Death Before Dishonor Page 37

  “Nope,” Yuri said distantly, running more water. “Just ask the question.”

  “Are you mad at me now?”

  “No—this just isn’t easy. I’m recalling memories that I don’t necessarily want to remember. If you want answers to your questions, ask. Just don’t be offended if I seem a little off keel.”

  “Okay then—what did it feel like the first time you killed?

  “The first time I killed or the first time I killed someone?”

  “Um.” She didn’t quite know how to respond to that. “Both, I guess.”

  “The first time I killed, I was eleven, and I killed a pig.”

  “Why did you kill a pig?”

  “It was part of an exercise; a pig simulates human flesh pretty well. Anyway, we used the dead pig—as well as the others that were killed that night—to feed the village.”

  “How did it make you feel?”

  “Accomplished,” Yuri said, wiping his forehead. “I was praised for how cleanly I had cut its throat. The pig barely made a sound as it died.”

  “That’s horrible, Yuri. You don’t even seem affected by it.”

  “Should I be?” Yuri’s brows raised. “Killing is basic; it’s fundamental to who we are as humans. Ninpo simply justified my natural inclination towards killing.”

  “But you were just a kid. You don’t think that affected your development?”

  “Perhaps it did; perhaps it didn’t. But one thing was for sure, I wasn’t just a kid. I was Shinobi. Killing is a part of who we are.”

  “Who you are?” Her eyes were suspicious.

  “Who I was,” Yuri replied, correcting himself.

  “Did you ever feel anything other than accomplishment?”

  “Sure. I remember feeling nothing the first time I killed a person.”

  “You didn’t feel anything?”

  “Well, there was the thrill.”

  Goosebumps erupted all over Veronica’s body. “You found it thrilling?”

  “Relax,” Yuri said, sensing her uneasiness; it was the uneasiness that a deer radiated when it sensed the wolves stalking out of sight. “I’m not a serial killer or anything. I felt thrill in a manner that I don’t think you quite understand.”

  “Then how? Because it sounds a lot like a serial killer to me.”

  “I suppose,” Yuri started, licking his lips as he searched for the right metaphor, “in the same manner a boxer or a mixed martial artist is thrilled by a fistfight. Imagine spending several hours a day training and conditioning to fight. Fighting is what you do. Now imagine yourself being in the grocery store and some random individual picks a fight with you. There’s a thrill that envelopes you as you stand on the precipice of a confrontation with an opponent who allowed their pride to escalate a fight that they have no chance in winning. That’s the thrill.”

  Veronica lowered her head; this was big—huge big. She felt weight on her shoulders. “I knew I shouldn’t have asked. You know, I kept telling myself that I couldn’t see the killer, but I feel like I see it now.”

  Yuri didn’t know what to say after that. Resolving himself, he said, “I’m a good person, Veronica. I want to be something new.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  She wasn’t positive that he was, though. “How many people have you killed?”

  “Not sure.”

  “That many?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Do you think you’re going to hell?”

  Yuri looked deeply into her. “I don’t believe in hell. Not as you know it, anyway.”

  “Do you believe in God?” Veronica asked, suddenly feeling very insecure.

  “You mean the Christian God?”

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  Yuri seemed very alien to her, and for the first time, she wished she had the character back that Yuri played all this time. “What do you believe in?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what I believe in anymore.”

  Yuri’s eyes snapped in the direction of the door, five yards away, leading into his bedroom. The wall of the bathtub blocked its view, but the door drew his attention no less. Yuri lifted himself from the basin and leaned over the side.

  “What’re you doing?” Veronica asked. “What’s the matter?”

  “Shhh,” Yuri demanded.

  Trained ears focused on the sounds in the house. There was the harmonic warble of disturbed bathwater, the static thrum of the lighting fixture over the sink, the breathy aspiration of the ventilation, the faint creeks from support structures, distant traffic outside, and something out of place.

  “Yuri, what? You’re scaring me.”

  He didn’t answer; he focused on the sound. Then he realized what the sound was: footsteps.

  Terry was in Japan.

  And Saki was crippled.

  ***

  The doorknob rattled.

  Veronica had locked it behind them when they’d come in to bathe. She always did. She claimed it was a habit of living alone. Yuri never appreciated it more than now.

