Jason Frost - The Warlord

"You too?"

"I never liked him, not like the others. But I knew my only chance for survival was to do what I was told."

"Until that Sunday morning. The day of the Easter Massacre."

"Yeah, until then. Hell, you read the report, you know what happened. The civilian village. Fallows crucifying dogs first then old men, finally women and children. Trying to get information from them that we already had. 'Just teaching them the meaning of Easter,' he'd laugh, 'like the Easter bunny.' I tried to stop him. Got this for my trouble." He touched the scar, traced it lightly with his fingertips along his neck, jaw, cheek. "A bayonet heated over a fire can do some serious damage. He crucified half the village before he got bored and moved on, leaving me behind, tied up in an enemy village whose people he'd just tortured and killed, I thought I was dead for sure. But they knew why I'd been left behind and they let me go. Without food or water or my gun. They figured under the circumstances they were being generous enough. I couldn't argue. It took me two weeks to make it back to one of our camps."

"And that's when you reported the crucifixions?"

"Yeah. But no one wanted to hear about them. None of the officers I talked to admitted to ever hearing of the Night Shift or Col. Dirk Fallows. It took awhile, but eventually I found a lieutenant general who wasn't afraid to press the matter. It went to a court-martial and it was my word against the rest of the entire squad. Except Kelley. I guess we looked sincere, because they sentenced that son of a bitch to twenty the hard way. Only they forgot to throw away the key and he got out in twelve. Five months ago."

"They should've told you. Warned you. "

"Yeah. Me and Kelley. I phoned him the same night the Sempleton kid broke into my house. No answer. He hasn't shown up for work or been seen by anyone since that night."

"Maybe he heard something, took off," Luther said weakly.

"Maybe. In the meantime, Annie and the kids are stashed someplace safe. My mom, however, wouldn't leave her students."

There was a morose pause, one Luther needed to fill. "How's she like teaching in the same university as her son?"

"A mother's dream, even if it meant leaving Arizona after Dad's death. She refers to her teaching here as 'enlightening the surfing masses.' "

"Isn't that supposed to be suffering masses?"

'This is California."

Luther laughed. "Right."

Eric looked at his watch. "About that time."

"Let me wash up and I'll be right with you." Luther stood up, brushed a few wrinkles from a hopelessly creased jacket, and strode off into his private bathroom.

Eric felt the film of sweat that had formed on his face as he'd recounted his past-Nam, the Easter Massacre, Dirk Fallows-and felt the sudden need to wash too, scrub himself clean. He went out the door, passed Lynn, who had the phone tucked between ear and shoulder. He started to mime a few words.

"It's okay," she said. "They've got me on hold."

"Tell Perry Mason I'll be back in a couple minutes."

"Will do."

He opened the door, saw the young guard, Fisher, snap to a kind of attention, then seeing it wasn't his boss, sort of sag against the door jamb again. "Kinda slow today," Fisher nodded with a lazy grin.

"The big rush doesn't start for another five minutes. That's when the mayor usually comes by."

"Really?" Fisher said, straightening up, tugging at his tie, tucking his shirt in.

Eric walked silently down the hall. Everyone else walking down the hall made little clicking noises or squeaking sounds depending on the kind of shoes they were wearing. Eric made no noise at all.

How's he do that? Fisher wondered as Eric ducked into the men's room.

"Weird," Fisher shrugged, slumping back against the wall as he decided the mayor bit was probably a gag. He went back to his usual activity, trying to figure how many more hours he had to work to earn enough to buy a new Sony Walkman. He could hardly wait. Then he could wire up when he went jogging, listen to Foreigner and Blondie. Or when he was hitting tennis balls against the wall, practicing his ground stroke. Jackson Browne would be good for ground strokes. That's what was so neat about those things. You could have the right kind of background music for whatever you did. Like in the movies. It made everything you did seem more dramatic. Like Travolta walking down the street to "Stayin' Alive" in Saturday Night Fever. Now it would be Daryl Fisher jogging along the beach to "Heart of Glass."

Fisher was so excited by the prospect that he didn't notice the two men in three-piece suits carrying briefcases as they walked by him. Didn't notice them nod to each other, then slip into the men's room behind Eric.

Eric splashed the cold water on his face. It sent a little jolt down his spine and he felt better. Refreshed. He reached up blindly, yanked a paper towel from the shiny holder and wiped his face, harder than necessary. The skin turned red from the rough treatment, except for the scar. When he rubbed over that he felt nothing, no sensation whatsoever. DMZ. That's what the army surgeon in Nam had called it. Dead Meat Zone.

He heard the door open behind him, the hydraulic rush and sigh as it started to close again. He caught a glimpse of the two husky men in the mirror as he balled up the soggy towel and tossed it into the trash can.

Then he heard the popping of briefcase snaps and he knew there was trouble. He spun to face the two men.

"You caused us some trouble on this one, Ravensmith," the tall blond man drawled. "Had to shave my beard and all. Even borrow me a three-piece suit so's I'd look like one of the monkeys what usually hangs around here."

While the blond talked, his partner pried open his briefcase and pulled out a pair of heavy wooden nunchakus. He grasped them in one hand and balanced the briefcase on the sink.

"Not only that," the blond continued, scratching the red bumps under his chin where he'd shaved, "but they got goddamned metal detectors in the fucking lobby. Can't hardly get a fingernail clipper past them, let alone a decent gun. Believe me, Ravensmith, we'd have rather used a gun than this slant gizmo, but we ain't got much choice."

"And neither do you," his partner grinned.

The blond was the bigger of the two by four inches and twenty pounds, so he went over to the door, grabbed the handle, and wedged the toe of his penny loafer under the door, leaning his weight forward to prevent anyone from coming in.

"Make it fast, Sam," he told the smaller man. "I still gotta pick up my old lady from the fucking dentist."

Sam crouched slightly, his legs apart for balance. One handle was draped over his shoulder, the other gripped firmly in his right hand. The short length of chain that connected the two hunks of wood lay on top of his shoulder. All he had to do now was snap his wrist and the rear handle would come flying at Eric with a lethal velocity.

Eric quickly whipped off his tie, grasping an end in each hand. He held it taut in front of him, ready to parry. At best it was a temporary defense, good enough to withstand a couple blows, but not nearly enough to save his life.

Sam did not grin or smile or look smug. His small dark eyes shone with concentration as he moved forward. His short, black hair bristled from the air-conditioned breeze blowing in through the overhead vent. When he finally moved, everything was a blur of whirling action.

First he spun the nunchaku from over his left shoulder, swinging it in a wide arc and catching the handle with his left hand. Eric surprised himself by remembering the name of the movement. Kata-Sukashi. Reverse shoulder swing. After that Sam went through a series of impressive movements. Cross swing and change (Suihei-Gaeshi). Figure eight swing (Hachiji-Gaeshi). Cross back swing (Fudo-Gaeshi), And a couple more that happened so quickly Eric couldn't identify them. But one thing was certain, Sam knew what he was doing.