Death Before Dishonor Page 39

  “Sit up,” Terry demanded.

  Nishida did, wincing.

  Terry’s blade was nose to nose with the Momochi kōchō now. “I am Terry Ciccone, kōchō of the Fujibayashi. My brother and I are the survivors of your failed conspiracy. You know why I’m here,” Terry said coolly.

  Yuri walked up behind Terry.

  “I do,” Nishida replied. There was dignity and defiance in his eyes, but there was also resignation.

  “Would it that I could exterminate the entirety of the Momochi and the Yakuza. I will settle for the lives of your leaders.”

  “I am defeated, Ciccone Sensei. You have bested me, and I am bleeding out. Grant me seppuku, so that I may find honor.”

  “Fuck that,” Yuri spat. “Let’s chuck him off the ravine.”

  “No.”

  “Don’t go soft on me, Terry. We’re here to send a message.”

  “I can’t do it. My arm is injured.”

  “What? Where?” Yuri checked his brother’s arms, finding the open wound and the waterfall of blood. “Damn. You okay?”

  “I’ll live,” Terry said over his shoulder. Then he returned his attention to the Momochi kōchō. “Nishida Sensei, I grant you seppuku. Yuri Ciccone will be your secondary.”

  Nishida nodded, peeling off his tunic slowly and drawing his tanto from his belt.

  Terry slid past Nishida and positioned himself opposite of his brother. Yuri stowed his pistol and drew his ninjatō as he approached to striking distance.

  “Do you have any final words, Nishida Sensei?” Terry asked as he dug in his pack and extracted a glow stick.

  “Killing me and cadre will not return your clan to honor, Ciccone Sensei,” Nishida said, his breathing labored from the pain and blood loss. “It was your former kōchō that orchestrated these events. He approached me, not I him. As long as he lives, your clan will forever be dishonored. No amount of killing can change that.”

  Kawaguchi had said something similar, about Kintake, anyway. Terry mostly didn’t believe Kawaguchi, but Nishida’s words made Terry reconsider the possibility. One thing was for sure: Kintake was alive.

  Terry cracked the glow stick, shook it, and placed it on Nishida’s shoulder. “Get it on with it, Nishida Sensei. We can’t stay much longer, and if you delay us, we’ll just kill you outright.”

  Nishida nodded and then sat up as straight as his injuries would allow. He kneaded his waistline just inside his hip, looking for the surest spot to drive the blade into this gut. He found it and positioned the tanto. “Ciccone Sensei,” Nishida aspirated, “will you assist me? I don’t have the strength. My injuries are too great.”

  “You must think me stupid, Nishida Sensei. You won’t have the luxury of ambushing me while I lean over you. Get on with it, or I’ll oblige my brother’s initial demand to heave you from the ravine.”

  Nishida sighed, closing his eyes and accepting that Terry was not as naïve as he had hoped. He’d wished to take one of their assailants with him. Truly defeated, Nishida resigned himself and drove his tanto into his abdomen with a continuous grunt. Then he jerked it upward twice.

  Yuri sliced a line from his shoulder to Nishida’s jaw, cleaving open his mouth and skull like a partially chopped tree. Yuri didn’t feel that Nishida deserved a dignified death and had seen to it that he didn’t receive one by maiming him instead and leaving him to die horribly against the stone.

  Terry didn’t take the time to argue.

  Chapter Twenty-one: Die by the Sword

  Al Barsha. Jebel Ali, Dubai, United Arab Emirates. Today.

  The sand and the dust of the desert paradise were starkly different from the atmosphere in Honshu to which Kintake had been accustomed to over the past sixty years. He couldn’t say that he loved sand, but sand was a symbol of something he had never felt until now: freedom. Here, just outside of downtown Dubai, near the industrial port of Jebel Ali and the Southwest Asian jewel of the Mall of the Emirates, Kintake maintained a martial arts school. His little piece of freedom for the first time. For that, he could love sand.