  Rationality told him that it was his brother, who had simply returned home from Japan and never let Yuri know. His better judgment, however, told him that there were intruders in his house. Yuri didn’t much care for the details; he had an assortment of weapons in the walk-in closet opposite the door.

  He planted a finger against his lips, gesturing for Veronica to remain quiet. Then he patted the air, instructing her to lay down in the tub and remain there. Confusion covered her face, but Yuri ignored it and climbed out of the tub. She grabbed his wrist, but he shook free and moved to the shower—between the entrance and the tub—starting the flow on hot and leaving its door open. Then he continued to the closet, passing the sink on his left, pointing at the tub and silently, deliberately mouthing the words, “Stay there.” Yuri disappeared into the closet.

  He pulled a hardened case from a shelf, popped its latches, and pulled a silenced pistol from it. He kept his eye on the door and felt around the top shelf until he found his ninjatō. Yuri placed it on the floor next to his feet.

  The doorknob rattled more. Veronica’s head popped up, and she whispered something, but Yuri ignored her; he watched the door intently.

  The door collapsed inward from a foot, and a shotgun leveled. Yuri opened fire first, hammering the doorway with the hushed claps of his pistol. Yuri’s first shot shattered the corner of the marble counter; his second struck the gunman in the leg. The gunman’s weapon barked harshly, but the wounding of his leg forced him off his mark. The roar of the shotgun forced Yuri back into the cover of the closet.

  Veronica covered her ears, screaming.

  The shower was filling the far end of the bathroom with steam. When the shower door was left open as it was, it filled the bathroom with thick vapor in less than a minute. The reduced visibility would aid Yuri greatly.

  The shotgun barked several times consecutively, showering Yuri with splinters of drywall and wood. Yuri slid his pistol around the corner and fired blindly. He let off six rounds, and then he was back in cover, pulling a flashbang from the open case. He yanked the pin out with his teeth and chucked the canister across the bathroom floor. The canister click-clack-clacked to a halt against the far wall and then—BOOM—there was thunder. Yuri took the split second to reload.

  The intruders protested loudly in Japanese.

  Japanese.

  Hitmen for the Yakuza. They’d come to finish the job.

  Yuri snatched up the ninjatō in his right hand and leaped out, firing with this left. He sprinted into the fog, catching the gunman center-mass with the first two shots. Yuri dropped to his knees on the rug in front of the sink and slid on it across the bathroom floor, catching the gunman across the chest with his sword. Yuri banged into the wall to the immediate left of the door frame and saw a second gunman trying to get a bead on Yuri.

  Yuri swept his sword in an upward arc, setting the gun off target when its muzzle reported. Yuri d
ove through the doorway, going bodily into the second gunman, driving him hard into the wall. Yuri scrambled over the gunman and found his feet. A third intruder—another Asian man like the first two—slashed at Yuri with a katana. Yuri batted the strike away and gave ground. The swordsman assumed a low stance, holding the katana parallel to the floor. His stance wasn’t a traditional sword stance; it was a stance exclusive to taijutsu. The swordsman was Momochi.

  Yuri lunged, hurling combinations with his ninjatō. The swordsman intercepted Yuri’s strikes, angling the blade away from his body. Yuri snuck a kick through and drove the swordsman onto and over the bed. The swordsman bounced and recovered over his shoulders, diving clear and rolling to safety as Yuri hurtled the bed and brought the ninjatō down in a punishing arc, carving a chasmal line in the wall.

  The swordsman was on his feet again, and the two men were exchanging blows, intercepting, reposting, and dancing for the advantage. Then Yuri heard the second gunman—who had found his feet during the fray—advance on him. Yuri retreated two steps from the swordsman and spun a wicked arc with his blade at the gunman’s waist. The gunman let out a sickening hic as wriggling snakes fell from his stomach and plopped onto the floor in front of him.

  The swordsman was on Yuri before he could fully reset. Yuri did what he could to defend himself, but he wasn’t able to stop a strike that cleaved a chuck of flesh from his shoulder. Yuri yelled. Fortunately, the swordsman overcommitted and Yuri was able to crowd him and grapple. The two men fell into the wall, trampling the second gunman’s entrails. Yuri gritted his teeth, trying to gain the advantage despite the bloody pain in his shoulder. The katana was pinned between them and the swordsman was inching its bitter edge toward Yuri’s neck.

