it's only sometimes?"

  "You're right. I rarely want you around at all."

  She giggled.

  He tried to keep a certain amount of emotional distance between them, but perhaps she knew that he was lying. He thought that he’d made it sound sincere. Maybe she could see right through him. He doubted it. But perhaps he was losing focus. It had to be the alcohol.

  “Hurry." Veronica kissed him deeply. "Or are you going to make me take you out here?"

  Yuri resumed his search, probing the rest of his pockets for the elusive key. Veronica inched along his cheek, from his lips to his ear and then down his neck, leaving a trail of lipstick. She began a most sinister descent to her knees in spite of her four-inch heels, rubbing and kneading his exposed chest and abdominals as she went. She squatted on her haunches and began tugging at his snakeskin belt. He investigated his internal coat pocket—nothing. Veronica whipped Yuri’s belt from his pants and tossed it across the hall. Bam!—the buckle slammed into a door of another suite. Yuri continued to search for the key, finally finding it in his wallet.

  Veronica grabbed hold of Yuri's jacket, hoisted herself up, and snatched the key from his hand. She slid the card into the locking mechanism, and it hummed until its jam clicked open. Using her index finger, she depressed the handle, and the door creaked open, spilling light and lust into the otherwise dark great room.

  Yuri stumbled through the threshold and caught himself on the statue standing immediately to the door's left. He blinked several times, trying to adapt his night vision, but resolved that in his drunken state, his eyes were going to be less than useful in the dark. All was not lost; he would just give his other senses time to come alive.

  Within seconds, his hearing began to compensate for his eyes, and his ears picked up the sound of Veronica's stilettos tapping the ivory tiles as she moved about the room. Then a hollow metal-on-metal sound told him that she was opening the drapes. The light that poured in was intense. He raised a hand to shield his eyes.

  "Somebody's a little drunk," she said devilishly, pushing him onto the sofa.

  He rolled onto his side and tried to sit up, but she pushed him back.

  "Relax," she said. Veronica pulled off both of his shoes and then stood back. "You know, Yuri," she said, wrapping her fingers around the bottom of her dress and pulling it up to her waist, "if we keep this up, you’re never going to get rid of me."

  “You’re underestimating my ability to eliminate people.”

  She stood above him, with a leg to either side of him. “Is that so?” Then she descended slowly to straddle him.

  “Yeah. I’m a professional.”

  “Mm-hmm,” she said, unconvinced, kissing his chest. She dragged her lips to his neck. “Are you a professional at stalling too?”

  Yuri hung onto her words and her touch. He found them euphoric; they penetrated him deeply. Veronica was surely the most beautiful thing he had ever laid eyes on. And it was not because she was almost naked; there was something else—something deep and intoxicating about her.

  Perhaps it was just the alcohol. It had to be the alcohol. He should not have drunk that much. The alcohol was making him rethink his life. But maybe, just maybe, there was a life beyond what he had always known. Ninpo had always felt like an unscrupulous master—a prison. But Veronica gave him a view of a different life. An image of a life where he had a house and a yard and a loving wife.

  This felt good.

  This felt right.

  This is what Ninpo could never give him.

  Veronica grasped his face with both hands and kissed him. Deeply. Devouring him with gentle turns of her head. Passion poured from her lips. It washed over him. He consumed it. It became part of him. He was drowning, but he didn’t want air.

  Yuri felt as though, for the first time in his life, he had found real meaning. He’d found something that was able to fill the void that Ninpo had always left.

  He had to tell her everything.

  Everything.

  Yuri came to life. Not the construct that he had created to deceive others. But rather, the real Yuri. His passion burst into fire, lighting them both ablaze. He rolled over, ripped his shirt from his body, and dove into Veronica. She cooed as they became one.

  The temperature soared.

  The volume increased.

  Then the sound of someone clearing their throat sliced through the moment. Yuri and Veronica suddenly were drawn back into their separate bodies. Yuri lifted his head, and Veronica did too, arching her neck to see over the back of the sofa.

  “Omigod! Terry!” Veronica shrieked, snatching a pillow to cover herself. She looked at Yuri and whispered, "What is he doing here?”

  “I live here," Terry replied matter-of-factly. "Remember?”

  Terry was supposed to be gathering intelligence on a potential target. Or as Veronica knew, Terry was on a date.

  "Hey, Ter," Yuri said. "You’re not creepy or anything. And no, you didn’t just interrupt me having sex with my girlfriend. Maybe you could find some shrubbery to manicure?"

  "I need you to listen to this voicemail.” Terry sounded concerned.

  “How about no?”

  “This is important.”

  “How about no, Terry? I’m a little busy.”

  “This doesn’t have time for busy.”

  “Are you serious right now?" Yuri growled.

  "As a hole in the head. Yuri”—Terry paused and searched for the right words—“just listen.”

  “There's nothing more important than Veronica right this second! Especially not a goddamn voicemail. So, unless you’re missing both legs, get out!” Yuri started kissing Veronica's neck, but she had gone cold and unresponsive.

  “What?" Yuri demanded, stormily. "What’s wrong with you?”

  Terry keyed the voicemail application and turned on the speaker.

  Discomfort pooled in her eyes. Frustration filled his.

  "Omigod, Terry. I'm going to pull your head off your shoulders."

  A man spoke solemnly in Japanese. The voice was stoic and familiar. It was a voice that they had not heard in over a decade. Yuri was instantly sober.

  Veronica's face twisted, puzzled by the voice and the expression on Yuri's face—it was as if he had just seen a ghost.

  “What?" Veronica asked. "What’s he saying?”

  Yuri raised a silencing hand. “Terry, run it back.”

  Terry did.

  The voice began again. “Terry, Yuri. Hattori Hanzo is dying. He may not survive the week. When his life expires, Ninpo requires that the ritual combat be undertaken. You must return to Togakure Ryu. We will be waiting.”

  It was Kintake. There was no mistaking his voice.

  The muscles of Yu
ri’s jaw flexed. He wanted this life, but it was impossible to have. He was chained to Ninpo. Ninpo was his reality. Veronica was just a dream. Yuri found his feet and gathered himself.

  "Yuri!" Veronica said, indignant, scrambling behind the pillows. “Yuri, what’s going on?”

  He raised another silencing hand.

  "No, don’t tell me to shut up.”

  “I didn’t tell you to shut up. I simply don’t need to talk right now.”

  “Yuri.”

  “Not now,” he said as he started toward his bedroom.

  “Yuri! Wait a minute!”

  “I said not now, dammit!”

  ***

  “So, you don’t know when you’re coming back?”

  “Nope.” Yuri knew he was going to get yelled at. But what could he do? His better judgment told him that he should have ignored her and dealt with the backlash when he returned—if he returned.

  “Nope?” she parroted.

  But he couldn’t do it.

  “Nope,” he repeated.

  She burned a hole in Yuri's face with her eyes.

  “So that’s it?”

  “Pretty much.”

  She threw her arms up. “When are you just going to be honest with me, Yuri? Why are we doing this?”

  Yuri was a statue.

  “Care to explain why you’re rushing out of town?"

  "It's complicated, Veronica."

  “Try me,” she snapped.

  “No.”

  Veronica exhaled. "What makes this complicated is the fact that you refuse to tell me why."

  “I just have some things I have to wrap up.”

  “In Japan?"

  "Yes."

  "Nobody flies seven thousand miles to wrap things up.”

  Yuri remained stoic, difficult as it was. He reviewed his options in his head. If he gave no ground, their relationship was done for; he didn’t want that. If he gave in, he would violate Ninpo. There had to be a middle ground.