“It must be hard,” he said thoughtfully. “Sneaking up on people dressed like that. How do you do it?” De-Marco realized his hand was aching; when he looked down, he saw that he was gripping the cut glass so hard that the edges of his fingernails had turned purple. He was also vaguely aware that he was babbling, his words tumbling out and revealing how afraid he was. Even so, he couldn’t stop. It didn’t matter anyway. “So what happens now?” he finally found the courage to ask. “You just kill me straight out or what?”
He waited, but there was still nothing but silence. Strangely, he was all out of questions and comments, didn’t have a clue what to say next although he still felt somehow obligated to talk.
“Don’t worry,” Elektra said suddenly. “Death’s not that bad.”
Her placid, low voice came from behind his chair and DeMarco barely stopped himself from turning to look at her. When had she gone around behind him? But he wasn’t ready to really face her, not yet. In spite of the scotch, his mouth was dry; he rubbed the back of one hand raggedly across his lips. “How do you know?” he rasped.
Her voice was so low he almost didn’t hear her answer. “I died once.”
DeMarco’s eyes widened but he stayed motionless in his chair. So the rumors were true—Elektra had been killed. Not a near-death experience as some claimed, but an actual death event. He couldn’t help his curiosity. “What was it like? Floating out of your body into a white light and all that crap?” He stopped and licked his cracking lips, wondering if his language had offended her, wondering if it was the thing that would trigger her into action. “Uh… sorry.” He took a deep breath. “By the way, this scotch is like two hundred bucks a swallow. Have some when you’re done. I’d hate it to go to waste when—”
DeMarco never had the opportunity to finish his sentence.
He’d been so sure that his babbling was successful, that Elektra had no idea about the gun he had hidden on his lap the whole time, the one he’d tucked into the folded newspaper this morning and about which even Bauer hadn’t had a clue. It was a fine piece, a small but deadly Heckler & Koch P9S .45 double action. How foolish of him to ever believe he’d be able to so much as squeeze the trigger, much less move on his chair and actually try to aim. One of Elektra’s deadly swords—he still hadn’t a clue what they were really called—hit him with so much force that it went through his chest and pierced the back of his chair… after its blade threaded through the trigger so that he wouldn’t have been able to use the weapon anyway.
But of course, DeMarco was dead well before he could realize any of that.
Elektra stared down at the dead man. DeMarco’s eyes were open, his gaze fixed on her but seeing nothing. Before now she’d seen him only in photographs and hadn’t realized that his eyes were such a spectacular shade of bright, ocean blue… very much like someone from far out of her past. She wished they’d closed so that she didn’t have to look at them, didn’t have to wonder if he had children who’d inherited that same eye color or who had taken after whatever wife he’d been married to at the time of their birth. She didn’t want to think of him as a man, as a person, even someone deserving of his fate—he was just a target, something impersonal and meaningless, an ant under the foot of that giant called fate.
Elektra pulled out the sai stuck in his chest using a clean, fluid movement, then picked up the linen napkin next to DeMarco’s glass of scotch and used it to slowly wipe the blade clean. Now that the house was quiet and all the guards were taken care of, she felt almost melancholy, although she wasn’t sure whether it was because she had completed her work or because she’d killed not only DeMarco but at least three of the half dozen guards around the external perimeter.
She couldn’t stop herself from glancing over to where Bauer lay unmoving on the carpet. Was he dead? Probably. Elektra wasn’t absolutely sure, but she also wasn’t going to check—it wasn’t part of her employment to play good Samaritan, and that was a fool’s task when she herself had been the one to put these men down in the first place. Even so, she couldn’t help remembering when Bauer had answered DeMarco’s question and she had been listening in—
“Do you have children, Bauer?”
“Children? Yes, sir. Two girls, eight and five…”
There was a certain phrase she used to remind herself about what she was doing and who she was, her place in the scheme of the world and the life she had chosen to live. She muttered it now—
“It’s just a job.”
