The Warrior

by Sharon Sala

  “Everyone on the floor! Now!” he screamed.

  The bank guard stood his ground, still aiming his weapon and shouting, “Drop the gun! Drop it! Drop it and let her go!”

  John groaned. The hostage was none other than Lisa Doggett, the young woman with the two little boys who’d been in line in front of him.

  Bad move. Bad, bad move.

  The young mother’s panic was evident as she cast a frantic, wild-eyed gaze at her little boys. Trevor, the youngest, began to cry and started toward her.

  “Don’t anybody move!” Wallace roared, waving the gun at the guard, then at the kids and back again.

  John knew the man was a hair’s breadth away from shooting someone, whether he meant to or not, and Trevor Doggett’s determination to get to his mother was putting him in harm’s way. There was no time for John to think about the wisdom of his actions.

  In one swift move, he pulled a knife from his boot and leaped forward, desperate to draw the gunman’s attention away from the boys, his hostage and the guard with the gun, knowing full well that he was going to get shot. Knowing full well it was going to hurt like hell—but it wasn’t going to kill him.

  That was the edge he had over everyone else in the room. He’d faced death and cheated it countless times over the last five hundred years and had every confidence in the world that he was going to cheat it again.

  When Wallace Deeds saw the movement from the corner of his eye, he swung his pistol. A man was coming at him on the run.

  “Son of a bitch!” he screamed, then fired.

  The shot went straight into John’s chest. He felt the impact and a sharp, searing pain, but he didn’t go down.

  When Deeds’ hostage fainted and went limp, she became a liability instead of a shield. Disgusted, he shoved her aside and squeezed off another shot. But it was the knife suddenly protruding from his chest that sent his second shot into the ceiling next to the first.

  A collective gasp rose from inside the bank, followed by a silence so stark that everyone froze.

  Lisa Doggett had come to and was on her knees, shielding her children with her body.

  The tellers had ducked behind the counter.

  The people who’d dropped to their bellies when the shooting started were staring but not moving.

  No one ran.

  No one spoke.

  But the ones who could see were staring in disbelief at the two giants standing in the middle of the lobby—both bleeding profusely—waiting to see who dropped first.

  The pistol slipped out of Deeds’ hand as he reached toward the bone handle of the knife stuck in his chest. But the moment he touched it, he shuddered. Had someone poured hot oil into his chest? He looked up. People’s faces were blurring.

  “How…” He sighed, then staggered backward.

  John groaned as he put a hand to his own chest. The warm gush of his blood was already slowing as he watched the gunman fall. Wallace’s head hit the tile with a sickening crack, but he never felt it. He was already dead.

  The bank guard holstered his weapon and started toward John.

  Lisa Doggett was shaking, but she was alive and her children were safe.

  People were getting up and yanking out their cell phones, anxious to tell their loved ones what had just happened. While on his belly, one customer had videoed the whole thing with his cell phone, and now he was in the act of forwarding it to his brother. The image of what had transpired would be all over the Internet before nightfall.

  Horace Miles, the bank president, was moving through the crowd, making sure everyone was okay. When he saw the blood on the front and back of John’s shirt, he gasped and yelled for someone to call 911.

  John was anxious to be gone before he had to explain why the bullet hole in his chest was already nearly closed. He pulled his knife out of the robber’s chest, then wiped the blood off the blade onto the man’s jacket before slipping it back into the sheath inside his boot.

  The bank guard reached John and took him by the elbow.

  “You need to sit down, son,” he said. “You’ve been shot.”

  “I’m okay,” John said.

  “The police are coming!” someone said.

  Sirens could be heard in the distance. John sighed. He needed to leave—now. He started toward the door, but Horace Miles cut him off. Like the guard, he took John by the elbow and tried to usher him to a chair.

  “Please,” Miles said. “You’re bleeding. Let us help you.”

  “I’m all right…really.”

  But the bank president would have none of it.

  Lisa Doggett came toward him, hugging her little boys to her legs as she stared at him in disbelief.

  “You saved my life. You saved all of us,” she whispered. “Thank you. Thank you.”

  “Yeah…sure,” he said, then gave in to the inevitable. He was caught now, and there was no way out of it.

  The two little boys stared at him—silent now in the face of what they’d witnessed.

  “Mama’s okay, boys,” John said softly.

  Brandon nodded. “You stopped the bad man,” he said.

  John just winked and nodded. The pain in his chest was fading swiftly, but the sirens were also getting closer. Moments later, a half-dozen police cars were on the scene, followed by two ambulances. A paramedic team followed the police inside, then, at the guard’s direction, headed for John.

  He sighed. How the hell was he going to explain his way out of this?

  “I’m okay,” he said as the paramedics dropped their bags and began to cut off his shirt. “I said…I’m okay,” he repeated, and to prove he was right, he pulled up his shirt, revealing the wound that was almost closed.

  Both paramedics rocked back on their heels, staring at John and then at each other.

  “Mister…how in—”

  “Er…uh…I studied with the Dalai Lama,” John said. “Learned how to control bleeding and heal myself with my mind. Ever hear of it?”

  They looked at each other, shrugged, and then began packing up their gear while sneaking curious looks at him.

