The Japanese Assassin: A Kira Nomura Thriller, Book One, page 1
THE JAPANESE ASSASSIN
A KIRA NOMURA THRILLER - BOOK ONE
JACK ARBOR
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For Yukinobu, Shoko, Yayoi, Minamo, Neo, and Sota
Kazoku wa taisetsu na mono nanka ja nai. Kazoku koso subete da.
家族は大切なものなんかじゃない。家族こそすべてだ。
Family is not an important thing.
It's everything.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Epilogue
A Brief Request
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Author’s Note
About the Author
Also By Jack Arbor
ONE
A faraway bird sang a long melody.
Farther away, a frog croaked.
A creaking branch and the scraping of wood on wood sounded overhead.
Silence descended, and she drifted into a dreamless state.
Sometime later, the song of the colorful bird returned. At least that’s how she pictured the bird in her mind. A bright red thrush with a dominant plume of purples and yellows.
I’ve arrived, all ye female birds. Behold me in my glory.
The bird sang again and again until its song died away, but the damage was done and her eyes creaked open to slits.
Lightning bolts of searing fire lit up her nervous system until she squeezed her lids tight. Instinct prevented her from crying out, and she clamped her mouth shut.
More noises crept into her awareness: chirping, croaking, and buzzing. Something cackled far in the distance, and the image of a monkey formed beneath her closed lids. Underneath her, an animal scurried through grass stalks and palm fronds.
Underneath?
Where am I?
Panic surged through her mind and into her amygdala, the ancient part of her brain regulating flight or fight, and her eyes flew open. It was self-preservation. She endured the sharp tacks poking her eyeballs and the stars of white light crossing her eyes. She blinked back tears until her vision cleared. Brown rafters and beige thatch were above her, and an unlit oil lamp hung from a chain.
What is this place?
Her brain suggested moving her head to see more of her surroundings, so she made the attempt. Nothing happened. An anxious sensation flooded her nerves.
Am I paralyzed?
She willed her eyeballs to look down her chest and stomach. A moth-eaten army-green blanket covered her body. Her toes formed a small tent near the end of where she lay. She flexed her toes. Nothing happened.
This is ridiculous. I’m not paralyzed. Flex, damn it.
Still no movement.
Wait. How do I know I’m not paralyzed?
I just know.
With a force of will conjured from somewhere deep, she concentrated all her energy along her arm and through her hand and into her pinky.
Move, damn it.
The finger twitched.
I knew it.
A breeze picked up, and a sprinkle of something rained onto the thatch. Water? Leaves? Dirt?
After resting her pinky while she examined every inch of the thatch above her head, she compelled one hand to move before she concentrated on the other. That’s when she noticed the deep ache enveloping her entire body, from her temples to her toes, the kind of ache resulting from a beating. Or many beatings.
The thought was intuitive. It appeared in her mind unbidden.
She switched her attention back to her feet and toes. The big toe on her left foot tensed, followed by the big toe on her right foot. She focused her attention on her calves and worked her way up her legs to flex each muscle and relax it. She performed the exercises again and again until elasticity returned and her feet rotated in circles. As she worked her arms and shoulders, the wool blanket fell away and a breeze washed over her.
Under the blanket she wore briefs and a T-shirt. While her skin was covered with scars, scabs, and dried blood, the T-shirt was ripped and stained with something rust-colored. The cuts and scrapes stung and throbbed.
She bicycled first one leg and then the other while ignoring the deep soreness from working her muscles. She hugged both legs against her chest to stretch her back. With energy summoned from the deepest well of her soul, she sat up.
A wave of nausea overtook her, and she almost heaved, but she fought it off and remained upright with her arms bracing her. The rest of the room swam into focus. Spacious by hut standards, the room was square with waist-high railings of cypress wood which were the only thing between her and the forest. Thatched overhangs blotted out the view, but a bird with green and blue feathers fluttered through the opening, sailed to the roof, and perched on a rafter.
The military cot she rested on was in a corner. A folding table sat on the edge of the room, and a counter with a wash basin was to the right. A metal mirror hung on a rusty nail over the basin, and two plastic bins sat next to the counter. Otherwise, the room was empty.
She swung her legs so her feet hit the floor and rested a moment before she stood.
Big mistake.
Vertigo swam through her head until she sat back hard onto the cot.
The bird chattered.
I know, bird. Shut up.
Instinct screamed at her to get up and become mobile.
Make my body functional.
Her safety depended on it.
