F. Paul Wilson - By the Sword

God, if she'd only known… she might have set his bed on fire and watched him burn. No, not might have— would have.

"Whatsamatter?" Darryl said. "Cat gotcha tongue?"

"When's Jerry coming?"

That was what she dreaded most—facing that sick, perverted son of a bitch, watching him totally gloat over her, telling her she could run but not hide from him.

Darryl frowned. "Jerry? Jerry who?"

So that was how it was going to be—play games with her till he showed up.

She stared at the floor. "Leave me alone."

"Hey, don't be mean to me now. We're gonna be seeing a lot of each other. We might as well be friends. It'll make the time go faster and easier, know what I mean?"

She looked up at him. What was he implying? Give him a little something and he'd make things easier for her?

Her stomach turned. Henry had been clean and neat and she'd still had to force herself to do him. This dirty creep… God, she'd rather die.

"Could you just leave me alone? I've had—"

Something thumped against the door. Darryl spun.

"Menck? That you?"

Another thump.

He started for the door. "Hey, Menck. Whatta you think—?"

The door burst open and three black-clad figures piled in. They didn't hesitate or break stride as they swarmed toward Darryl. He tried to backpedal but two of them were on him in a second, whacking him with their nunchucks. She knew what they were because some kid at school had split his scalp trying to show off with a set. His head had bled like Darryl's was bleeding now.

She opened her mouth to scream but the third was already in her face, clamping a hand over her mouth.

He looked Japanese—all three did. He had some sort of black scarf wrapped around his head and the lower half of his face, but she could tell he was Japanese.

"Shhh!" He put a finger to his lips in a surprisingly gentle gesture. "We are here to rescue you," he said in thickly accented English.

Rescue? That could only mean Mr. Osala. He must have hired these… these ninjas to bring her back.

She was totally ready to go. She'd thought his place was a prison. This was a hundred, a thousand times worse. And he had no agenda beyond keeping her safe from Jerry.

She nodded and pulled the ninja's hand away. "Let's go. Let's get out of here."

He pushed her in front of him and signaled the other two who led the way out. She had to step over Darryl, and then over the one called Menck. She noticed both were still breathing.

Her rescuers guided her up to the ground floor, out a back door, and into a waiting van that held five more of their kind. They all cheered when they saw her. She was squeezed between a couple of them and largely ignored as they yammered away in Japanese. One of them held up a sword and those with her cheered.

As they pulled out of the alley and onto the street, it finally became real that she was free. So easy. These guys had just waltzed in, busted a few heads, and led her out.

Jerry was going to be so totally pissed.

The driver wound this way and that until they came to a parked van just like this one. Half of them switched over, and then her van got rolling again.

"Where's Mister Osala?" she said.

The three surrounding her in the back stared her way but said nothing. Their flat black eyes held no hint that they had any idea what she was talking about.

Maybe it's a language thing, she thought, fighting a twinge of unease. They don't understand English.

But when the van turned east onto the ramp to the Manhattan Bridge, the unease bloomed into alarm.

"This isn't the way to Mister Osala's. Where are you taking me?"

They continued to stare and say nothing.

Jack found Kicker HQ in chaos.

Obviously too late to sneak in behind the Kakureta Kao's boys and spirit Dawn away.

It had taken half a forever for the cab to show up, and then the guy refused to drive him to Manhattan. Jack had offered him all the cash on him but the driver would take him as far as the ferry and that was it. So he'd had to wait for the ferry, then find a cab to bring him back here.

All for nothing.

Looked like some sort of call had gone out because the Lodge building was crammed with Kickers, all looking shocked and furious. He scanned the crowd and spotted the blond guy in the work shirt who'd bummed a ciggy earlier.

He sidled over and said, "Dude, what happened?"

The guy looked at him like he'd just asked what year it was. "Where've you been?"

Jack shrugged. "Grabbing some food, downing a few beers. I left the place quiet with a few folks outside, now I wander back and find a ton of folks inside. What gives?"

"We were invaded."

Jack let his jaw drop. "What?"

He nodded. "Bunch of ninja types worked over Hank and Menck and Darryl, and fucking killed Haber."

"You're putting me on, right?"

"Swear by the Kicker Man."

"What the hell for?"

"Hank's sword. Makes sense: Jap sword, Jap sneak attack, just like Pearl Harbor. Killed Haber with it and disappeared."

"So where are they? The hospital?"

"Nah. Carson's a paramedic so he's sewing up their heads. Says they look worse than they are." He shook his head. "Probably gonna have to call the cops about Haber, though nobody wants to do that." His face reddened. "Man, I ever get my hands on those fuckers—"

"You do, you let me know, 'cause I want a piece of them too."

Jack wound his way through the throng to the front steps where he stood and stared at nothing.

Timing was everything and he'd blown that. The place was packed with Kickers. Even on the outside chance he could find Dawn, he'd never be able to sneak her out.

Something he'd just heard nagged at him.

Man, I ever get my hands on those fuckers …

Yeah. No doubt they all felt that way.

He made his way back inside and wove through the first-floor corridors, checking room after room, looking for one with a computer—and for Dawn. Not that he expected to find her. They wouldn't keep her on the first floor—too easy to escape. They'd hold her upstairs or in the basement. And if anyone asked what he was doing, he'd say he was looking for a bathroom.

As expected, no Dawn, but he did find a dark office with a monitor glowing on the desk. He eased in and closed the door behind him. The screensaver was the Septimus Lodge sigil bouncing around a black background.

He wiggled the mouse and looked for Google Earth on the desktop but didn't see it. Checked the program list—not there either. Didn't have time to download it, so he went to Flashearth instead. He typed "staten island, ny" into the little search box and was immediately rewarded with a satellite view.

And yeah, the cabbie had been right—the Fresh Kills landfill was visible from space. He coned down until he found the roof of a rectangular building sitting in an empty area with a clear view of the mounds. Had to be it. He put the crosshairs in the center of the roof and copied the latitude and longitude coordinates down to the second. Then he closed Explorer and rejoined the Kickers.

Now… how to get the word out? He couldn't stand here and shout it, because then they'd want to know how he knew. He needed anonymity—like phoning it in. Problem was he didn't have a number for Hank or the Lodge or any Kicker for that matter.

But he knew his own.

He edged over to a side table in the foyer and slipped his TracFone from his pocket. After memorizing a number from his call history, he erased everything and thumbed the volume to max. Then he slipped the phone onto the table and headed for the door.

Once outside, he hurried up toward Allen Street. After cadging some change from an all-night bodega along the way, he found a pay phone. He called his TracFone.