“Bitch! Whore! No daughter of mine is going to refuse me like this! The Nakamuras won’t stand for it and neither will I!” He wrapped his hands around my throat and began to squeeze.
We rolled over and over on the filthy pavement, scattering trash and a few stray rats every which way. Our grunts and solid impacts echoed in the strangely silent alleyway. Finally, he got the upper hand by straddling my chest, squeezing tighter around my throat. My lungs were bursting from lack of air as my eyesight started to telescope into blackness. Desperate, my hand flailed about to find something, anything at all that could be used as a weapon. Something rolled as my fingers touched it, something hard and smooth. Not thinking, I said a prayer, closed my eye, grabbed and swung it at his head. The resulting rain of glass on my face told me what my hand held. The spray of blood on my face, followed by a wet gurgling sound from Dad as he rolled off me, told me the bottle had cut something vital. The moment I was free, my feet lashed out to connect solidly with his body while putting as much distance between the two of us as possible. Quickly, I wiped my face with a hand, trying to get the blood and glass away from my eye. When I looked up, the image would remain with me for all time. My dad, bleeding to death in front of me with his throat slashed from ear to ear. Not trusting myself to stand, I crawled to his side and began to apply pressure to his wound with one hand, using the other to dial nine-one-one using his cell phone.
Chapter Eleven
>Three hours later, I climbed out of the police cruiser that brought me home, thoroughly exhausted. The emergency room doctors said my ribs were cracked, not broken, then taped me up with support bandages. They cleaned the blood and glass from my face and hair, making sure they hadn’t missed any other cuts or bleeding areas. My voice, they said, would return to normal in a few days once the bruising went down. The next stop had been an escort to the police station for a round of questions and paperwork signing. Shock from everything that happened, still held me in it‘s powerful grip, numbing me to whatever else went on around me. Several witnesses had come forward to tell the police that Paul Montegard had been harassing people on the docks. Loudly demanding to know the location of my houseboat, threatening police action if they didn’t cooperate. Dad had totally ignored the fact that there were signs posted all over the place that security cameras were everywhere. The whole thing got captured on tape. The security guard brought in the tape while I sat in the interrogation room, still wearing my bloodstained clothes. He also handed over his own report files on the things my Dad had done.
Incidentally, Mr. Paul Montegard, became listed as a DOA. The empty wine bottle had shattered on impact and literally shredded his jugular. The medics approved of my actions to keep him alive, but by the time they got on the scene, he had bled out. One of the cops who had watched me grow up, dropped me off at the gate to my house. He offered to stay, but I just needed to be by myself for the night and reassured him everything was fine. Once the door was shut to the living room, the delayed reactions set in, flooding me with everything the shock and numbness had buffered me from.
“Shit!” I yelled slamming a fist into the wall. The result was me, doubled over and clasping my throat as it protested the abuse of my vocal chords. Then as the ribs protested, a groan of pain became more pronounced. I couldn’t win for losing as my hand began to throb and bruises started to blossom over the knuckles. I slid down the wall to huddle there with emotional and physical pain riding me hard.
The mental agony released me from its powerful grip around six pm. Two hours to try and hide the signs of violence on my body. I absolutely would not miss meeting a semi-mystery man who sent me three cranes in a row, and being an assassin to boot. Add in the recommendation from Amaterasu, and I realized I’d better get going even if I was battered and bruised. I quickly took a hot shower removed the blood and glass from the rest of my body, revealing some exquisitely sore spots and colorful bruises, which felt as bad as they looked. Not too bad, I thought, considering the alternative.
Glancing at my image in the mirror made me wince. My throat was a mass of sickly bruised flesh that extended from collarbone up to just below my jaw. More bruises decorated my ribs and arms, the colors running from blue to black, to a putrid green and yellow color. As I looked at my face in the mirror, the last piece of horror hit me in the head with the proverbial force of a baseball bat. “Oh fuck,” I whispered softly to my image in the mirror. “Please tell me my dad did not say what he said. Please?” Asking my image to deny the truth of Dad‘s words is a useless effort, but it didn’t prevent me from trying anyway.
