He motioned the yakuza toward the main entrance and they joined up with him. As they pushed through the glass doors they saw a slim young Japanese man dash past, clutching an old-fashioned samurai bow.
A Kakureta Kao member?
They stepped into the hall for a better look and found themselves in the path of a charging crowd of a dozen or so Caucasians. Hideo leaped back while the three yakuza held their ground and opened fire. In five seconds it was over. All the Caucasians were down, screaming, groaning, writhing on the floor.
Goro and Ryo reloaded while Kenji finished those still alive. Then he too reloaded.
Hideo noticed more of the spidery tattoos. Was this some sort of rival cult at war with Kakureta Kao?
No matter. They were all dead. At least he hoped so.
He pointed to Ryo and Goro. “You two search that side.” He gestured to Kenji. “We will take this side. Use your flashlights. Search every room. Find that katana.”
The first room he entered held an eyeless monk on a futon. Here at last was the Kakureta Kao.
“Where is the katana?” he asked in Japanese.
The monk smiled and shook his head.
Kenji shot him in the leg.
He howled wordlessly and clutched his wound, and Hideo saw no sign of a tongue in his open mouth. Kenji looked at Hideo. Hideo considered the madness of this cult and concluded he would learn nothing from this one, even if he had a tongue. He nodded.
Kenji shot the monk in the head. As they searched the room, Hideo heard pleading cries in English from a room across the hall: “No!” and “Please, no!” Then phut sounds. Then silence.
More of the spider cult dead.
“Keep searching,” he said.
He and Kenji joined the others in the hallway and proceeded to the next set of rooms. As Goro and Ryo opened the door to theirs, an aging monk, holding a long tanto high, screamed and leaped at Goro. Hideo saw Ryo’s pistol flash up, and Kenji’s whip around, but too late: The monk buried the blade to the hilt in Goro’s chest.
Goro managed to get off a shot into his belly, and his two fellow yakuza finished the job. Goro swayed, then toppled backward like a felled oak to lie staring blindly at the ceiling.
Ryo and Kenji rushed to him, screamed curses when they confirmed what Hideo already knew. Ryo shot the dead monk twice more in the head, then removed his suit coat and draped it over Goro’s head and shoulders.
Watching it all, as if from a great distance, Hideo wondered about his detachment. He’d never seen death before coming to America, and now he was inured to it. Or had his mind and emotions merely stepped back so as not to go mad?
“Let’s keep moving,” he said.
Hank and his posse reached the second floor and found it empty. And after he signaled to Jantz to turn off his chainsaw, it was quiet.
“Okay,” he said. “Here’s what we do. Since we have only two flashlights between us, we divide into two groups and check each and every room. You see the girl or you see the sword, you give a holler and—”
“Aiiiii!”
The hall around them exploded with cries and movement as a half dozen blue-robed figures burst from doorways with knives and swords held high. Even more startling than their sudden onslaught were the silk masks beneath their hoods.
Even stranger was the fact that two of the monks had only one arm, and another was hopping on one leg.
A couple of Kickers went down immediately, but the rest recovered and fought back. The three amputees went down first, and the other able-bodied types soon followed. But they’d taken out five Kickers—three dead and two wounded.
Hank had the two wounded placed on the stairs. One had a stab wound in his leg, and the other had had his left arm sliced open.
“Wait here. Keep pressure on those wounds. We’ll be back for you.”
He looked around at his crew, whittled abruptly from fifteen to ten. Hank was shaking inside. He wanted out of here so bad he could taste it. But he needed the girl and the katana—in that order. If it came down to a choice between the two, he’d take Dawn. He needed that baby, needed the Key to the Future more than anything else.
“Change of plans,” he said, doing his best to appear calm and in control. “No splitting up. I think we’ve pretty much wiped them out, but we’ll play it safe and all go door to door together.”
The nods all around told him that was a popular decision.