—and again as she stepped over Bauer’s silent, bleeding form and slipped out of the room—
“It’s just a job.”
—and she kept saying it to herself long into the longer night that followed.
4
TOKYO, JAPAN
AT TIMES LIKE THESE, ROSHI FOUND PEACE AMONG the stunning colors in his orchid garden.
Caring for the flowers gave the master time to think and analyze, meditate and work on those problems that troubled him most. There was, usually, nothing here but the silence of nature, although nature could never be called truly silent—at least a half dozen different birds sang from every direction, the insects clicked and buzzed, the bees hummed around the inviting, bright-colored blossoms. It was therapeutic to sit here on the polished teak bench, dressed in a traditional plain Japanese robe and clogs, while the wind sang around him, quite restful to the mind, body, and soul. He also enjoyed hand-trimming the orchid nubs with his fingertips, imparting his appreciation of their timeless beauty with every small movement he offered that aided in their care.
But even the wisest of men will tell you that serenity is always short-lived.
He looked up when he caught a tiny movement out of the corner of his eye. One of his servants stood about six feet away, hands folded patiently in front of his black uniform as he waited to be noticed. At Roshi’s small nod of acknowledgment, the man bowed his head respectfully and spoke quietly. “Master Roshi, they have arrived.”
Another nod and the servant left him, and although outwardly Roshi made no sign, inwardly he felt a tickle of tension as he got slowly to his feet. He hated to leave the sanctity of the orchid garden behind, wished it were situated somewhere far away, perhaps in the clear country air of Naoshima Island, or on the farther outskirts of Fukuoka City—there he could enjoy the amenities of civilization but still have a sense of being far away from it. But it was not his destiny to be a farmer, or a gardener; rather, he was what he was—one of the key members of the Hand… really an aging Japanese man who occasionally escaped reality in his tiny garden on the top of a skyscraper in the affluent part of the Greater Tokyo Area. But there was little peace to be found in an area with more than thirty-three million people.
Roshi did not hurry. In his private quarters, he shed his robe and washed his face and hands carefully before finally joining his waiting visitors in the opulent board and conference room. One, Meizumi, was a middle-aged business acquaintance, steady and conscientious—a thinker. But the other, Kirigi, was an impatient youngster, impetuous despite his traditional garb, and Roshi felt a strange mixture of sadness and regret when he looked at him. In his time, the youth of Japan had been more respectful, had been raised on a diet of patience and discipline. Now this newest generation was very much like the anime characters they seemed to adore—fast-moving, disobedient, and violent.
They waited—Kirigi with jittery, twitching limbs that revealed his inherent restlessness—while Roshi carefully positioned himself at the head of the table. While Meizumi was seated to Roshi’s right, Kirigi, the younger and more dangerous of the two, stood by the door. He seemed both stiff and relaxed at the same time, an intriguing combination. His energy and enthusiasm showed in the hint of a smile at one corner of his mouth, a true indicator of his immaturity. An experienced man would have known to keep his face expressionless when greeting his elders.
Roshi pressed his lips together and regarded the two younger men. “The treasure continues to elude us.”
Kirigi lifte
d one eyebrow, clearly interested in this thinly disguised opportunity. “Yes,” he said simply.
Outraged, Meizumi gaped at Kirigi, then propelled himself to his feet.
Kirigi ignored him. “Perhaps if we had pursued it sooner… and more aggressively.” He let his words trail off.
Now Meizumi was clearly furious. “You dare to blame Roshi?”
He balled his fists, but Roshi only smiled. A glance froze Meizumi where he stood. “Our methods seem too mild for Kirigi,” Roshi commented.
A less astute man would have missed it, but Roshi caught the faintest of expressions that made it clear that was exactly what Kirigi thought. Even so, Kirigi opted for a more diplomatic response and he bowed his head to acknowledge the experience of the older man. “Not at all, Sensei. But if we cannot have the weapon ourselves, allow me to make sure it does not fall into the hands of others who might use it against us.”