  True that he operated the martial arts school in Tokyo, but that was an illusion of freedom. That school wasn’t owned by him; the Yakuza owned it. Part of the deal was that Kintake would act as an assassin for the Shogun as well as train the Shogun’s recruits—shatei. The illusion was strained by Kintake’s responsibility to the Fujibayashi and the former Shinobi-no-mono—Saburo Moroi. And the more distance or more time Kintake put between himself and Togakure Ryu, the more Saburo Moroi increased the pressure for him to return; pressure that often erupted into heated arguments and threats. But even the illusion of freedom offered a much-needed reprieve from the suffocation of Ninpo. It paled, however, in comparison to the freedom he felt now.

  Now, he had his own residence and his own school. He wasn’t beholden to anyone’s code, nor did he have to answer the call of a paymaster. His life as a Shinobi was over. His plan had worked, finally. The cost had been great, and it hadn’t gone off exactly perfectly, but it had worked. And he was free. For the first time. Free.

  Kintake’s voice echoed as he barked a command. With impressive silence, arms and bodies jerked and snapped into position. He gave another, and their limbs swung and snapped again. Parents of myriad ethnicities, mostly Arab and Filipino, lined the perimeter of the training floor and watched with amazement the skill of their young students. Omiyoshu Sensei had disciplined the youngsters into fine athletes with an exclusive art.

  Kintake was the only instructor in the region that taught little-known arts daken-taijutsu and ju-taijutsu. He informed newcomers that his art wasn’t the commercialized, competitive styles that the vogue, boutique-style schools taught. His art was a special discipline that had been passed down for generations to only the most exclusive groups—only the most serious, focused minds. He even used a wicker basket filled with beads to teach potential students to pay attention to detail; it hooked them every time.

  Kintake couldn’t have asked for a more dedicated clientele. He even had a wait list of potential clients salivating to learn. Business was good and prosperous. Kintake had only been able to dream of a successful life of his own creation. Never did he think it would truly happen. But here he was, teaching a classful of hungry students a world away from Ninpo.

  He barked another command.

  They obeyed.

  His clients were deeply fascinated with his charisma, expertise, and his background. Where was he from? Where did he learn taijutsu? What was his life like? And why did he choose to bring his art to Dubai? Kintake explained that he was from a rural, forgotten region of Japan that was leagues from the hustle of urban life.

  He commanded. They obeyed. Arms and bodies snapped into a new position.

  Kintake said that he came to teach a dying art and to mentor a new generation, to provide them with a legacy that connected them to a rich and ancient past.

  He commanded again. They obeyed. Arms and bodies snapped into another position.

  Kintake said that his family had moved on from his art, disapproving of Kintake’s chosen path—a tragic loss but a necessary one.

  He commanded one last time, and the youngsters concluded with a showy display that left their parents in awe. Kintake scanned the small crowd of parents—their eyes bright and faces so full of life. Then he saw those eyes. Two unmistakable, icy-blue, hateful orbs, like a predator’s eyes glowing in rogue light.

  Ice began to form in Kintake’s stomach and began to climb his esophagus. He swallowed hard, trying to push the feeling back down. His eyes darted across the cascade of parents and found Terry further to the right. Kintake’s eyes found Yuri again, who bored holes in Kintake’s face with his eyes. Kintake never even saw them come in, nor had the parents, who were still completely oblivious to their presence.

  They’d found him.

  Of course they’d found him; finding targets was what they were trained to do—it was what he had trained them to do. Kintake tried to remain unfazed. Admittedl
y, it was hard when he could see the contemptuous hunger in Yuri’s face and the cold menace in Terry’s. Kintake had truly hoped that they’d be killed in their crusade when they weren’t killed during the ritual combat. He’d been sure, at the very least, the Momochi would finally put the brothers down. But deep down inside, he’d known it would come to this: him versus them.

  Terry and Yuri said nothing. The patrons did not suspect the threat lurking among them, but they could feel it. There was a sudden skittish tension in the room like deer watching dark tree lines for the movement of wolves.

  The brothers could have drawn a gun and shot him by now; they hadn’t, though. That meant that they had come with a parlay in mind. Perhaps Kintake could talk them down. It was an unlikely chance, but it offered better odds of survival—or at least a diversion until he could escape—than fighting both of them did.