The Nakamura clan. Yakuza on PCP, and a permanent case of PMS. From what my dad told me about organized crime families and their ways of getting what they wanted, these guys made all the rest look like petty thieves. Nasty bunch. You name it, or can even imagine it, they do it. Their chosen method of killing off rivals is skinning them alive, then slowly removing the bones from the body until there’s nothing left but muscle and tissue. Their hands were in everything from politics to the lowest form of trade goods. Slaves for the sweatshops, whorehouses, and the drug trade. Their taste in human cargo ran to little children. Their motto for the trade, ‘Break ‘em, Use ‘em, then Lose ‘em.’ At least that’s the rough translation. It sounds a lot harsher in Japanese. Cold-blooded and ruthless are too mild of terms for these people.
“Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!” My body suddenly went cold during the tirade against myself. If they’d got to Dad... I wasted no more time on thinking and called a cab, telling it to be ready at my address in an hour. Naked, my hands pulled a giant C-Bag from my bedroom closet, I began stuffing the two main swords down the center of it, then tossing in jeans, t-shirts, and a couple pairs of hiking boots. On top of that went the laptop and the digital camera. Each in their own individual, padded, carrying cases. Only then did I throw on a plumb colored turtleneck sweater, a pair of black cotton drawstring pants, a leather vest with deep inside pockets, and had fur lined parka set aside, just in case. Into the vest went the Tanto, disk with pictures, and a wallet with my ID in it. By the time the taxi beeped, I practically ran out the door, locking it on the fly. Up the ramp, the aged taxi driver popped the trunk of his cab without a word. Slinging my bag inside, I took a good look around the area before sliding into a vehicle that smelled of cigar smoke, old upholstery, and rust.
“Where to, ma’am?” he asked politely.
I thought for a moment, then gave him the address of the Edgewater hotel. “When we get there, wait for me to come back out. I’ll pay extra for the service. I have a dinner appointment and don‘t want to be late.” My voice cracked from the abuse, causing me to wince slightly.
“Sure, ma’am.” he glanced at me in the mirror. “You going to be all right?” The concern in his voice was real.
I smiled at him, “I’m fine, just healing from a post-breakup attack. Someone I used to care about didn’t know the meaning of the word, no.” I wrapped my arms around my ribs, hugging tightly and tried to deal with the situation. I had just killed my own dad in self-defense and couldn’t even dredge up any remorse or tears for him.
He made sympathetic noises and got me to the hotel in record time. As I got out, he turned to me. “I sure hope the cops gave him a taste of his own medicine.”
I gritted my teeth as my ribs protested the strain of lifting my C-bag out of the trunk. “He got what he deserved. Now, I’ll be right back.”
He nodded. I walked out fifteen minutes later, a key to my room tucked safely in a pocket. Back in the cab, I handed him a twenty as a tip. “Get me to the Marakesh on Second Street by eight and I’ll be a happy camper.”
The twenty disappeared and we took off up the street and through traffic. Like most taxi cab drivers, mine had a partially insane bent to him. We got through traffic at almost light speed. Amazingly, I didn’t get any gray hair at all from the insanity. For all his erratic driving, however, he delivered me to the front door of the Marakesh at precisely seven forty-five. I paid the fare, an
d added an extra thirty to sweeten his day and grinned at him. “Thanks for waiting on me.”
He smiled his appreciation. “Thanks, ma’am. If you need anything else, just call for Max Bonetti. I’ll be there at your beck and call anytime.” Before putting the cab in gear and zooming away to another pickup.
I sighed and thought, “Now would be a good time for advice, Goddess.”
Her voice, like a soothing balm to my raw nerves, flowed into my head. “Just try to relax and you will be fine. Your soul is hurting, I know. But, you had no choice in the matter of your father. He was truly trying to kill you. It isn’t your fault.”
Shaking my head, I pulled up my turtleneck and murmured. “Now I have to convince myself of that fact.”