The first two rooms they broke into were unoccupied. One looked like a tiny dorm room, but the other was big and set up with a bloodstained table and a bunch of knives and saws that looked like surgical equipment.
He had a feeling some ugly stuff had gone down in there.
In the third room they found a bald old monk with no arms or legs lying on a futon. The socket of his shoulder, where his arm should have started, was freshly sutured. What was wrong with him? Gangrene? Why hadn’t they taken him to a hospital?
“What do we do with him?” one of the Kickers said, stepping up to the futon and bending over the monk. “Look. He’s smiling. Like he’s glad to see us.”
Another Kicker stepped over for a look. “Damn. If he ain’t.”
Hank was debating whether or not to club the guy when the two Kickers cried out in surprise.
“Shit!” one said, pulling something from his neck. “He spit something at me.” He held up a red-striped toothpick. “Look at this!”
The other pulled the same from his cheek. “Me too.”
That seemed to settle it without a word from Hank. He turned away as they pulped the monk’s head.
Hank motioned toward the door. “On to the next.”
But as he reached the door he heard two heavy thumps behind him. He turned and saw the two Kickers crumpled on the floor. He stepped over and checked them. Their wide, staring eyes told him they were dead.
He turned to the others. “Those toothpick things must have been poison. All right, that settles it. You see one of these guys, you flatten him.”
The next door was heavier than the rest—thick oak planks that resisted their most powerful kicks. A secure room…made to safeguard valuables. Valuables like Dawn and the sword, maybe?
Hank turned to Jantz and pointed to his chainsaw. “Fire that thing up again and go to work.”
Toru stood in the dark and listened to the futile kicks and thuds against the sturdy door that guarded the scrolls and the ekisu. Not only was it thick, but reinforced high and low by heavy crossbars. He had intended to bring the girl and the katana in here, but the barbarians had invaded this level before he had a chance.
Then he heard another sound—the roar of a small gasoline engine.
What—?
When he heard a saw attacking the wood, he knew.
His gut roiled as he tightened his grip on his katana. He knew he would not survive this, but he would make them pay dearly.
An errant thought plagued him. What if they weren’t interested in the scrolls and the ekisu? What if they were only after the girl and the katana?
He shook it off. No. Who would not want to control the secret of the Kuroikaze?
Perhaps he could make them pay so dearly that they would forget about the Black Wind.
Wood dust peppered him as the saw pierced the door and began a downward cut. He positioned himself so that he would be behind the door when it opened, then closed his eyes behind his mask. Only a matter of time now.
Finally, after cutting through the crossbars and around the lock, the chainsaw was withdrawn. The door burst open, exposing the room to wan light from the hall. Toru held his breath as flashlight beams lit the sawdust motes in the air.
“Empty,” someone said as he stepped forward.
Toru acted then, stepping out from cover and slashing toward the man’s neck. The blade opened a wildly spraying gash in his throat. As the man went down, Toru delivered an overhead chop to the shoulder of the man behind him, nearly severing the arm from his body, then stabbed at a third man, piercing his rib cage th
rough and through. But when he tried to withdraw the blade, it wouldn’t budge—jammed between front and rear ribs.
He ducked as something flashed toward his face but not quickly enough. His head exploded with pain and bright flashes, but he remained aware as he hit the floor and felt each kick and each blow that followed.
“All right! All right!” cried a voice. “Enough!”
“The motherfucker killed Thoren, Hendricks, and Rucker, boss! Ain’t no such thing as enough.”
“Oh, he’s gonna get his. Don’t you worry.”
Toru became aware of someone leaning close, but his eyes would not focus. He felt a finger poke a broken rib, sending a stab of pain through his chest.
“Where’s the girl? Where’s the katana? Tell me and I’ll let you live.”
Live? Did he know what he was saying? How could he go on living if he betrayed the Order?
But as for answering, Toru could not have done so, even had he wished it. He knew from the pain and his inability to move it that his jaw was broken.