Meizumi also bowed his head, even as he shot a venomous look in Kirigi’s direction. “Master, allow me to do this. Things of this nature must be handled smoothly. Quietly.”
Kirigi glanced at Meizumi and smirked slightly, but said nothing, even when Roshi’s next words sliced into his pride.
“Then work smoothly, Meizumi. And quickly.”
Meizumi bowed again to Roshi, then turned and did the same to Kirigi. The sneer on his face clearly said he was savoring his victory, but it faltered at the unconcerned look on Kirigi’s calm features. When Kirigi bowed deeply to him and Roshi, then withdrew without protest, Meizumi wondered darkly if this wasn’t exactly what Kirigi had wanted.
Kirigi strode out of the conference room with his head held arrogantly high, leaving Meizumi to glower after him. Did Roshi really believe that fool was up to the task of getting the treasure? Kirigi had seen through his kimagure that Elektra was involved, and the woman was as much a legend in her homeland as he was in his. Because of this, Roshi and his ignorant assistant would soon find out that it would take much more than the skills of an ordinary—or even an extraordinary—ninja to accomplish what he wanted here.
He, on the other hand, would not underestimate the assassin so easily. Kirigi had only to look to his own stable of killers to know just how deadly a woman could be, how potentially devastating her power. While it was true that heroes and antiheros grew large in the minds of the common man—Japanese folklore had his own slender frame described as that of a seven-foot-tall giant weighing in at three hundred pounds—it took only a fraction of the truth to annihilate an enemy. To his own arsenal Kirigi could add his mystical knowledge and self-healing properties, and Elektra had her endless knowledge of the shadow arts and the ways of war, plus her incredible athleticism. Really, what tools of war, true war, could the hapless Meizumi bring to the field in the battle that was about to take place? Kirigi’s arsenal, on the other hand, was varied, rich in weapons, steeped in dark mysticism.
Yes, time would show Master Roshi that Meizumi was little beyond an ill-chosen warrior. And for that—
Repercussions.
There always were.
AN UNKNOWN LOCATION
There was nothing to hold Elektra to this place.
She’d lived in dozens just like it—or maybe they had all been different. She couldn’t remember, she didn’t care. They were just… boxes, big containers to hold the temporary items that made whatever temporary life she’d set up there temporarily more comfortable. Standing just inside the front entrance and staring around the living room, Elektra could feel nothing but exhaustion, complete and all-encompassing, almost overpowering. She closed her eyes for a moment and felt the sensation sweep over her, then her eyelids snapped open. No, she would not let her life beat her. She had chosen her path, and she was the one in control of it, not the other way around. Starting over again might make her feel tired, but at least that was better than sadness.
She made herself stand straighter, then purposefully marched into the kitchen and yanked open the silverware drawer, pulling until the entire thing came free of the cabinet. She upended it into the sink, barely noticing the horrendous crash as the metal hit the porcelain. She slid the empty drawer back into place, then bent and snagged a bottle of liquid bleach from beneath the sink, the kind that supposedly smelled like flowers. She wrinkled her nose as she unscrewed the top and poured it over the sink’s contents. Flowers? Not likely.
With that done, she did the same to the drawer holding the larger cooking utensils. Elektra’s eyes watered as she repeated the routine and doubled the amount of bleach in the deep sink. She’d have to do the dishes next, stack them into the dishwasher and run it with the bleach instead of detergent. There was so much to do—vacuum the carpets, mattress, furniture, then empty the vacuum cleaner itself and take the filled bag somewhere else to be thrown out, get rid of the laundry and any clothes—which meant most of them—that she couldn’t readily carry. While she preferred modern and tasteful furniture and apartments, she also tried to keep her living space clean and sparse and free of clutter. Very few statues, no photographs at all, and only the most necessary paintings or framed posters, all nameless things she could easily leave behind. Elektra certainly didn’t allow herself to collect knickknacks and things of which she might grow fond—when she had to move, she had to go fast and she didn’t need baggage, emotional or material, to bog her down.
