by Gar Wilson
"What?" Encizo asked, a trace of alarm in his voice.
"A ninja," the Briton repeated. "You remember the Tigers of Justice? They were ninja or at least they were trained in ninja methods of infiltration, martial arts and assassination."
"Of course I remember the Tigers of Justice," Encizo snorted. "I still have nightmares about them from time to time. How the hell did a group of Islamic Jihad and Basque terrorists get a ninja to help on a job like this?"
"I'm sure we'll find out," Katz commented, suddenly taking a great interest in the photograph. "What matters is they obviously have at least one ninja, and we'd better assume they've got more. I don't have to tell any of you how dangerous ninja can be."
"They're like shadows that strike from anywhere and can kill in a hundred different ways," Manning recalled. "I sure wish we had Keio for a job like this."
The late Keio Ohara had been an expert in Japanese martial arts, including karate and kendo sword fighting. He had studied the history of the ninja and had known a great deal about their methods, weaponry and fighting styles.
"Maybe we can get somebody who knows even more about ninjutsu," James suggested. "We've worked with him before."
"John Trent," Katz said with a nod. "He assisted us in that mission in San Francisco last year. Very good man. Highly skilled, intelligent and very brave. He's an honorable man. Almost too honorable. And he's a ninja."
"If you can get him, that's fine with me," Brognola said. "But do it quickly. The Vatican situation is already red-hot. It could go from bad to disastrous at any moment. If the terrorists win this round, we'll have to tell every country this side of the Iron Curtain to stock up on body bags."
3
John Trent faced his class. They were young; most were teenagers between the ages of thirteen and sixteen. Trent's martial arts school was located in Little Tokyo, the Japanese district of San Francisco, yet his students were from various ethnic groups.
Trent believed that the study of martial arts encompassed more than learning fighting techniques. Combat skills were destructive unless tempered by self-control, a sense of responsibility and patience. They were traits that would serve the practitioner well in every aspect of his life. They would teach him to respect the right of others to be individuals and to treat his fellow man with consideration and dignity.
Trent had been a martial artist since childhood. Despite his Anglo-Saxon name, he was half Japanese. His father, Victor Trent, had been an American serviceman stationed in Tokyo during the reconstruction period following World War II. Unlike most Occidentals, Sergeant Trent had taken the time to learn more about the Japanese. He had studied their language, history and culture and had realized that it was governments and not people that made wars.
Victor Trent had appreciated the ingenuity and drive of the Japanese. It had not been surprising that the American had chosen to marry a Japanese woman named Nakezuri Reko. The couple had remained in Japan, and in 1955 they had named their first child John Inoshiro Trent.
His middle name was in honor of Nakezuri Inoshiro, Reko's brother and her closest relative to survive the ravages of war. Inoshiro had been an officer in the Imperial Navy, specializing in covert operations. He had been very good at his job. Well-developed espionage and survival skills were very important to the Nakezuri family.
Inoshiro had taken a great interest in his nephew. He had personally instructed John in the mental, physical and spiritual training of ninjutsu. The youth had been an excellent student. Inoshiro could not have been more proud of John had the boy been his own son.
John Trent had continued to develop his martial arts skills after his family had moved to the United States. Trent's principles, his code of honor and philosophy of life, were based on the arts. It had seemed only natural that he had chosen to make his living as an instructor. He hoped to teach the morality and spiritual aspects, as well as the combat skills, to his students.
The class formally bowed to Trent. He returned the gesture. Trent and his students wore white cotton gi uniforms. They were barefoot and wore no jewelry. Their fingernails and toenails were neatly clipped. The floor was polished wood, although tatamai mats covered an area that was used when they practiced their throwing and grappling techniques. Numerous martial arts weapons were mounted on the walls.
"Please be seated," Trent told his class. He waited for the students to sit cross-legged on the floor before he continued. "Today we'll begin freestyle sparring. You've all developed enough control to stop a punch two inches from the target. Don't get carried away. Punches and blocks will be done slowly. Learn the techniques properly and then gradually we'll move on to doing them quickly and with variations."