  The men growled and strained as they spun and rolled along the wall to the door leading into the hallway, like a top bumping against a vertical surface, trying desperately to overpower each other. The blade began to press into Yuri’s neck, slowly slicing his flesh. Yuri raged, trying to muster every bit of strength to stop the katana from severing his carotid.

  Then the intruder’s eye shot open; his mouth tightened in an O-shape, and he let out a pained aspiration. Then he slumped against Yuri, the sword falling limp. Yuri pushed his lifeless body to the floor and gulped air, panting, and looked through the doorway. Saki was on his hands like an angered viper, with the handle of a blood-tipped ninjatō beneath him. The two Shinobi exchanged looks; even paraplegic, a Shinobi could strike. Yuri helped Saki to the bed and then went to comfort a hysterical Veronica.

  ***

  “Terry,” Yuri practically yelled into the phone. “They sent a hit squad after me. I’m coming back.”

  “They’re all dead.”

  “Who’s dead?” Yuri asked, gritting his teeth at the pain in his shoulder.

  “Everyone. The women. The children. The entire clan.”

  They were silent for a moment.

  “How?” Yuri asked finally.

  “They sent shooters. Akiko and I were the only survivors. Weren’t in the village at the time. I also believe that the Momochi and the Yakuza have taken Hattori Hanzo. I’ve sent Akiko after a lead I had on the Shogun.”

  “Everyone is dead?” Yuri couldn’t believe it.

  “Yes.”

  “Sit tight. I’ll be there in twenty-four hours.”

  “I know this isn’t what you wanted—”

  “It’s over. I had a vision of what I could be, but that’s not what I am. I’m a killer, Terry, and she’s seen me for who I really am. The universe won’t have it any other way.”

  “Yuri.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not you that should be sorry.”

  Chapter Twenty: Blood In My Eyes

  Accept an honorable surrender, but never show mercy. Your enemy will not.

  The Eleventh Mandate, translated from Ninpo.

  Kitashirakawa, Kyoto, Japan. Today.

  VERONICA MARTIN: Yuri why won’t u answer me? Sent 9:43 PM

  VERONICA MARTIN: The cops r treating me like a criminal…like I killed all those people. What am I supposed to do? Sent 9:44 PM

  VERONICA MARTIN: Yuri!! Sent 9:45 PM

  VERONICA MARTIN: U said u love me and this is how u treat me! Ur a monster! Sent 11:06 PM

  VERONICA MARTIN: Saki is dead too?! Did u kill him?! Sent 11:13 PM

  VERONICA MARTIN: Im under suspicion 4 his death 2. Sent 11:14 PM

  VERONICA MARTIN: ANSWER ME!! Sent 11:27 PM

  VERONICA MARTIN: Told the cops it was u. U left me no other choice. Sent 12:02 AM

  VERONICA MARTIN: I loved u once. Now im in hell. Sent 12:11 AM

  ***

  After Terry had sent Akiko to kill the Shogun, he went to work planning his revenge against the remaining leaders of the Yakuza and the Momochi that he could link to the massacre. He wanted to act immediately, but he knew patience was of the utmost importance. Akiko’s attack on the Shogun was an action that he could orchestrate while the window of opportunity was open. He would finish the job once his brother arrived.

  The plan was to go after the Yakuza—the easier of the two targets—first. Then they would attack the Momochi. The Yakuza—no doubt on high alert in the wake of the death of their Shogun—were formidable, but a divide-and-eliminate plan would pull them apart. The Momochi, however, unlike the Yakuza, were hardened against wetworks and would be far more difficult to hit. Once a single Momochi turned up on their back, the clan would close ranks and start enacting counter-espionage protocols; Terry and Yuri would them find themselves at a serious numerical disadvantage. Granted, the Yakuza outnumbered Terry and Yuri as well, but the Yakuza weren’t as homogenously trained as the Momochi. To that end, Terry surmised that he would use the Momochi’s own tactic against them: he and Yuri would attack the Momochi leadership all at once, the same way the Momochi and Yakuza had attacked and overwhelmed the unsuspecting Fujibayashi of Togakure Ryu.

