The other ikuren gaped at Roshi, but Kirigi and his group were pleased. They stood, bowed, and filed out without saying anything else, ignoring the stares and the scowls, their faces shining with anticipation. Only Typhoid turned before stepping out the door; she gave a dark smile to the glowering man closest to her, then blew him a kiss. His frown deepened, but a moment later it turned into a cough, heavy, wet, and deep in his chest as though he had a sudden, vicious case of the flu.
The instant the last of Kirigi’s crew had left, one of the more senior board members jumped to his feet to voice his objections. “But sir, his methods will destroy us. It—”
Roshi held up a hand, instantly silencing him, then motioned for the man to retake his seat. “Perhaps Kirigi is right. Perhaps it is time for a new direction.” Having said that, he turned his back and walked out, leaving them to speculate and complain among themselves. By their expressions of frustration and disbelief, most of them obviously already thought he was blind, but his decisions were not for them to question. Most of them were too short-sighted for competent decision making anyway; that was why he was the leader, and not one of them.
He sent a brief, sideways glance at the trickle of blood seeping from beneath the doorway of the closed room, then slowly made his way to his garden to meditate.
Well, Elektra thought, it’s early morning and at least we’re all still alive. For a few moments last night, she’d had her doubts about making that happen. Now, sitting on the passenger side of Mark’s truck with Abby in the middle, she didn’t feel much better about their situation even though Mark was pulling the truck into an empty spot on the outbound ferry. How had she gotten herself into this predicament? What was it about Mark and Abby that had triggered the No Way switch inside her heart, the one that said she’d had enough of the killing—at least for now—and she was going to flipside this job and keep them alive? She had no idea, but there was no going back now. They’d be lucky if the Hand didn’t send the whole world after them.
As soon as they’d cut the motor to the truck and the ferry had pulled away from the dock, Elektra found a spot on the deck that was a little apart from the rest of the passengers and began punching numbers into her cell phone. It took a number of tries, but she finally got McCabe on the phone; he would—maybe—give her the information she sought.
“The Hand—ninjas, of all people.” McCabe’s voice was tinny with distance, but Elektra could still make out the note of amazement in it. “This is serious, Elektra. Who’s going to help you with that?”
“Where is he?” she demanded in a low voice. She tried placing her hand over the mouthpiece for privacy, but that didn’t work; it just muffled her words and then McCabe couldn’t hear her. Anyone could be on this ferry, and the water and the wind had a nasty way of carrying a person’s conversation to ears that shouldn’t be hearing it, and she was having a frustrating time. “Just get me a location!”
She listened to McCabe talking, pressing the cell phone into her ear in an effort to block out the noise around her. Finally she snapped the telephone shut and glared at the grayness above the water as if she could make it go away. “Damn it,” she muttered, a little too loudly.
The back of her neck tickled a warning, and when she turned, Elektra grimaced when she saw Abby looking at her with a reproachful expression. She didn’t have to hear the Don’t use that language! to feel like her hand had just been invisibly smacked. How odd that a thirteen-year-old could make her feel ashamed, but maybe that was the root of it all. Abby was barely more than a child; could Elektra really murder someone so young and not hate herself every time she looked in the mirror… for the rest of her life?
Finally the ferry reached the mainland and docked, and then the three of them were in Mark’s truck and on their way to the address Elektra had pried out of her agent over the cell phone. The placed turned out to be a grungy little pool hall tucked away in what was actually a pretty nice neighborhood, a hole in the wall where the people who weren’t welcome anywhere else could gather, play pool, and drink beer a lot earlier in the day than was generally considered socially acceptable. When the three of them stepped through the door and Mark saw what they were coming into, he dropped behind Abby, effectively sandwiching the teenager between himself and Elektra. He followed Elektra’s gaze and saw her zero in on two men at a pool table across the small room. One was a youngish guy with dirty hair drawn back in a pony tail; he was wearing a blue work shirt with his name—Jack—sewn above one pocket. He sighted in the shot, but missed.