The man withdrew. Toru heard his voice as if from down a long corridor.
“You know what? These monks or whatever they are seem to like to cut themselves up. Let’s see if we can help this guy along. Whatta ya say, Jantz?”
“Awright!” said a third voice.
Toru heard the chainsaw roar to life again and wanted to scream.
Glock in hand, Jack took the lead as he and Veilleur picked their way through the corpses. He’d expected some bloodshed but not bodies piled up outside the front door. Sort of like Vlad the Impaler warning the Turks.
All Kickers, as far as he could tell, but not all killed the same way.
He whispered, “Some of these guys have been cut, some shot. And this one’s got a shuriken in his eye. Bet that smarted.”
Veilleur nodded. “The work of both the Kakureta Kao and your yakuza friends, I imagine.”
Friends. Right. With friends like those…
“Looks like the Kickers are getting the worst of it.”
“No surprise. They are the least skilled, after all.”
“We’d better be careful.”
“Thank you,” Veilleur said with a smile as he bent and picked up a long, curved crowbar. He hefted it and made a couple of short swings. “A much-needed warning as we stand over seven corpses.”
Jack realized it had been kind of a dumb thing to say. But he was used to working alone.
“Just playing Master of the Obvious.”
“You have proven yourself worthy of the title.” Veilleur gestured toward the entrance. “I think we should find another way in, don’t you?”
Jack agreed. They made their way to the north end of the building. They’d heard the sound of a chainsaw as they’d approached, but that had stopped now. They found a fire exit around the corner—unlocked. They slipped through the doors, Jack again in the lead, and found themselves at the bottom of a narrow stairwell.
He eased the door to the hallway open a crack and peeked out. He jerked back, then peeked again.
“What is it?” Veilleur whispered.
“I see dead people.”
A slaughterhouse.
Corpses of Kickers and robed cultists littered the floor near the main entrance. Just this side of them, what looked like a dead yakuza—the heavy one—with a jacket over his head.
He narrowed the opening when he caught movement farther down the hall. As he watched, the yakuza—the two remaining gunsels and their boss—exited one room and crossed the hall to another.
He tapped Veilleur’s shoulder and pointed up the stairway. The old man nodded and they headed for the second floor.
Fewer bodies up here—a half dozen maybe, all in blue robes. Nothing moving. He motioned Veilleur to follow and started down the hall, peering into the rooms as they passed. He saw two dead Kickers in one, next to the battered body of a limbless monk. Two doors down they came upon a room awash in blood—three dead Kickers plus someone’s arm.
Christ, what happened in there?
Jack decided he didn’t need to know and was about to move on when Veilleur stopped him.
“Wait. I want to see…”
He led Jack inside where they found the source of the arm: another dead limbless monk, only his were freshly severed and strewn around the room. His belly had been ripped open as well. Jack remembered the sound of the chainsaw and turned away.
He felt a little ill. In a way, all this was his doing. He might not have created the conflict between them, but he’d put three vicious pit bulls in the same ring. He hadn’t realized how vicious. He’d expected bloodshed, but this had gotten out of hand.
Veilleur seemed unfazed. He’d given the monk’s quartered and eviscerated body barely a glance before moving on. He was now picking through a pile of scrolls in the corner, unrolling them a little and shining his flashlight on them.
After looking at three or four he turned to Jack. “Would you get me one of the oil lamps from the hall?”
Jack checked the hall. Voices drifted down from the other end. He stepped out, unhooked the nearest lamp from the ceiling, and ducked back inside.
Veilleur took the lamp and tossed it onto the scrolls.
“This should have been done centuries ago.”
“Why?”
“They tell how to create the Kuroikaze—the Black Wind.”
Slater had mentioned the same thing.
“What the hell is it?”
“No time to explain here. Suffice to say it’s vile and evil. There’s enough evil in the world without the Kuroikaze too.”
“I need more than that. What’s it do?”