  A warm smile stretched across Kintake’s face. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, clasping his hands together, “I’m sorry, but I have to end our session early this evening.”

  The patrons were a sea of confusion. Kintake never ended early. He devoutly held to schedule, asserting that consistency was the mortar of discipline and that discipline couldn’t be rushed.

  “Please, I ask that you all excuse me. I have two out-of-town guests that have just arrived unexpectedly, and I really must attend to them. “

  The emotions were mixed. Some immediately called to their children. Some scanned the room for the interruption, landing on the two strangers. Some were indignant.

  Terry ignored them, staring hard at Kintake.

  Yuri’s patience with the suspicious occlusion of people wore thin. “I’ll start killing everyone in here,” Yuri said aloud, drawing his ninjatō and whipping it in a lazy display around his shoulders. “If any of you stay, or you choose to dilly-dally, it’s your funeral.”

  The tension-humid air thickened, and a dose of malice was injected when Terry hefted a naginata from a rack, lifting it to eye level to check the weapon’s shaft for warping and integrity. He gave the room a sinister look that rivaled his brother’s. The patrons got the message—there was a real possibility of violence—and started filing out. One patron asked Kintake if he needed help, to which he answered, “No, I will be just fine. I must speak to these gentlemen about a family affair. Please, afford us the time. I am terribly sorry for this inconvenience.”

  One teenage student even claimed that if Kintake was feeling threatened that he and the other experienced students would defend him.

  “Cute, kid,” Terry said, cracking a grin and resting the shaft of the weapon against his shoulder. “We don’t do karate. Now get out before you get hurt.”

  Kintake smiled warmly, nodded, and then indicated the door with his hand. Everyone drained out through the door. It was just Kintake, Terry, and Yuri now.

  “I suspect,” Kintake began, wringing has hands, “that you came to talk, since neither of you has attacked.”

  “I was advised to postpone decapitating you immediately,” Yuri deadpanned. “Wait for it, though. It’s coming.”

  “Indeed,” Kintake replied, sounding almost amused.

  “You owe us an explanation,” said Terry.

  Yuri jumped in. “You owe him an explanation. I could care less what you have to say.”

  Terry didn’t miss a beat. “You owe us an explanation. You said that you would answer our questions if we survived the ritual. Now you have a lot to answer for.”

  “Fair enough.” Kintake nodded. “May I ask how it is that you found me?”

  They stared hard.

  “I thought not.”

  Terry’s hand shot up, presenting a picture of his parents found in the trophy book dedicated to Oharu’s kills. “What is this?”

  “Well, this is a bit awkward to say the least—”

  Yuri cut him off. “Answer the fucking question, Kintake.” That was the first time Yuri had ever addressed him by his first name.

  “Why did Oharu have it?” Terry asked.

  “Oharu was a lieutenant in the Yakuza—an ambitious one—and a hitman.”

  “Did he kill our parents?”

  Kintake chewed his bottom lip as he considered his answer.

  “Did you know the whole time?”

  Kintake locked eyes with Terry and exhaled as he thought about what to say and how to say it.

  “Did you betray the clan?”

  Kintake held Terry’s stare.

  “If he isn’t going to answer anything, Terry, I’m just going to gut him and be done with it,” Yuri said.

  “Listen, all is not what it seems. There have—”

  “No more lies!” Terry roared. “Kawaguchi ratted you out before I splattered his brains all over a train terminal. And a week later, before Yuri hacked a slice out of Nishida’s face, he corroborated the story. All this after you called to meet with Akiko at Izumo Ryu temple. And after you lied about Oharu being Fujibayashi.”

  Kintake shrugged. “Part of me knew it would end up this way. I always knew. I just hoped it wouldn’t.”

  Yuri’s brow furrowed. “You always knew betraying your clan—your people—would end this way? You make it sound like betrayal is something to aspire to.”

  “I have betrayed no one. I have wanted nothing save to be free. Surely, you, Yuri, understand that. You too wanted to be free.”

  Yuri’s lip curled.

  “Free?” asked Terry.

  “Yes.”