The master bathroom was next—she’d never used the second one—and in there she swept all but a few select items out of her medicine cabinet and vanity into a garbage bag for disposal. Then the most personal of her living spaces, the bedroom itself, and the one area where she allowed herself to relax a little and enjoy her quiet time. But now? So much for all the expensive, handmade clothes and couture that dotted the dresser’s top, the silk scarves that hung over the foot-board of the bed, the small cut glass bowl of potpourri and scented candles—all of it went into yet another three of the heavy, oversized garbage bags.
With the last of the expendables bagged up, Elektra went back into the kitchen and started working on the floor, down on her knees like a washerwoman armed with a spray bottle of 409 and a couple of rags. She was halfway finished when she heard the knock on the door; she ignored it and kept working, letting her arm muscles move into a rhythm that, while not soothing, kept her body busy and gave her mind something truly benign on which to focus.
Her caller didn’t bother to knock a second time, just opened the door and stepped into the apartment. She could see the front hallway from her position, and she barely glanced up at the man who walked in. As usual, McCabe was wearing an impeccable black cashmere Kingston overcoat that moved with his body as if it were sewn into place; in one hand was a cognaccolored leather Vachetta duffle bag, in the other, a quilted Prada shoulder bag with chain and leather straps. He was a handsome, youngish looking man of maybe thirty-five, with light brown hair and a flawlessly clean shaven face. She had to acknowledge that he had exquisite taste.
He looked down at her, his face expressionless. “You think that’s safe? Leaving your door unlocked?”
Elektra didn’t bother to answer, just kept scrubbing at the floor. He stepped into the room and leaned over, but before he could set the duffle bag on the floor, she lifted her head. “No—stop, McCabe. Don’t put it down. I already cleaned there.”
McCabe shrugged, then stepped backward and set the duffle and Prada bag by the front door. He watched her for a few moments without saying anything before he finally asked the question she knew was coming. “Why do you always do this?”
Elektra had given him the same answer at least a dozen times before, but words, at least these, were free. “To get rid of my DNA.”
As he always did, McCabe only laughed and shook his head. He nodded toward the duffle, and Elektra took a final swipe at the floor, then rose and went over to unzip it. As she expected, it was filled with blocks of one hundred dollar bills encircled by rubber bands. “I just picked it up,” he told her. “I know you like to look at it.”
She let tha
t go by her, staring at the money with dull eyes. Maybe once it had meant something, but not anymore. Now it wasn’t much more than just green and white paper. “It’s all there?” she asked, because she knew he thought she should.
He nodded. “Less my ten percent.”
The agent’s commission, of course. Funny how you could broker a killing just like a real estate deal. Three or four bedrooms, and hey, would you like a decapitation with that? Sighing, she hefted the duffle bag out of habit, testing its weight before letting it drop back to the floor. “Half to Barbados,” she began.
“And half to the bank on the Isle of Man,” he finished for her. “You know, you can do a lot better in mutual funds. My brother’s got this great—”
“No, thanks.”
If he was insulted, McCabe gave no indication of it. When she started pulling together the remnants of her cleaning job, he tugged out the earphones he was wearing—she was never quite sure if they were for music or communication—and regarded her with a more serious expression. “You racked up quite the body count on this one, Elektra,” he said pointedly. “We were only getting paid for DeMarco.”
She didn’t look up from her chores. “It had to be done.”
“Did it?”
Now she scowled and did look up, ready for an argument, albeit one in which she wasn’t sure how she’d defend her position. But McCabe only regarded her dispassionately and held his tongue, so she inhaled and let it go as she got together the rest of the cleaning bottles and the dirty rags and stuffed them into the last open garbage bag. “Anyway,” she finally added, “it spreads the legend. Ups the price.”
“Always important,” McCabe conceded. He cracked his knuckles. “Speaking of which, we got a new offer.”
Elektra Page 4