  But they weren’t the only ones staring. The bank president was in shock. He’d seen the bullet pierce John’s chest, seen the blood spurting, yet now the wound was nearly closed. He’d seen the other scars on John’s chest, too, and was staggered by what this man had suffered and lived through.

  Just when John was getting ready to leave, a skinny man in a suit followed several uniformed officers into the bank, paused long enough to question the guard, then headed straight for John, who recognized the type, as well as the badge clipped to the man’s belt.

  Great. A detective. Naturally nosy, disinclined to believe anything he was told. This ought to be good.

  John saw him pause to look at the dead man; then he looked straight at John, who stared back without flinching.

  Horace Miles stepped into the silent breach by introducing himself as the cop approached.

  “I’m Horace Miles, president of the bank. I saw everything.”

  “Detective Robert Lee,” the newcomer said, then put his hands on his hips and gave John the once-over, eyeing the bloody shirt as well as the blood on John’s jeans. “So, hero, what’s your name?”

  Sarcasm was the last thing John expected. It made him angry. He stood abruptly, well aware that he was now towering over the skinny man’s head.

  “Considering the fact that right now, my chest hurts like hell, I don’t appreciate your sarcasm,” he drawled. “My name is John Nightwalker, and I’m not a hero. I was just in the wrong place at the right time.”

  Lee wanted to be pissed, but the man was right. “Sorry,” he said. “That came out wrong. Let’s back up and do this all over again. So, Mr. Nightwalker, could you tell me what happened?”

  John pointed to the walls where a half-dozen cameras were mounted. “I could…but it appears that Mr. Miles here will be able to provide several different angles on the incident for your viewing pleasure. Suffice it to say, the ma
n tried to rob the bank, took a woman hostage and was pointing his gun at one of her kids. I distracted him. He shot me instead of the kid. I put a knife in his chest.”

  Believing John had already been tended by paramedics, Lee’s next thought was the weapon in question. “May I see that knife?”

  John winced as he leaned over, pulled up the leg of his jeans, then pulled the knife back out of its scabbard.

  The detective’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped as he eyed the wicked blade. It was almost ten inches in length, with its widest point no less than three inches across. The handle appeared to be some kind of bone—maybe ivory. He frowned.

  “Hell, mister, that thing’s big enough to fight bears with.”

  “Yes.”

  Startled by the easy answer, Lee gave John a cool look. “Don’t tell me you fight bears, too?”

  “Okay,” John said, well aware he was pissing the man off. But he didn’t care. The detective’s attitude was anything but cordial, and John would have liked a couple of painkillers for his trouble.

  Lee’s mouth dropped. “You fought a bear?”

  John grinned slightly. “You don’t fight bears, detective. You either outrun them or kill them. I’ve done both.”

  Lee snapped his mouth shut and glared.

  “Do you have a permit to carry a concealed weapon?”

  “Yes, actually, I do.” John pulled out his wallet and produced the license.

  Lee eyed it without comment, then handed it back.

  The bank president was surprised by the detective’s attitude.

  “I’m sorry for interrupting, Detective Lee, but you don’t seem to understand. This man averted what could have been a long, drawn-out hostage situation. He saved a woman’s life and, most likely, the lives of everyone in here. There’s no way of knowing who that bastard would have shot next. Mr. Nightwalker did nothing but defend himself. The robber shot first. Ask anyone here.”

  “Oh, I will,” Lee said.

  “Am I free to go?” John asked.

  “I’m going to need you to come down to headquarters and—”

  “Why?” John asked. “Your case is closed.”

  “Because you put a knife in a man’s chest, that’s why,” Lee argued, then realized people were staring and pulled back his emotions.

  “He shot me first,” John said. “Don’t I get to defend myself?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I have a permit for the knife.”

  “I’m the one doing the questioning,” Lee snapped.

  “Then ask me some questions,” John said.

  Lee glared, then remembered that this man had supposedly been shot. “If you’re shot, why aren’t you on your way to the hospital?”

  John sighed, resisted the urge to roll his eyes and yanked his shirt off over his head.

  “That’s where it went in.” He turned around. “And that’s where it came out. I heal fast.”

  The raw edges of burned flesh were obvious, but the wound was almost closed. Lee didn’t believe a damned word of what he was being told but couldn’t figure out the man’s angle.

  “No one heals that fast,” he said. “Those are old wounds. You might have been shot, but not today. You and that dead man were in cahoots, and for some reason you backed out and killed him to keep from being brought down with him.”

  “Bullshit,” John said, and pointed to the cameras again. “Watch the fucking movie, Detective. I’ve banked here for years. Mr. Miles has my address and phone number if you’re interested. Now…if you’re not going to arrest me, I’m leaving. I need to rest.”

  John held out his hand, waiting for the cop to give back his knife.

  The silence stretched between them, but John wouldn’t budge. Finally Lee handed back the knife and watched John return it to the scabbard, then pick up his bloody shirt and walk out of the bank without looking back.

  Lee was angry and distrustful but had no reason to hold him. Instead, he pointed to all the cameras.

  “I want that security footage. Now.”