“You’re up, old man,” Jack said. He stepped to the side as an older man with white hair and black sunglasses emerged from the shadows. He trailed his hand along the edge of the table, then stopped and held up his pool cue. “Two in the corner,” he said. “Three off the rail, four in the far side.”
Jack snorted and shook his head, grinning at a couple of his friends where they lounged against the wall. “You don’t have to call all your shots, pops. Just the first one.”
“That is the first one,” the white-haired man said blandly. Without even lining up his shot, the older man reached over and hit the cue ball. Jack’s jaw opened as the balls scattered and dropped into the pockets, just as his opponent predicted.
For no apparent reason, the white-haired man stopped and tilted his head, then turned and looked at the door where Mark, Abby, and Elektra had paused.
Jack licked his lips. “Uh… still your shot.”
His coplayer nodded. “Nine and fourteen here and here,” he pointed to the two end corners. “And eight in the side.” An impossible-looking soft tap of his stick against the cue ball, and the balls sunk in just where he’d said they would. “Leave your money on the table,” he said absently. He folded up his pool stick and headed for where the trio stood.
Elektra watched Stick approach and, incredibly, felt herself tremble. It had been years since she’d last seen him, that day when he’d thrown her out of the training camp. She had gone from potential Chaste to assassin—could she face him, after his rejection and after all the things she’d done in between? But why shouldn’t she? After all, she was as much a child of his own making as she was of her temperament.
Mark glanced at her, and something on her face must have given her away. His eyes widened and he stared back at Stick. “This is the guy?” he asked incredulously. “He’s blind?”
Elektra nodded, and while he didn’t understand, Mark tapped Abby on the shoulder anyway. “Look,” he said, digging a handful of coins out of his pocket. “Here’s a dollar, Abs. Go play a few games of pinball.”
Abby scowled, but she still took the money. “Why do I always have to miss the good stuff?”
A corner of Mark’s mouth lifted. “When you get old enough to be there, you’ll wish you could miss it.”
Abby tossed her blond hair. “Does that mean life always sucks?”
This time he grinned outright. “Exactly.” This time, Abby smiled too, then she headed for the machines in the corner. Mark watched her go, and when he turned back, Elektra was face-to-face with the blind guy she’d called Stick.
“Elektra Natchios,” the blind man said calmly. “Same perfume. Same walk.”
Elektra grimaced and rubbed her forearm with one hand, betraying her self-consciousness. “Listen,” she began. “I’m not here for—”
“Same chip on the shoulder,” Stick noted.
“Look,” Elektra said in a low voice. She sounded very close to outright pleading with him. “Don’t start, okay? This is Mark Miller. He needs your help.”
“I’ve heard of him,” Stick said flatly.
Mark looked startled. “How do you know who I—”
Stick’s gesture toward another part of the pool hall, where it was darker and there were booths that would give them a little more privacy, stopped his question. “Over there.”
Stick moved off, and Elektra and Mark followed. When they were settled, Stick said, “Tell us who you are, Mr. Miller.”
E
lektra sent Stick a frustrated look that even Mark could interpret—whoever this man was, he was way ahead of her and she was not happy about it. Mark had the distinct impression that kind of thing had happened before. After casting a glance toward his daughter to make sure she was all right—she was killing the pinball machines and a couple of the pool hall’s regulars had gathered around to watch—Mark had the good grace to look a little ashamed as he finally owned up to his, and Abby’s, history.
“I owned a bunch of gyms,” he finally told her. “Martial arts schools.” He glanced at her furtively, and she frowned and nodded, acknowledging his unspoken admission to lying to her earlier. “I wasn’t a practitioner, just in the business part. And I took on a partner, for capital.” He paused and picked at a spot on the battered wooden table. It was clear that he wished he didn’t have to keep going.
Obligingly, Stick picked up where Mark had stopped. “Then Mr. Miller found out he was in business with the Hand.” His sightless eyes still bored into Elektra, making her squirm despite her resolve to appear unconcerned. “You remember the Hand, Elektra?”