  “Free from what?”

  “From Ninpo. Just like Yuri wanted.” Kintake indicated him with his chin.

  The brothers looked at each other.

  Kintake continued, “Ninpo is an undying slave ship with a captain who tells lies of honor and paradise. It sails without end with a rotting cargo of downtrodden souls. It cleaves to a tide of despair and throws its crew overboard to ensure that it remains seaworthy. Do you not see? We have been slaves to dead masters. We always have been. I freed you. I freed all of us.”

  Terry’s face pruned. “On what planet does this make any sense? You didn’t free us; you sent us to die in an ambush that the evidence claims you orchestrated.”

  “No, Ninpo sent you to die. I was under no obligation to stop you from doing what you thought was right.”

  “Don’t give us that bullshit, Kintake. You made the decision. You chose the fighters. You negotiated the terms,” Terry said, stabbing the air with his finger to each point. “You sent us to die, and then you had the Fujibayashi murdered—massacred.”

  “The Momochi and Yakuza did that.”

  A wave of anger washed over Terry’s body at Kintake’s denial of responsibility. “Convenient. A scapegoat for your actions. Plausible deniability. If you wanted freedom so badly, you could have taken to the battlefield yourself, and they’d have happily set you free.”

  Kintake showed them his hands. “Were it that easy. Do you think the Momochi would have sat by idly had we not abided the code? Do you think they would have hesitated in descending into Togakure Ryu to exact bloody retribution? There was never an end in sight. Lives have been thrown away for Ninpo since its inception, and there were going to be many more after you, just like there were many before you. I fought in the ritual a generation before you, and the loss was great, unbearably so. Both of my brothers were killed so that Saburo Moroi could ascend to Shinobi-no-mono. I bared the scars of my brothers’ deaths,” Kintake said, tracing his facial scar with his finger, “ever since. I even lost my mother to it. I, however, resolved to end the cycle.”

  “And that justifies betrayal?”

  “Would you not kill for your parents?” Kintake paused to let them consider it.

  There was silence except for the drumming of Terry’s heart and the crackling fire inside Yuri.

  Kintake continued, “Why then should I be different? Besides, you cannot betray that which you claim no affiliation with. That is why I would not allow your brethren to kill you, Yuri. Because you, like me, wanted nothing to do with Ninpo.
”

  “Don’t compare me to you,” Yuri snapped. “I’m nothing like you.”

  “What makes you so certain?”

  “Because I want to be free of Ninpo. I won’t murder innocent people to achieve it.”

  “And that is why you are, and always will be, a slave. Freedom is not always clean. It so often requires blood.”

  Terry felt heat rising from his stomach. “Was Akiko’s death part of your calculus? Was this self-perceived emancipation worth the life of your own daughter? Were you even aware that she’s dead? Does that even matter to you?”

  Kintake’s jaw tensed, and he exhaled a sound of resignation through his nose. “Yes, on all counts. You, Terry, sent her…my daughter…to eliminate the Shogun. When she was done, I”—he paused—“took her life. I had to.”

  Terry bristled as anger began to boil his insides, and he lurched forward a step before regaining control. Now, knowing that she was murdered by the very man who gave her life, Terry considered foregoing the need for answers, for blood. He hung his head and tapped it with the shaft of the naginata as he figured out where to put his swelling emotions, his vision blurred from tears. As if the massacre wasn’t bad enough to deal with, her death was one more weight added to the burden.

  Yuri’s breathing became labored watching his brother’s anguish. Akiko’s death was tough, but it was no more injurious for Yuri than the individual deaths of the Fujibayashi. He knew, though, it was one hell of a blow for Terry. Terry had always had something for her; in another life, he would have wanted to love her. Now there was no chance. Even the dream was shattered. Yuri’s eyes found Kintake again and blazed hotter than before as he began to pace the edge of the room.

  Kintake retreated a few steps and raised his hands in a display of quiescence. “It was a calculated risk. My daughter made her choice—to be a slave. I tried to free her in life. I had no other choice but to free her in death. There was no reasoning with her. She was more like her mother than she was like me in that regard.