My safety? Where did that come from?
Their prey was close. The two men with the machetes and sweat-stained shirts almost smelled her. It was a test. An initiation into the crew. Hunt her down and execute her. The bloodier the better. Take pictures. Enjoy themselves and report back when done.
With a curse directed at the heavy jungle heat, the lead man swung his machete at a vine to clear a spot in the trail. He squeezed his girth through the opening and left a button snagged on a branch. The ripped shirt brought a laugh. He would buy a new one with the spoils from the hunt. One with rhinestones like they wear in America.
Behind the lead man trudged a skinnier and younger version of him. This one wore a dirty trucker cap and a stained T-shirt and a snarl on his face. “How much farther?”
“How do I know?” The heavy man swiped the machete at a vine. The oppressive jungle took a toll on the adrenaline-laced glow of the hunt. “You heard the same thing I heard. Follow the trail. Can’t miss her.”
“Hold up.” The skinny man leaned on a tree and sucked from a plastic bottle of water with the words Pure Life on the label. When the bottle was empty, he crushed it against his hip and tossed the trash into the forest. “How do we know this isn’t a trap? What if she’s actually hunting us?”
The larger man slapped him on the head, and the younger man’s cap flew to the ground. “Scared of one little woman, huh?”
The smaller one snatched his hat from the ground and glared at his companion. “Fuck off, I ain’t scared.” He touched the pistol handle at his waist. “Do that again and I shoot ya.”
The bigger man’s smile disappeared as he brandished his machete. “Go ahead. Draw it before I slice your hand off.”
The youngster’s hand twitched as it rested on the gun butt, but he let it fall away.
With a wave of the big knife, the plump man laughed. “That’s what I thought. Let’s go see what treats she has to offer.”
He pointed along the trail with the business end of the machete. “Lead the way, young ’un.”
Ten more minutes of hiking led them to a clearing in the trees where they found the cold remains of a campfire and a thatch-roofed hut built on stilts. The lead man put his hand on his young companion’s shoulder. “Let’s watch for a bit.”
The skinny man slapped his hand away, jogged into the middle of the clearing, and headed for the hut.
The big man cursed and followed.
When she stood, she held on to the cypress wood railing next to her cot until the dizziness faded.
She took a step.
Hold on to the railing.
Another step.
Let go of the railing.
The room wobbled, but it passed, and she took another step.
One hand hovered over the railing as she m ade her way to the wash basin, where she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Scrapes on her cheeks, bruising around almond-shaped eyes. A small flat nose was humped like it was broken once. Shoulder-length black hair in a tangle. Petite chin with a tiny cleft.
She didn’t recognize the reflection.
As terror welled inside her, she grasped both edges of the washbasin and bent to avoid peering at the image in the mirror. Brackish water sat in the bowl and she splashed some on her face and stood to face the mirror again.
The water intermingled with blood to form mud on her cheeks, and she wiped her face with a dirty cloth hanging on a nail.
It didn’t help. There was no recognition.
Who am I?
Images flashed in her mind. A vacant and clean city, hazy visions of men and women in olive green uniforms, knives dripping in blood, and violence—lots of violence. She shuddered.
How did I get here?
She took hold of the edges of the bowl again and held on as she heaved and retched. Nothing came up.
A search of her mind brought up no memories of how she got here. Or who she was. Or where she lived. There was nothing except instinct, and her instinct screamed at her.
Get out. Run.
A pair of army-green cargo pants hung on a nail. She yanked them on. They hung loose and were as soiled and frayed as her T-shirt. The cuts and abrasions were alarming. There were a lot of them, and most were scabbed over or in the process of healing. A deep cut in her shoulder was held together with a dozen stiches. She poked at the wound, and a drop of blood oozed from a corner. The laceration was new.
A search of the plastic bins yielded supplies. A crusty enamel mug. Some jute rope. A folding pocketknife with a red handle. Cooking utensils and a crusted pan. And lots of dirt. The second bin contained a gallon of water and a stack of beige-colored packets labeled Meal, Ready-to-Eat. No weapons, other than the pocketknife.
Why did that come to mind?
With the pocketknife, she cut a length of the rope to use as a belt. She ripped off the bottle lid and guzzled from the gallon jug before using the blade to slice open a beige packet labeled “vegetarian bean and rice burrito.” The bland food tasted like heaven. Her balance returned, and her mind cleared.
A sound came from outside the hut.
The noise was foreign to the cacophony of animals and plant life filling the jungle. Footsteps. Heavy, lumbering.