“They wanted something I couldn’t give them,” Mark put in. His fingers were still digging at the table-top. “When I tried to walk away, they came after me.”
This time he glanced at Stick, making Elektra frown. He wasn’t telling her everything and Stick knew it. She didn’t like being the only one in the dark. “And?” Stick prompted.
Mark hesitated. “They killed my wife, Abby’s mom. There was no drunk driver. We’ve been on the run ever since.”
Elektra sat back and digested this. More lies—why would they go to such lengths, especially if Mark and his daughter had already removed themselves from the picture? There was something she was missing here, something that in the strain of being in Stick’s company, she’d overlooked. Damn it, what was it? Never mind. If Mark Miller wouldn’t come clean with her, he and his daughter were too dangerous to play with.
She leaned toward Stick. “The Hand is your business, not mine. You help them.” Then she stood and sent a withering look down at Mark. “You’re on your own.”
A corner of Stick’s mouth curled before she could walk away. “And yet you saved their lives and brought them here. Why? Some kind of penance? A down payment on your sins?” He let his mouth stretch into a full, knowing smile. “Ninjas have always been your specialty.”
Elektra shrugged carelessly. “They’re overrated,” she said levelly, but her eyes said otherwise. “But what comes next will be worse.” Despite her dire statement, she turned to stalk off, then realized Abby had abandoned her pinball machine and all the free games, leaving the booty for the other guys to play out. Before she could get any further, she heard Stick ask Mark, “Has Elektra told you what she does for a living?”
“She saved my life,” Mark interrupted. “And my daughter’s.”
But Stick only smirked. “You landed on the lucky side of the street,” he said pointedly. “Because most people, she—”
This time, Elektra lunged for Stick’s throat. “Damn you, you son of a—”
And she barely had time to think about what a stupid idea that was.
Elektra didn’t see him move, nor likely did anyone else. In no more than the blink of an eye, she went butt over head and then she was bent over the nearest pool table with his pool stick—the one that she’d sworn he’d had neatly folded up—thoroughly pinning her to the dirty felt surface. She made a sort of growl in her throat and realized that the room had already cleared out—no one in here wanted a piece of this fight.
“I guess blind guys are your weakness,” Stick said mildly. He actually looked sorry. “Oh, Elektra—I had hoped you changed.”
Beyond furious now, Elektra slapped the tip of the pool cue to the side and jumped to her feet. With a last, murderous glare at Stick, she spun and stalked out the door.
Mystified, Mark grabbed Abby by the elbow and went after her, while behind them Stick headed back toward the pool tables to drum up another game when the bar’s customers came back inside.
Three feet from it, he stopped and looked up at nothing at all.
Someone, or something, had joined the game.
12
ELEKTRA WAS WAITING WHEN MARK AND ABBY came out of the bar. She was pacing back and forth in the alley like an enraged leopard, and they watched her without saying anything, not sure of the next step. “What do we do now?” Abby finally asked. She looked from her father to Elektra, then back again, but Mark didn’t have an answer.
Elektra started to say something, then she noticed something on the graffiti-covered wall. She jerked to a stop and went over to the spray-painted image, peering at the brightly colored bricks. It looked like a bird, an ornate, stylized hawk that could’ve been a biker’s tattoo. After a few moments her eyes widened and she backed away from the wall.
“You have to run,” she finally said. Her gaze kept jumping back to the wall suspiciously. “As far as you can, as fast as you can. South America, Africa—change your name, change your appearance.” She brushed the hair out of her face and regarded the two of them steadily. “Change everything.”
Mark only looked at her as the real meaning behind her words sank in, but Abby wasn’t so tactful. “You’re not coming with us.”
Elektra blinked, then looked away. “No. I… can’t.”
“Why not?” Abby took a step toward Elektra, stepping in between Elektra and the wall so the older woman would have to look her in the eye. “Isn’t that part of your code or something?”
Elektra rubbed her forehead tiredly. “I don’t have a code, Abby. Stick has a code—even Kirigi has a code. But—”
Mark blinked at her. “Kirigi?”
Elektra waved him away. “Never mind.”