"Sensei?" a young black student began, referring to Trent by the Japanese word for teacher. "Will we be using kicks as well?"
"Not today," Trent answered. "It takes a great deal of time to learn to control a kick. They are also more difficult to block. Be patient. Fighting skills take time to develop. Steel forged too quickly often becomes brittle."
"Speaking of steel, sensei" a blond youth began, "my brother is a student in one of your advanced classes. You're teaching him sword and stick techniques."
"Your brother Sean has been my student for several years," Trent replied. "He's ready to learn weapon skills. Training in weaponry should not begin until one has developed self-control, discipline and a certain level of skill in unarmed combat. You see, a weapon is an extension of the martial artist. This is true whether the weapon is a fist, a sword or a gun."
"But, sensei, firearms are not part of the martial arts," a Chinese-American boy countered.
"The word martial means combative," Trent said with a smile. "Guns are excellent weapons and no more evil than any other tools of combat. However, as with any other martial art, one must practice and train to handle guns properly. The greatest mistake gunowners make is not learning how to handle the weapon properly. They shouldn't rely on the gun. It's merely a tool, no better or worse than the person who uses it. However, before one learns to use a club or a gun, one should first master unarmed fighting skills. This helps to avoid too much dependence on the weapon. After all, the only weapon that one should really count on is the human body."
Three men entered the dojo. They wore black gi uniforms and yellow sneakers. Red Japanese ideographs on their black belts indicated their rank. Trent recognized the muscular tawny-haired man in the middle. Tony McCoy had operated another martial arts school in San Francisco for many years. In the late sixties, McCoy had claimed to teach "Korean karate." During the early seventies, McCoy had taught "Chinese kung fu." By 1978, McCoy had become an instructor of "full-contact killer karate." Trent was not sure what style McCoy was claiming to teach now.
"Good afternoon, sensei McCoy," Trent greeted, bowing politely. "We are honored to have such noteworthy guests."
The students turned to McCoy and his companions. They bowed to the visitors. McCoy and his friends did not respond. Trent's dark almond-shaped eyes narrowed slightly, but he did not express his annoyance. His Japanese upbringing made him abhor rudeness as much as he detested violence.
"I want to talk to you, Trent," McCoy announced as he stepped forward. Anger filled his sea-green eyes as he glared at Trent.
Trent raised his eyebrows. "I've got a class right now, and it wouldn't be fair to my students to interrupt their instruction. After all, they pay to take this course and they deserve their money's worth. Perhaps we can talk later..."
"Chickenshit bastard, ain't he?" one of the men with McCoy snorted. He was a big man, built like a pro football player.
"Take it easy, Hank," McCoy urged. "We don't really know that Trent's a coward. We just kind of suspect it. By the way, Trent, I didn't introduce my two star pupils. This is Hank Banner and Lenny Pallon. They're both third dan black belts."
"A pleasure to meet you," Trent replied.
Trent was not impressed by their rank. Banner and Pallon had obviously received their black belts from McCoy. T
rent regarded McCoy as a sorry excuse for a sensei, so it was unlikely that his students really merited such a high rank in the martial arts. Their attitude certainly suggested they had not learned any of the values and principles of the arts.
"We don't always act real nice," Pallon commented.
He thumped the end of a bo staff against the floor to emphasize his remark. Pallon was a short well-muscled black man. He teased his hair into a high Afro, probably hoping it would make him seem taller. Trent thought the guy looked like a blowfish.
Pallon twirled the six-foot-long staff as if it were an oversized baton. Trent's students sensed that a confrontation was inevitable. They quietly rose and moved to the walls, clearing the dojo in case Trent and the three unwelcome visitors clashed.
McCoy and his companions approached slowly. Trent folded his arms across his chest and watched the trio. He appeared perfectly calm, although his heart was racing. Trent knew he had a very good reason to be worried.
"You've been stealing students from me, Trent," McCoy complained. "My school is in trouble because of you and the other snotty instructors who've been ripping me off. My business is going down the shitter, and I don't like it."
