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I've got a history of poor decision making when I'm angry…but there's no real excuse for the depths I'm currently plumbing. Going up against someone with extensive formal training in swordplay, when this is the first time I've touched one? Abandoning my trusty guns for style? All to twist the proverbial knife (literal sword) of revenge a bit deeper than I could have otherwise?
Irredeemable. Fucking. Stupidity.
I should'a just torched the building and shot whoever tried to escape the inferno.
The only reason I'm still alive is luck, and the fact that my opponent Jyunichi's almost as stupid as I am. At least my brain's starting to work again, even through the rage that got me storming in here in the first place.
This murdering bastard thinks he's a goddamn samurai. Circling, posing, trying to finish me with one strike. He'd kill anyone trying to match that style, probably make it look effortless.
'Honorable combat' from a gang lieutenant who murders bound prisoners. What a fucking joke.
Too bad for him this girl doesn't fight fair.
I may not know how to use a sword very well, but I'm a fast learner, and I do know how to dodge.
The first time he missed was almost comical.
I'd just cut the legs out from under one of his peons, managed to graze another in the guts – nasty way to die, that is, painful and slow – and while I'd been grappling with a third he'd come in with a quick one-two combination from each of his blades, meant to put some irreparable holes in my lungs and liver. I simply dove between the knees of the woman I'd been locking blades with – she could keep my sword – and Jyunichi was left in the awkward position of mortally wounding one of his own underlings.
A good rule of combat – don't get so attached to a weapon you have to choose between it and your life. The Ronin all seem to have missed that memo, 'cause the way that fucker came at me, he'd been expecting me to stay in some kinda noble blade struggle with Ms. Unnamed-Minion-Number-Four, just to retain a sword I'd stolen in the first place.
Idiots.
One sword's as good as another, and there were plenty to go around at that point. I grabbed the one Holding-His-Guts had abandoned and went back to guard position, flicking it down to open up Legless's throat, since the sobs were getting annoying.
A bit of cat and mouse later and here we are: I've cut Jyunichi pretty deeply a few times, and he's barely managed to wing me - all because he's trying to fight formal and I cheat. Eight more peons have bit the mat, and none of them are getting back up again, though several are still trying. Most of them were worse with swords than I am - not that I have any interest in turning samurai after this.
My pride can suck a fat one next time vengeance is on order. I'll be sticking to guns.
Jyunichi comes at me again, and again I retreat, kicking a stool in front of him to slow his progress. Out of the corner of my eye I see yet another quartet of sword-wielding morons burst in through the front door, not a gun in sight. I may be stupid, but I am certainly not the biggest idiot here. Sixteen (sixteen!) of his gang have made the same mistake I did. Too bad they'd almost certainly get me in the back if I tried to break for the shotgun in my car's trunk.
Ah well, let the dance continue.
Jyunichi has backed out of range again, his left leg dragging, blood from his thigh spotting the bamboo floor. My last flailing attack must have bit deeper than I thought. I grin, despite how heavy I'm breathing.
The underlings are trying for encirclement, but I keep my back to the bar as I glide away from them sideways, keeping all four in front of me.
The closest one, a muscular blonde, attacks and I lean away from it – he wasn't even close. Another is right on his heels – and wasn't expecting me to re-direct her heavy swing, too bad for her. She staggers and then my new sword is sliding right up under her jaw and skewing the brain, killing her instantly. Fifteen and Sixteen come at me as I extract the blade, but I leap up and roll away along the bar itself, their katanas thudding into the wood behind me.
Blond Dude who attacked me first is looking at Jyunichi out of the corner of his eye, probably for orders or reassurance that the boss-man is still with them, so I bull rush him and punch for the nose with a fist full of hilt before he can get his guard up. He staggers, and I plant my blade just below his breastbone before stealing a new weapon from his loosening grip and turning to the others.
Chief Bastard is coming around the other side bar, flanking me, and the last two advance to complete the pincer, far more coordinated than their predecessors.
Also known as their pre-deceased.
I am giggling in my mind.
The next few seconds are a confused tangle of blades and body-blows, but when it's over, I've got two swords, Fifteen is blind and bleeding out through the groin, Sixteen needs a new pair of kidneys, and Jyunichi got me in the calf somehow.
I test my weight on the wounded leg and it hurts - a LOT – but it'll hold, at least long enough for me to finish this fight.
Down to me and Jyunichi once more. Four swords, blood drawn on both sides, no quarter.
Fuck, I'm falling into the trap again. Trying to beat him on his own turf, by his own rules. But this little shit killed Aisha. He doesn't deserve honor. He just needs to die.
As he winds up for another attack designed to take my head off, I lunge forward, throwing the blade in my right hand at him as hard as I can.
He deflects it – barely – but it's taken one of his own swords out of the equation for a moment, and while the other scores my chin like a branding iron before I'm past it, my real attack was a knee to his stomach. I've got a lot of momentum in my favor, and even as he doubles over we're both going down, myself on top. Abandoning my other sword completely, I grab each of his wrists in my hands and pin Jyunichi as we hit.
Landing robs him of breath, and I add a head-butt that breaks his nose and leaves him momentarily dazed. That brief opening is all I need to draw my butterfly and stab him in the neck, once, twice, repeatedly, continuing even as the blood gushes die down to dribbles and he goes completely limp. I stop when I realize I'm screaming Aisha's name and he's been motionless for some time.
Got you fucker. I got you.
I half expect to be stabbed or shot at any moment, but the restaurant remains eerily quiet. I guess I killed all his backup.
Standing takes a lot out of me, and pain starts pushing through the combat-high. My leg hurts horribly, but isn't bleeding much, so should be fine. On the other hand, my jaw is dripping steadily, and it burns. I'd probably better drop by a clinic and get stitched, the cut feels like it went all the way to bone. Once it heals I'll have a new scar from the center of my lower lip to the corner of my chin.