Veilleur looked at him. “It kills. It sucks the life out of everything it touches. You read about that incident a few miles from here, I assume. Where everything—plants, rodents, insects, even bacteria—were found dead?”
“The wilt.”
“It’s no coincidence that it happened not far from the Kakureta Kao building.”
“That was a Black Wind?”
Veilleur nodded. “A miniature example. I suspect they were experimenting.”
Then Slater hadn’t been crazy.
“What for?”
“My guess is revenge. Or simply because they’re all even madder than they seem.”
The spilling oil soaked into the old paper, setting the pile ablaze. The room began to fill with smoke.
“Are they the only copies?”
“Who can say? I hope so. But at least we know that no one will be using these.”
Jack returned to the hall and started to lead the way toward the other end when he heard a voice on the main stairwell asking for Hank.
He and Veilleur ducked into the next room—free of corpses, thank you—and waited.
Darryl cowered behind the door of the empty room, hands pressed against the sides of his throbbing head, waiting. He’d thought he was home free when he’d ducked in here to escape the shoot-out. A few minutes later he thought he was dead—just about peed his pants—when two of those suited gunmen came in. But they hadn’t looked behind the door.
For a while now everything had been pretty quiet—except for the sound of a chainsaw somewhere in the distance. Upstairs maybe?
Did he dare take a peek? Didn’t see any alternative. Sure as hell couldn’t stay here all night.
He crept to the door on hands and knees and peeked out. Bodies everywhere. He knew some of those dead faces.
No movement anywhere, no sound. He took a deep breath and made a tiptoe dash to the next room.
Oh, shit. He wasn’t alone. The lone, sputtering candle revealed the legless monk and the two Kickers he’d stabbed. Except the Kickers had been alive when he’d left them with Menck, and now they were—
Say…where was Menck?
“Darryl?”
He almost screamed when he turned and saw the dead monk rising from his bed. But no—the top of his bedding was moving with him. Menck’s bandaged head popped out from under the futon.
“Shit, Menck, you almost gave me a heart attack. What the fuck you doing under there?”
“Hiding. When I saw those Japs going room to room after massacring our guys, I dove under here.” He pointed to the two dead Kickers. “They shot them up, then left.”
Darryl’s stomach knotted. “So it’s just you and me out of all those guys?”
Menck nodded. “Seems that way. At least down here. Don’t know about Hank upstairs.”
“Shit! Hank and his no-guns rule. We didn’t stand a chance.”
“Hey, nobody figured on hit men.”
“You think that’s what they are?”
“Sure act like it. Stone killers with silencers. That says hit men to me.”
Darryl couldn’t argue with that. “But who hired them?”
“The fuck I know?”
“Yeah. Right. Look, we either gotta get outta here—with Hank if he’s alive, without him if he ain’t.”
Menck shook his head and moved to the window. “Fuck Hank. Probably as dead as these guys.” He touched his bandaged scalp. “My head’s killing me and I feel like I’m gonna puke. I’m outta here.”
Darryl followed him, knowing exactly how he felt. They were on the first floor. If they could get the window open, it was only a short drop to the backyard. Real tempting.
As Menck started lifting the sash, Darryl checked out the yard. He froze when he saw the lone black figure standing maybe fifty feet away. Couldn’t make out any features.
“Someone’s out there.”
Menck stopped and stared. “The fuck is he?”
“One of the hit men?” Darryl said, but didn’t really believe it.
Something about the guy sent a deep chill through Darryl. He didn’t seem to be holding a weapon or anything. He just stood there with his head thrown back, his legs spread, and his arms angled out from his body. He looked like he was praying, but for some odd reason he made Darryl think of an antenna—but what kind of signal he was picking up was anyone’s guess.
He might be lots worse than one of the hit men.
“Must have put an extra guy outside to make sure no one escapes. They want to kill us all. Shit!”
“We gotta get Hank.”