"Our students are not indentured, Mr. McCoy," Trent told him. "They have a right to join any dojo they choose and to leave it if they're unsatisfied. I've never kidnapped anyone and forced them to attend this school, and I doubt that any of the other instructors have done that. Perhaps the problem with your dojo doesn't stem from an external source."
"Well, I Figure anybody who teaches karate ought to be skilled in the arts," McCoy said with a smile. "And the guy who is best at karate ought to have the most students. So let's see if you're any good, Trent."
"Do you want to have a contest?" Trent said with a shrug. "That's something we can arrange in a civilized manner. May I suggest we contact the Japanese Karate Association and try to come to terms that will be agreeable..."
"Fuck that, you slant-eyed half-breed!" Hank Banner snapped. "Let's get it on right here and now."
"Three against one?" Trent inquired. "What do you call this martial art style, McCoy? Mug-fu?"
"I brought my students along because I don't think you're good enough to fight me, Trent," McCoy declared.
"You really should stop watching those cheap movies on TV," Trent suggested. "I think it's affecting your brain."
"If one of my boys can take you," McCoy continued, "it will prove that my school must be better than yours."
"This is irrational, McCoy," Trent sighed.
"Hank goes first," McCoy announced. "If he doesn't kick your ass, Lenny will take you on."
"Relax, Lenny," Banner laughed. "Reckon all you'll get to do is watch me mop up the place with this piece of shit."
Banner unknotted his black belt and tossed it aside. He pulled off his jacket to reveal bulging biceps and a thickly muscled chest and abdomen. Banner was obviously a weight lifter and bodybuilder. He clearly enjoyed showing off his handiwork.
"You sure you want to do this, yellow boy?" Banner asked Trent. "Not too late to beg for mercy."
"Does that mean you're having second thoughts?" Trent asked innocently.
Hank Banner growled an obscenity and lunged forward. He raised his arms and flashed his hands in a quick flurry that was intended to distract his opponent. Trent was familiar with the tactic. He took a giant step forward, then to the side. Banner launched a vicious snap kick. His foot lashed through the air, missing Trent by more than six inches.
A palm shoved Banner's shoulder, easily knocking him off-balance. The big man fell to the floor with a surprised grunt. Banner stared up at Trent, uncertain of what had happened. Trent waited for his opponent to get up.
"Sneaky fuck," Banner snarled as he scrambled to his feet.
He feinted with his right hand, waved his left and swiftly pumped his right fist at Trent's solar plexus. The heel of a palm stroke deflected the attack as Trent shuffled to the side. Trent drove a short uppercut under the big man's ribs. Then he bent his elbow and rammed it into the same target.
Banner groaned and slashed a wild backhanded fist at his tormentor. Trent weaved away from the attack and swung a high kick toward Banner's face. The heel of his bare foot slammed into Banner's jawbone. The big man's head snapped back as he staggered under the impact of the powerful blow.
Trent stiffened his fingers into a nukite spear hand and prepared to deliver a deadly "poison hand" thrust, barely stopping himself from completing the stroke. Banner did not present a mortal danger; it was not necessary to kill him. Trent suddenly pivoted and pumped a side kick into Banner's midsection. The big man doubled up in agony. Trent slashed a karate chop to Banner's facial nerve. The man was unconscious before his naked chest slapped the hardwood floor.
"Sensei!" several students cried urgently.
Trent saw a blur of motion out of the corner of his eye. Lenny Pallon was swinging his bo staff at Trent's skull. Trent ducked as the long oak shaft whistled above his head. Pallon immediately altered the stroke to a backhand sweep. The staff slammed into Trent's upper arm and propelled him across the room.
Pallon lunged, thrusting the bo as if it were a lance. Trent sidestepped. The staff cut through air less than an inch from Trent's left hip. His hands streaked out, and he seized the wooden shaft. Banner tried to wrench the weapon free, but Trent shifted his feet into a horse stance to keep his balance.
He shot a high side kick into Pallon's face. The bare foot caught the black man in the mouth. Pallon's head recoiled as blood bubbled from his split lip, but he held on to the staff.