  Horace Miles waved a teller over. “Go to the back and get all the security tapes from today and bring them here, please.”

  Savannah was far behind him as John neared the turnoff leading toward his home. Glad the two-hour trip was nearly over, he began to slow down. Moments later, he turned off the main highway and began the long winding drive up the bluff to his house. Owning the land where his village once stood had taken several hundred years to make happen, but once it had, he found an odd sort of peace in living here again.

  He’d dodged civil wars, fought through world wars, and had long since gotten over the shock of watching the unsullied beauty of the country go to hell in a handbasket while trying to find the reincarnation of his enemy. It pained him to see refuse washing down once-pristine mountain streams. The clean air he’d taken for granted as a child was now a luxury. Landfills were a scourge on Mother Earth. The Ah-ni-yv-wi-ya would be shocked by what time and people had done.

  He owned three other homes in separate parts of the country, and every few years he switched residences to keep from having to explain to neighbors why he never aged. It was simple. He would just change his hairstyle and choice of clothing, then present himself as a relative of the previous owner. So far, the system had proven to be foolproof, but he never took anything for granted. Caution—and finding the soul of the man who’d murdered his people—was always at the forefront of his mind.

  For the past three years, he’d been back in Georgia. From his bedroom window he could see the place where he’d laid the bodies of his people to rest. Although their bones had long since turned to dust, his memory of the day was as vivid as if it had happened yesterday.

  Usually he took pleasure in the drive up the bluff to his house, but not this time. He was heartily glad it was over. This morning had been unexpected and exhausting. He breathed a sigh of relief as he pulled into the garage, closing the doors behind him. His chest still hurt, but it was no longer open or bleeding. Within a couple of days there would be nothing left but another scar to add to the collection already on his body.

  He got out of the Jeep, grabbed the groceries he’d bought earlier and headed for the kitchen. It was a long drive from Savannah, so his only purchases had been nonperishables. When he needed fresh vegetables or anything dairy, he bought it down in Justice, a little town only a few miles away. Justice boasted a population of almost five hundred people and was little more than a spot on the map. Down there, people referred to him as Big John. They knew nothing of the wealth he’d accumulated over the centuries, his skill in the stock market or the goods he imported and exported to different countries. He kept his acquaintances at a friendly arm’s length. The less he shared of himself, the better.

  As soon as the groceries were put away, he headed for the utility room, stripping off his clothes as he went. The shirt was a bust. Even if the blood washed out, there was the small matter of the bullet holes. He tossed it in the trash, treated the blood spots on his jeans with stain remover, then tossed everything into the washer and turned it on. When he left the room, he was wearing his favorite outfit—the skin in which he’d been born.

  His body was toned, his legs long and lean. His shoulders were wide, and bore the weight of centuries of despair with equanimity. His hair, which had once hung all the way to his waist, was now short and spiked. Instead of the occasional feather he’d once worn in it, there was a tiny silver earring in the shape of a feather hanging from his left ear, his only outward claim to his past.

  Even though the wood floors were bare of rugs, he moved silently. The windows he’d left open earlier in the day were now funneling a cool ocean breeze against his skin, which he much preferred to air-conditioning.

  On his way through the living room, his gaze automatically went to a small scraping knife decoratively framed and hanging on the wall between a stone ax and a dream catcher. That small piece of flint was all he had left of White Fawn. Regret tugged at his hea
rt as he remembered her—bent over the task of scraping meat from pelts and skins with that very knife—remembered the soft, warm clothing she made for them after the skins had cured. If fate had been kind, he would have died with the others. But he hadn’t died. He’d asked the Old Ones for the impossible, and it had been given, even though he had yet to fulfill his side of the bargain. Angry with himself and what he considered his failure for being unable to find the enemy, he turned off the memories and headed for his room to shower.

  Later, washed clean of blood and wearing a pair of old gray sweats, John went about the solitary business of preparing a meal for himself. His life was what it was—but by choice. Yes, there were times when he was so lonely he couldn’t think, when the memory of White Fawn’s laugh was so strong he wanted to weep. Yes, there had been other women in his life through the ensuing centuries, but none that had ever replaced her in his heart.

  Living in his skin while the world grew up and old around him had not been easy. He’d been an “uncivilized” man to the hordes who’d invaded, when in his eyes, they’d been the ones with no heart and no civility. They recognized nothing of the indigenous people’s rights, but he’d soon learned the need to be able to communicate with the interlopers, and had become a guide and an interpreter for the explorers and trappers later on.

  Throughout the ages, he’d watched the natural beauty of the land on which he’d been born become glutted with people with no conscience, no interest save their own wishes and desires. They’d come on ships by the hundreds, then the thousands. They’d cut down the trees, and built houses and dams; they’d made roads and cities, and fouled the water and the air so many times over the centuries that he’d lost count. When their numbers had been too many and their greed had been too great, then had come the wars. Fighting over religion and countries and the color of skin. It was enough to make a man go crazy, but he’d been raised in the old ways, and warriors didn’t cry. They endured.

  After so much time of being a “lesser” member of society because of the color of his skin, the irony that it was now fashionable to be able to claim Native American heritage was not lost on John Nightwalker.