  The first target was a Japanese entrepreneur of Taiwanese descent who’d laundered millions of dollars for the Yakuza.

  Yuri was contemptuous. He sat on the passenger side of an unassuming jalopy, playing a game on his cellular. He was trying to forget Veronica by occupying his mind with a mindless activity while he and Terry awaited their target.

  “You going to answer those?” Terry asked, watching intently out of the driver window for their target and hearing Yuri’s text prompt chime periodically.

  “No point. There’s nothing to be said except her telling me how I deceived her.”

  “The target is on the move.”

  Yuri nodded, disinterested.

  “You know, I’m proud of you.” Terry looked at Yuri. “Mom and Dad would’ve been happy to see how you glowed when you were with her. You really gave it your all.”

  Yuri scoffed. “Can we just let it go? I’m trying not to think about it.”

  “Okay.”

  Yuri let out a deep sigh, venting the anxiety poisoning his insides.

  “You good?”

  “Revenge doesn’t require me to feel good,” Yuri deadpanned.

  The target strutted down the walkway to his car, talking on the phone. He unlocked the car as he approached, opened the back door, threw a bag in the backseat, and then opened the driver door and sat in the front seat, closing the door behind him.

  Terry watched intently. Any moment now.

  The engine turned over, coughed, and spat. Then there was a boom followed by repeated pops. The car billowed smoke, and tongues of fire licked the sky. Then the door flew open, and the target dove from the driver’s seat half in flames.

  “Shit!” Terry said. “Gimme your sword.”

  Yuri looked up at Terry and saw the flames of the blast reflected in the lens of his sunglasses. “What?”

  “The bomb didn’t detonate properly. He survived. He’s rolling around in the grass. Gimme your sword.”

  Yuri threw his phone onto the dash and unbuckled. “I’ll handle it,” h
e said, drawing his ninjatō. Yuri hopped out of the jalopy and galloped across the street onto the lawn where the target rolled around screaming. Yuri came over top of him and turned the point down. The target, skin melting on his neck and arms, outstretched a pleading hand. Yuri’s eyes burned blue with hate. Then he slammed the point through the target’s chest, hitting the ground on the other side. Yuri torqued the weapon counterclockwise while burning a hole through the target’s face with his eyes.

  BLAM! BLAM!

  There were gunshots.

  Yuri, startled, looked up to his left and bristled. Another man holding a pistol flopped to the ground, face down. Yuri looked back and saw his brother standing on the street with his gun raised, the barrel smoking.

  Yuri recovered his weapon and ran back to the jalopy.

  ***

  Shinbashi, Tokyo, Japan. Today.

  Yuri slithered through a sea of faces, tailing Itsuki Kawaguchi as he weaved through the busy Shinbashi rush-hour crowd. Kawaguchi was the same lanky Asian man who’d commanded the ambush at the shrine and was also the second-highest-ranked Yakuza Terry had connected to the massacre next to the late Shogun. Kawaguchi claimed to be the Shogun’s major domo, and Terry and Yuri were going to make sure that he was buried right next to his boss.

  “Terry, can you see me?” Yuri whispered into the throat mic buried below the neck of his black jacket.

  “Yeah,” Terry replied into Yuri’s earpiece.

  “Kawaguchi’s ten feet ahead of me in the navy-blue suit, sunglasses, and a briefcase in his right hand.”

  “Contact.”

  “Where are you?” Yuri asked.

  “I’m at the bus stop across the way.”

  Yuri looked left, across the congested street, and spotted Terry leaning against a no parking sign within an arm’s reach of the cellphone-crazed mass transit patrons mobbing the bus stop. Terry was wearing a loud designer t-shirt and designer jeans, with a hipster-style bag over his shoulder. Both stood out in the homogenous sea of Asians, but no one noticed Americans in Tokyo. Kawaguchi sure hadn’t, and Yuri had been following him from his place of business for nearly thirty minutes. Kawaguchi stopped at a vendor near the corner of the block and browsed some goods as Yuri passed him, drawing his phone and pretending to search the contacts.