Trent pulled the bo forcibly, hauling Pallon forward. He whipped a backhanded fist into his opponent's face. The big middle knuckle rapped Pallon right between the eyes. The fist opened, and Trent slashed a knifelike hand chop to Pallon's wrist, breaking the punk's grip on the staff. He immediately rammed his elbow into the black man's breastbone. The blow propelled Pallon four feet.
Pallon tumbled to the floor. He started to rise as Trent closed in. A bare foot stamped the floor, startling and distracting Pallon. He did not see Trent swing a punch, but he felt the knuckles crash into the side of his face. Pallon slumped to the floor. He started to get up, moaned softly and passed out.
"Well, McCoy, this was your idea, wasn't it?" Trent questioned. He was hardly breathing any heavier than normal after defeating both opponents.
"It... it was a mistake, Trent," McCoy said in a quivering voice. He bowed deeply. "I'm sorry, sensei."
"Apologize to your students," Trent replied. "You wronged them by wasting their time and stealing their money. You didn't teach them karate, McCoy. You simply succeeded in making these bullies worse than they already were."
Trent turned his back to McCoy and walked slowly away. This was the ultimate insult. McCoy had presented himself as an enemy, and Trent had turned his back to him. This implied that McCoy was such an inferior opponent that he did not present a threat even if he attacked from behind.
McCoy had lost face, and his chances of reviving his dojo were now hopelessly crushed. When others heard about this incident, McCoy's reputation would be ruined. There seemed to be only one chance to salvage his dignity and to turn defeat into victory. He rushed forward and launched a treacherous side kick at the small of Trent's back. The kick could cripple Trent for life, but McCoy did not care if he snapped his opponent's spine in two.
Trent whirled and swept a forearm against McCoy's ankle. The attacker was nearly thrown off-balance. Trent's left foot swung a short roundhouse kick just above McCoy's kidney. McCoy's body jackknifed from the blow, yet he was able to slash a shuto chop at Trent. Forearm struck forearm as Trent blocked the attack. His left fist tagged McCoy at the corner of the jaw.
McCoy staggered backward. Trent did not give him time to recover. His right leg executed a fast snap kick to McCoy's stomach. The man started to double up. His head moved into the path of Trent's left foot. The roundhouse kick split the skin on McCoy's right cheek and knocked him
to the floor. He rolled with the fall and sprang to his feet.
"I'm going kill you for that!" McCoy snarled.
"I've heard that before," Trent replied with a mock yawn.
McCoy's hands whirled deceptively as he threw a short kick for Trent's groin. The foot swung away sharply as McCoy suddenly altered the move to a high roundhouse kick aimed at Trent's head. A forearm executed a rising block to stop the kick. Trent jabbed a fist into his opponent's sternum and followed with a circular heel-of-the-palm stroke to the side of McCoy's face.
His arms whirled like a windmill in a hurricane. Trent stepped forward and drove both fists into McCoy's torso. The double punch lifted Tony McCoy off his feet and pitched him two yards. He crash-landed to the floor. McCoy did not attempt to rise. Only the slight movement of his diaphragm indicated that he was still alive.
"Your demonstrations are getting a little rough, aren't they, John?" a familiar voice inquired.
Trent turned toward the sound of the voice. Calvin James stood at the dojo's entrance. Trent had first met James when the black hardass had been a member of San Francisco's SWAT team. Trent had taught an advanced self-defense course to the police officers. James had been an exceptional student. He had come to Trent with a second dan black belt in tae kwon do, so that the sensei had probably learned as much from James as the student had from his teacher.
The last time they had met, James had been part of a five-man commando unit. Trent had joined the ace strike force in a mission to stop an Asian crime syndicate called TRIO. For the first time, Trent had actually needed his ninja skills for a dangerous covert operation — just as his ancestors had hundreds of years ago.
Trent had often thought about that mission. The experience had been terrifying, yet exciting and satisfying because the enemy had been evil and had needed to be stopped. It had been the sort of mission that a ninja was supposed to carry out. Now James had returned. Trent wondered if the mysterious strike force needed him again.
