Читать книгу Warrior Spirit - Alex Archer - Страница 6

Annja leaned back in the booth, feeling the cushions on her back. “Ninja? You’re kidding, right?”

Ken’s eyes never blinked. “Not at all.”

“You were hired killers? Assassins? Those crazy dudes who wore black pajamas and disappeared in puffs of smoke?”

Ken simply grinned and took a swallow of his beer. “History has never been kind to ninjitsu . Hollywood has done even less for our reputation. We like to say we’ve suffered from a thousand years of bad press.”

Annja frowned. Getting mixed up with a cult of bloodthirsty murderers didn’t exactly thrill her. “So, you’re denying that ninja were assassins?”

“I’m not denying anything,” Ken said. “I’m merely asking you to reserve judgment until you know more about what ninjitsu truly entails. In this case, I’m asking you to not believe what history books say about my kind. Tough as that may be to discount.”

“I’ve got an open mind,” Annja said, although she didn’t necessarily feel particularly open-minded just then.

Ken eyed her for a moment and then spread his hands in front of her. “ Ninjitsu developed out of a need for specialists who understood unconventional warfare. The samurai code of honor—Bushido—explicitly forbade certain tactics for use in times of unrest. But the various warlords of feudal Japan also understood that these supposedly unorthodox techniques could help ensure their continued prosperity and success. So they would secretly employ ninja to help them achieve their aims.”

“And murder people,” Annja said.

Ken sighed. “Annja, the truth is there were certainly some ninja families who did hire themselves out to the highest bidder with little regard to the universal scheme of totality. In that case, yes, you could say they were thugs.”

Annja could tell she was beginning to annoy Ken. “But not other families?”

“No.” He glanced around for the waitress and caught her eyes. He spoke to her in Japanese.

The waitress bowed, a feat Annja admired considering she was on roller skates. I would fall on my butt if I tried that, she thought. She shook her head and refocused on Ken. “So tell me more.”

“ Ninjitsu is a fascinating system of martial arts. As you know, samurai who lost in battle were supposed to follow their daimyo—their lord—into death by committing seppuku, ritual suicide. Not all of them would do that. Some of them would wander on a self-imposed exile. They would set themselves up in small villages in the mountains of western Japan—Iga and Koga Provinces—and there they set about trying to live peacefully with the flow of nature.”

“They’d become hermits?”

“Well, somewhat. Inevitably, the policies of the neighboring regions would impact their existence. Many of these villages developed into ninja clans as a way of preserving their way of life. They would carefully attempt to influence events such that their own lifestyle and that of their children would remain as unscathed as possible.”

“Interesting.” Annja could certainly understand wanting to protect and provide for future generations.

“Let me ask you this,” Ken said. “If you could pinpoint one person whose death would save the lives of thousands of men, women and children, would you take the step and remove him or her?”

Annja frowned. “I don’t know that I would ever want to make that decision. It seems like playing God to me.” And yet, Annja was fully aware she had been forced to make such a decision many times since coming into possession of Joan of Arc’s mystical sword.

Ken nodded. “I don’t disagree with you. I would find it difficult to do, as well. But those were the types of decisions that ninja jonin —leaders of the clan—had to face if they were to survive.”

“So, they would assassinate someone if it meant saving others?” Annja was suddenly sympathetic.

“Certainly. More often than not, however, they would take elaborate pains to set up networks of intelligence operatives who would keep their ears attuned to news and information. The ultimate goal was to be able to influence events as far ahead of time as possible to avoid war and destruction. This meant ninja had to be highly skilled at infiltrating enemy provinces, setting themselves up as regular people, reporting intelligence and, if the situation warranted it, sabotaging or assassinating key troops.”

Annja leaned back, suddenly aware that the young thugs across the room had gone quiet. “Sounds like they might have been better than samurai to have on your side.”