“Yes, you do. However, do not turn down help when offered. It could save your life.” With that, she left, leaving an empty spot in my mind.
I smoothed my vest down, making sure the Tanto was not visible, then went inside. The matre’d looked up and smiled. “Yes?”
Looking her in the eye, “Terri Montegard.”
“Follow me, please.” She made her way through the low tables and pillows. According to what I knew, this place only had live entertainment on Fridays and Saturdays. Thank the Goddess. Belly dancers and drumming music were not what my mind could handle at the moment.
I followed the woman to a darkened corner of the room that looked almost like a cubbyhole with a curtain drawn across the entrance. A hand appeared from inside and drew aside the amber colored silk. Looking at the face staring at me from within the cubicle, my heart stopped beating for three or four seconds as my mind recognized the man sitting there. Markus, the Kage Oni, lounged on a pile of pillows. Glaring at him before moving slowly to sit down, I tried to find a comfortable position to sit in. Not a simple thing when my body ached in places that shouldn’t normally be aching. Gritting my teeth and keeping silent seemed the best course of action if any explanations were forthcoming. I settled for scooting a couple pillows back to the wall, then sitting there, letting the solid wood support my back while sitting. Inhaling through my nose confirmed the identity of the person in front of me. Sandalwood. His scent of choice. Good to know that some things about this whole mess were predictable.
Markus turned to the matre’d. “Mint tea with honey to start off with. I special ordered our meal from the cook before we arrived. Could you tell him that he can begin serving any time?” he said softly. She nodded and left us, returning shortly with a tray of drinks, setting them on the table.
We had a small amount of privacy after the drinks were served. “Talk to me. You weren’t just in Japan for the Musashi blade up for auction, were you?” Speaking caused me to wince, forcing me to swallow a small amount of tea to ease the rawness in my throat.
He sipped his tea and stared at me for a long moment. He seemed even more handsome now than when we first met. Embarrassed, I lowered my gaze to the cup of tea wrapped in his hands. A heated fantasy of what those hands could do, marched across my mind. Heat pooled in my stomach, causing me to blush at the heated images of those hands caressing my nipples, slowly parting the folds of my…
His soft voice broke through my wandering thoughts. “Who attacked you?”
I took another sip of my tea, letting the heat soothe my vocal chords, and get my body under control. “My father. Drunk and hyped up on drugs.”
“Why?”
“He thought I had information and he said he‘d get it one way or another.” I shrugged, then winced. “He didn’t take kindly to the word…no.”
Markus shook his head and looked me in the eye. “My real name is Markus Castillo. The blade auction isn’t the reason I showed up in Japan. However, I do run a lucrative antique weapons business out of Barcelona.”
I opened my mouth to say something, but the first course of our meal arrived and it took some time to arrange the small table for all the food. Snagging some of the food and looking him over would’ve been a visual delight if the situation hadn’t been so severe. He wore a long-sleeved dark gray shirt and black jeans. Both served to enhance a well-muscled body. His face showed plenty of laugh lines around the corners of each eye and when he smiled at something the waitress said, a pair of intriguing dimples popped into existence. All this and a permanent five o’clock shadow on his face made him look rugged, in a sophisticated sort of way.
When we were alone again, I said softly, “A nice city, Markus Castillo. But you are avoiding my question, Kage Oni. Why were you in Kamakura? And why the origami cranes?” Nibbling a piece of cheese, I tossed out something, “You were the one that protected me outside the temple.”
His eyes went dark with suspicion. My deliberate use of that nickname had been my ploy to get a rise out of him. Also to let him know that the gloves had come off. “Do not speak that name aloud in places you don’t know, Terri. It is not a name to take lightly,” he growled. “Someone paid a lot of money to kill you.” After a few moments, he looked away, as if the thought of doing me in was distasteful.