A man?
Cocking her head, she focused on the sounds.
Two men.
Two men approaching the hut at a run.
TWO
The thudding footsteps turned into the squeaking of wood against wood, and the hut swayed.
A ladder.
Two men. One heavy, one smaller. The thoughts appeared from nowhere. Unbidden. Automatic.
Nowhere to go. Except over the edge. Face what’s coming.
She snapped open the pocketknife to reveal a rusty blade as she cast about the hut for other weapons. The mirror over the washbasin was a square piece of metal. A makeshift knife, perhaps. The cot could be disassembled into a stack of thin metal poles. No help against an immediate threat. She padded on bare feet to the middle of the room. All she had was the knife.
And my hands.
It’s enough.
Her racing pulse slowed, and calm flooded over her. She squatted on her haunches and waited.
A head appeared, followed by a torso. A skinny man with glistening brown skin stepped into the hut, and a larger man followed.
The thin man wore a tattered T-shirt, jeans, and a dirty trucker cap. While he leered and licked his lips, his hand rested on the butt of a pistol stuck in his waistband. The second man was older and wore a soiled cowboy shirt stretched over a big gut. One button was gone and brown skin showed through. This one carried a rusty machete. Both men had scraggly facial hair, and sweat glistened on their faces.
“Well, well. What do we have here?” The skinny man with the trucker cap spoke in Mandarin.
She understood the language.
A clue.
Am I Chinese?
“Looks to me like we found our toy.” The one wearing the cowboy shirt sneered. “And she’s even tastier than they described.”
Who are they?
As she rose to her feet, a gentle pulsing energy formed in the middle of her chest and calmed her.
Child’s play, these two.
Cowboy Shirt grinned as he stepped into the middle of the room and waved his machete. Trucker Cap shifted from foot to foot as his eyes roamed her body.
While balanced on the balls of her feet, she sidestepped left away from the larger one and closer to the skinny one, the one with the gun. She shifted the knife in her hands so her fingers grasped the blade. The balance was off, but it would do.
She was calm with a quiet confidence, and the colors in the room swelled in vibrant technicolor. Her attacker’s motions bloomed in prominence, and the smells of the jungle popped in her nose. She saw, noticed, sensed, and took in everything. All stimuli were aroused and worked in unison to optimize what she was about to do.
These two men are about to die.
The thought neither pleased her nor upset her. It was a fact, just as the sun sets in the west. There were no emotions about it.
“Little girl, why don’t you get on your knees.” Trucker Cap’s fingers tapped on the gun handle. “I’d hate for—”
Her feet moved into an attack position with her weight on her back foot. With a flick of her arm and the shifting weight of her body, the knife was airborne. She rushed after the flying knife. End over end, it sailed through the air until its blade sank into the neck of Trucker Cap.
As Trucker Cap’s face switched from the lascivious leer to a surprised gape, his hand fell away from the gun and went to his neck.
Cowboy Shirt was frozen in place with his mouth open.
She launched a flying kick at the skinny man, and her foot landed on his chest and propelled him back until he crashed against the cypress wood railing. The wood cracked at the impact but held. His hands clawed at the blade handle sticking in his throat as blood dribbled from his neck.
“ARRRGGGHHHH!!!” The big man charged.
After landing on her feet in a crouch, she whirled to see the heavy man lumber at her, his machete held over his head. The attack was slow and clumsy, and she ducked to evade the blade as it arced through the air. She danced to the center of the room and turned to face the attacker.
Again the big man lunged at her, intent on lodging the rusty blade into the side of her neck. She leaned away as the blade swished through the air, and she whipped around to see him take another short swing.
Cowboy Shirt’s attack was off-balance and lacked power, but the tip of the blade caught her abdomen and sliced a thin cut across her oblique. A line of blood seeped into her shirt. The wound was superficial, but it stung.
I’m rusty. Get it together.
When the next attack came, she dodged to her left before she leaned into the attack and caught Cowboy Shirt’s arm as the blade swung down. With his arm caught in the crook of her elbow, she let the heavy man’s momentum carry him. As he fell, she used a slight weight shift to take him hard to the ground before she wrenched the arm and a snap cracked in the tiny hut. The heavy man screamed.
She rolled, let go of his arm, and bounded to her feet. He writhed on the ground as the long blade lay forgotten on the wood floor. She pounced on his back, put the crook of her arm against his windpipe, and pulled so his back was bent at an angle and he faced the roof.