“A lot of people would foam at the mouth if they heard me say this, but many ninja were, in fact, samurai. There are plenty of crossover techniques and warrior ryu that include elements of ninjitsu and counter ninjitsu . It’s quite fascinating.”

“Well, this has been nothing if not enlightening.” Annja leaned forward. “But I think we’ve attracted the attention of the young guns over there.”

Ken looked up as the waitress brought over two new glasses of beer. “You think so?”

Annja could see the huddled conversation. One of the teppo , as Ken had labeled them, seemed more intent than the others. Annja figured him for the leader judging by the elaborate piercings, tattoos and amount of hair dye. “I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

Ken grinned. “In that case, I’d better drink my beer.”

Annja glanced at her own beer, but her stomach twinged. She’d already fought for three hours tonight. She wasn’t sure she was ready for another bout right at this instant. “Shouldn’t we get out of here?”

Ken shrugged. “Fact of the matter is if we leave, they’ll follow us. If they’re determined to cause trouble, it doesn’t matter where we go.”

“But we’ll be outside.”

“Yes, but I’m much more comfortable sitting here drinking my beer.”

Annja shook her head. “You’re an interesting guy, Ken. Anyone ever tell you that before?”

“Just beautiful archaeologists.”

“You’ve known many?”

Ken finished his beer. “You’re the first.”

Annja smiled in spite of the rising tension in the room. She saw the waitress start to approach their table, but Ken glanced at her and barely lifted his index finger from the tabletop. The waitress immediately stopped and retreated.

“Well, before we begin, let me just say that you’ve been a most enjoyable companion for dinner this evening,” Ken said.

Annja frowned. “Begin?”

Ken smiled. “Everything in the universe unfolds itself at the appropriate time. This situation is no different.”

Annja wasn’t sure exactly which situation Ken referred to, but she didn’t have time to think about it. The thugs had finally made a decision and were sliding out of their booths, making their way toward Ken, who still seemed entirely unfazed by the thought of what might happen next.

The young man Annja had picked as the leader swaggered toward their booth. Ken kept his eyes on Annja and his hand on his beer glass.

The thug glanced at Annja and then at Ken. He barked out a quick sentence to Ken, who simply sighed. “My companion doesn’t speak Japanese. Why don’t you be polite and use English? I’m sure she’d appreciate it.”

The thug frowned and glanced at Annja again before looking back at Ken. “You don’t give me orders,” he said in English.

Annja almost chuckled. Despite the thug’s insistence he was in charge, he had already obeyed Ken without even realizing it.

Ken’s eyebrows waggled once at Annja. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“You’re sitting in our booth,” the young man said.

“Really? That’s fascinating. How come you weren’t sitting in it when we walked in? After all, you’ve been here far longer than we have,” Ken replied.

“You’re in our booth.” The thug put both hands on the table and leaned over Ken. Annja could see his shirtsleeves inch up, exposing a twisting snake tattoo that wound its way from the edge of his wrist well up the forearm.

Ken glanced at the snake and then at the thug. “You didn’t use bamboo to get that tattoo, did you?”

“What?”

“Bamboo,” Ken said. “You see, in the old days, truly tough Yakuza would insist that their tattoos be applied using slivers of bamboo dipped in ink. It was an excruciating process, by which the Yakuza would prove themselves as impervious to pain and able to withstand anything in their loyalty to their oyabun .”

The thug sniffed. “Old days. Yeah, right.”

Ken nodded. “That, however, looks like it was done using an electric pen like the kind they use in cheap parlors down by Jimbocho.”

“What if it was?”

Ken shrugged. “Probably nothing at all, but it could mean that you have less tolerance for pain than you like to think. It could also mean that you’re not the tough guy you like to project. And furthermore, it might very well mean you aren’t Yakuza at all, but simply a poser.”

Annja’s eyes widened. If the tension hadn’t been palpable before, it was now at the point where she could have used her sword to cut through it. The thug backed up almost in total shock that Ken would say something like that to him in front of his group of followers. The loss of face was immense.