I ate some of the softer foods on the table in silence, such a move constantly brought my hand within reach of the knife tucked snugly in my vest. “Then why am I still in the world of the living?” My eye took in an artful design on the tabletop. “First, you sneak in on my meditations at the shrine of Amaterasu, then you slip a crane onto my hospital food tray. Next, you keep me from the hands of four morons in monkey suits, now the swords. So talk. I want some answers.”
He sipped his tea, pouring more from the pot conveniently left for us both on one end of the table. “I always leave my calling card to my victims. My training gives me the ability to be unfelt and unseen even if I am sitting within inches of your face.” He shook his head as if chasing the memory away. “When I am hired to do a job, the image usually comes before the target. In your case, strangely enough, no image came to mind, making it very disconcerting for me. Then I saw you at the shrine, my hands made your symbol. The crane is a symbol of Hope and Peace.”
For some odd reason, I couldn’t keep my eyes off his mouth. Telling my baser self to shut the hell up and get out of the gutter, my hand reached for some of the garlic spread and a slice of warm bread. “I am well aware of what the crane means. My stepfather taught me a lot about Japanese culture.” I paused to lick the spread off one of my fingers. “Go on.”
“I could have killed you more than a dozen times, but I found myself questioning why you were the target. All the research I had done on you, and every observation on you showed me no reason why you should die. I went back to the people that paid my fee and asked questions about this particular job. The answer I received did not sit well with me.” His eyes sparked with anger at the memory. When he didn’t elaborate, I figured that the response was more along the violent side, rather than a verbal one.
I leaned forward, ignoring the sharp pain of my ribs while trying to concentrate on the here and now. “Do tell. Because it may help save my ass.” Scratching an itch under my chin, I growled out in annoyance. “If I don’t get at least a partial explanation for all this garbage, I‘m going to go insane. First, the O-Bon explosion, then my stepfather’s cottage blowing up, almost killing us both and now my dad is on a slab in the morgue with his throat shredded by a broken bottle. All he would tell me is the Nakamura Clan wanted information that, presumably, I had. This is just getting better and better.” I put my face in my hands. As if that would wipe away the memories that would haunt me for the rest of my life.
He sat up ramrod straight, as if zapped with a cattle prod. “What did you say?” The intensity in his voice made me look up, and into those eyes. He lowered his voice and the harsh, angry words rushed out. “The Nakamura family is one of the coldest and bloodiest of the Yakuza clans.” He parted the curtain slightly to check the door. “What happened, tell me!”
I explained the whole nine yards, from me stepping off the plane yesterday morning to our dinner. “I’m on the run, Markus. So if you don’t mind, I would like some answ
ers of my own this time around.” Exhaustion began creeping into my voice as the whole day came crashing into my battered body all at once. Slumping onto my elbows, I reached for another piece of something to eat.
He spoke something in Greek, which brought the cook out from the kitchen nearby. Apparently, the two were good friends. They chattered away for a few moments before turning back to me. “Do you have a place to stay?”
I nodded. “Yes, and it’s not in my own name. Stupidity is not an option, Marcus. Getting home is going to be a bitch, though. It’ll take a while to get a taxi to stop by.”
He nodded. “Let’s get you back to your room and I’ll answer all your questions there.”
“Okay, but this is the last evasion I’ll tolerate.” I parted my vest slightly to show him the Tanto within easy reach of my hand. He may be an assassin, but I’d bet my next steak dinner that he wouldn’t be fast enough to stop a knife this close to him.
He looked at the knife, then into my eyes. The intensity of that gaze almost made me blush, but I managed not to. “I understand.” He whispered softly. “No more evasions. Because we’re both prey for the predators now.”
****
Back in my hotel room, a pair of old jeans and a dark green t-shirt came out of my duffle on the way to the bathroom. Sitting in dress up stuff while listening to Markus tell me that a psycho killer of the Yakuza clan wanted me dead is not going to happen. After checking the rib bandage and my neck, I splashed water on my face, using a hand towel to dry off with. A moment’s hesitation and the Tanto went with me back into the main room. Some primal instinct told me to never go without at least one weapon while this game was running.
Diane Taylor - [The Montegard Files] Page 10