Abby put her hands on her hips. “How are we going to defend ourselves?” she demanded.
Her father sighed and put a hand on her shoulder and pulled her back. “Abby, we’ll be okay,” he began.
But his daughter jerked out of his grasp. “No, Dad— we won’t!” The teenager was practically stomping her foot to make him comprehend her words. “Wake up, Dad—we won’t!”
Elektra’s mouth worked. God, she didn’t know what to do here—if she let Mark and Abby go, it meant certain death for both of them, but what else could she do? This wasn’t her fight, and the odds against them were probably insurmountable. She wasn’t—
The beady black eyes of the hawk painted on the wall behind Abby shifted suddenly, moving to the right and locking with Elektra’s narrowed gaze. Incredibly, the finely detailed feathers along its wings started to bristle.
“Get in the car,” Elektra whispered urgently. “Now!”
In a burst of abrupt color, the bird’s painted image suddenly went 3-D, pulling free of the cracked surface of the wall and taking full shape. It flapped its wings frantically for a second or two to fluff out its feathers, then exploded free and rocketed down the alley. It banked right, then soared high into the air and disappeared over the rooftop.
Tattoo jerked and opened his eyes as his hawk tattoo slammed back into his upper arm with enough force to jerk him backwards. The bird melted into his skin, sliding along the flesh until it fit precisely into its rightful place. He blinked for a moment to clear his head of the avian’s thoughts, then gave an evil grin.
“Tattoo,” Kirigi said impatiently, “where are they?”
He rubbed his arm absently, then pointed past Kirigi. “Down the street and three blocks over, in the parking lot. With that assassin.”
Kirigi’s returning grin was quite a bit blacker. “We need to kill her first.”
Tattoo looked up. “Should we do it now?”
Looking over from her spot at the edge of the roof where the five of them had gathered, Typhoid sent Kirigi a small, sleepy smile. “I can handle that.”
Kirigi started to answer, then stopped and frowned slightly. He turned back in the direction Tattoo had indicated and concentrated, trying to confirm with
his mind what his senses were feeling. Yes—it was true. Of all people, Stick was down there, and he wasn’t alone. Always one to show up when it was most inconvenient, the elder was accompanied by members of his precious Chaste. Kirigi knew Typhoid was waiting, but he took his time deciding, weighing his options. “No,” Kirigi finally decided. “Not here.” He inclined his head toward Tattoo. “Keep track of them.”
Tattoo nodded, and his fingers reached up and began to once again stroke the hawk inked onto his upper arm.
They were in the pickup truck again, which frustrated Elektra no end. Elektra was driving this time, zipping down the interstate at a speed limit–defying eighty-five miles an hour, but it wasn’t like that was going to do them any good. As far as she was concerned, they might as well paint a big bull’s-eye on the hood, or maybe the roof, where the Hand’s aim would be more accurate and put them all out of this ridiculous misery that much faster.
Mark was in the passenger seat, staying quiet and staring out the window. Maybe he was contemplating his coming death, maybe he was thinking about the possibility, no, probability, that his daughter was going to die right along with him and Elektra. Why didn’t people think things through before they put themselves and their loved ones in these kinds of doomed situations? Elektra had suffered so much loss in her life that she had learned well the pain of having family members become collateral damage.
This time, anticipating a long drive, Abby had opted for the back seat of the oversized truck. Now she leaned forward, straining against her seatbelt and holding on to the back of the front seat, so she could talk to Elektra. “So you really kill people for a living?”
That was the thing about children. They didn’t pull punches or monkey around with tact. Keeping her eyes on the road, Elektra nodded.
Abby paused, then asked simply, “Why?”
Elektra opened her mouth to answer, but suddenly all her thoughts were tumbling around in her head. Why, indeed? She was, she thought, still full of the anger that had never gone away after her mother’s death—in fact, losing her father, then what she’d had, no matter how short and sweet, with Matt Murdock had only refilled the fury tank. Finally she said the only thing she could come up with. “It’s what I’m good at.”
Elektra Page 12