If we had a chance at walking out of here before, thought Annja, it’s gone now.

The thug recoiled just enough to draw his right arm back, reach into his pocket and draw a slim stiletto. He stabbed it straight at Ken’s heart.

Ken simply leaned back and let the knife go past him. Then he grabbed the thug’s wrist with his right hand and tugged him forward. It happened so quickly the thug stumbled and lost his balance. As his face came toward the tabletop, Ken lifted his left hand and slammed the beer glass into the thug’s face.

Glass shattered. Ken had slammed the glass bottom into the thug’s nose. Annja heard the cartilage break. Blood flowed, staining the air with the smell of copper.

Ken let the young tough slump to the floor, but as he did so, he tweaked the stiletto out of his hand.

There was a moment of stunned silence as the gang looked from Ken to the floor where their leader lay. Then one of them gave a mighty cry, and all hell broke loose.

Annja blinked and almost missed Ken kick at the next-closest target, catching the young gun in the crotch. Ken used the kick to cover his slide out of the booth. Annja wanted to help him, but was unsure about what she was getting herself into. The last thing she needed was to land on the wanted list of every Yakuza member in Tokyo.

Ken seemed to have no compunction about doing so, however. Annja watched as he deftly evaded every strike and kick aimed at him by the gang members. One moment they would seem locked on to him, and the next, their strikes would pass through empty air. Ken would have somehow managed to get behind them or to their side and simply apply a few key strikes to take them down.

Annja watched one of them sneak up from behind and try to stab Ken in the back. She was about to shout a warning but as the stab came in, Ken sidestepped and the blade passed through air where Ken’s kidneys had been a second before. Ken moved back and effected some sort of strange arm lock Annja had never seen before. In an instant, the thug was airborne, crashing into a group of other thugs, sending them sprawling across several booths and tables.

Ken had also somehow managed to contain the mayhem to their corner of the restaurant. Annja was aware that the rest of the crowd sat riveted by the action. In America, Annja theorized that the other eaters would have tried to get the hell out of there. Or at least recorded the entire fight on their cell phone cameras.

But in Japan, things were different.

Ken surveyed the scene. A quiet hush broken only by the low moans of the thugs he’d trashed fell over the restaurant. Ken stepped over to the thug leader he’d dispatched first and rolled back his sleeve some more. The supposedly elaborate snake tattoo ended halfway up the forearm.

Ken sniffed. “Just as I thought.”

He stood and looked at Annja. “Well, now I suppose we should leave. While I’m not at fault for this, I do so hate police interaction. Japanese cops tend to be nothing if not ensconced in paperwork and bureaucracy. I have little time to waste on either.”

Annja shook her head, trying to clear the images that had played out before her. “Are they dead?”

Ken chuckled. “Nope. But I imagine they’ll be sore for a good few weeks.”

The waitress skated up and presented Ken with a bill. He glanced at it and then frowned. “Fifty thousand yen for a table?” He sighed, but took out his wallet and removed a sheaf of paper notes. “Only here would the management take the time to calculate the cost of repairing all of this while the fight was going on so they could have the bill ready when it was done. Crazy.”

He handed the waitress the pile of money and then nodded toward the door. “I think I’m more concerned about another itemized bill than these clowns. We’d better get going before the owner decides to charge me double for the glasses.”

Annja took a breath and followed Ken outside. The cool air felt good on her skin. For some reason, she’d felt amazingly energized by watching the fight transpire. She’d wanted to join in but had held herself back out of fear of jeopardizing Ken. Somehow that sentiment seemed crazy now. Ken had handled himself unlike any fighter Annja had ever known.

“You’re awfully quiet, Annja. I hope that didn’t upset you too much. You seem somewhat accustomed to violence, though, so I didn’t think it would be a problem.”

Annja stopped short of Ken’s Mercedes. “Just who the hell are you exactly?”

Ken grinned. “Hop in and I’ll tell you everything you want to know. And probably plenty that you don’t.”