One more for the collection.
I briefly consider taking Jyunichi's swords, but trophies never really appealed to me, and one of them killed a dear friend of mine. Retrieving both, I stick them as deeply as I can in a nearby wooden column and lever until they snap. My trusty knife I clean on my pants before it goes back in its pocket.
My head's still a far way from clear, and Aisha's only half-avenged, but it'll have to do for now.
Time to leave, and sleep off these aches like a bad hangover.
I start heading for the stairs before an innocent little plate catches my eye.
Wait – is that untouched sushi? And do I spy a Crunchy Ebi roll!?
My hand swoops down and nabs the taunting morsel, before bringing the delicacy to my mouth. I haven't had these in ages. It contributes a sweet (and slightly spicy) accent to my victory as I depart.
Delicious.
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Stopping by the hospital to visit Johnny the next day, I'm in a restrained outfit in order to not to call unwanted attention. Last thing we need is for one of the other gangs to figure out where Gat is before he can shoot back. I've been very blunt explaining to the staff what'll happen if they sell us out, and I doubt they'll talk, but there are only so many hospitals in Stilwater in the first place. Put that together with street gossip, and nothing can stay secret very long. As long as my best friend recovers enough to leave before that dam breaks, I don't care.
I dismiss my Saint on duty outside his room, telling her to go get some lunch, and start filling Johnny in on my encounter with the Ronin's now-deceased hitman.
"So the bastard's dead?" Gat breaks in, after I've finished recounting my tip-off, going to the restaurant, and carving pretty patterns on wannabe samurai with their own katanas.
"I cut him up myself. Not as slow as I would've liked, but it wasn't clean."
I made sure of that.
"…Good." Gat's hands flex as he glares past the ceiling. "But Akuji…"
We lock gazes and I smile thinly at him, all we need to say passing in that look. He knows I'm not going to deprive him of his own revenge, and I know he appreciates my saving the bigger fish for him. We sit quietly for long moments.
I hate seeing Johnny laid up like this - he deserves to be out on the street raining fire and destruction down on the Ronin. I was rattled the last time he was hurt, and this…is much worse. He almost died, even if he won't admit it, and…I probably couldn't've handled that.
"How you doin'?" I say abruptly, needing his own assurance he's healing.
"She's dead, you really gotta ask?" The flare of rage I see in Johnny's eyes cuts to my core. I hadn't even been considering that side of things, and hearing how callous my question sounds in a different context is agonizing.
Fucking fuck! Apologize you idiot!
"I- no, I- I meant…" She- it- I-
Giving up on speech, I gesture to the wound in his side. His anger cools as Johnny realizes what I'd intended.
"Oh…hurts like a bitch, but I'll live."
I can't think of anything else to say, but I feel the drop back onto our undefined wavelength, and know we're both now thinking about Aisha. She was a very good friend to me, and for Johnny…well, she was his angel. Never seen him as happy as when he was with her.
Can't imagine how much her loss hurts him.
I don't think I've allowed myself to feel it properly yet; the past few days have mostly been numbness in the wake of Aisha and Carlos's deaths.
Finally he breaks the silence by asking me what my plan is.
"Harass the Brotherhood and the Samedi to keep them off-balance while we utterly crush the Ronin. Buy some popcorn to watch you take Shogo apart. Then vengeance for Carlos. After that…we'll figure it out. Get the Saints back on top of Stilwater, I guess."
Same plan it's always been, only modified for revenge.
"Fuckin' A," he grunts.
I shrug, there's no point in thinking too far ahead.
"I've got a few Saints watching over the house. No one's going in there until you…can take care of things."
Johnny's grateful, I can see, but at the same time we're verging too close to what neither of us want to talk about. He pushes past his discomfort, asking the obvious question:
"Funeral?"
I've taken care of everything I can: it wouldn't have been right to trust preparations to someone else.
This is for Gat and I to do.
"We're waiting for you. How long 'till you're back?"
"The doc said I should be up and murderin' in a couple days…well, ya know, he didn't say murderin', but you get the idea."
That pulls a smirk from me, and for the barest moment we're back to our old selves – two outlaws, not a care, ready to raise some hell. Then the overhead lights die with a fizzling whine. I can think of only one reason why the hospital would suddenly be losing power.
We're about to have company.
"Time to leave?" I ask Johnny, pulling a sawn-off from the bouquet I'd brought in, and retrieving my pistols from the straps beneath my sweater.
"Fuck yeah," he agrees.
I help him onto a gurney from his bed, becoming aware of approaching footsteps in the hallway. Up come my guns and I grin ferally. Whoever's here to kill Gat is about to have a very bad day. I don't care how many there are.
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It must be raining up on street level, because the ceiling is dripping again. Well…perhaps 'dripping' isn't a strong enough word.
Streaming, more like. Damn has this fall been wet.
I shift a trashcan another foot the right, and wonder how much it'd cost to find some no-questions-asked workmen to fix our hideout's roof.
A pole won't be much good if it's too wet to cling to.
My phone throws a fit and it takes me several moments to remember which button Pierce told me to press.
"Hey Boss, it's Shaundi."
Shaundi, my pretty perky party girl. Maybe she's slept with a decent contractor? Odds are in favor of it.
"What's new Shaundi? You up to anything?"
"Well…yeah, actually, I'm setting up for a rave on campus tonight, gonna sell off some of the Loa Dust we jacked, but that's not why I called you."
"It's not?" Damn.
Still, a party might be a good way to unwind. Sitting around brooding about what I'm going to do to Maero when I catch him isn't very productive.
"No. It is about the Sons of Samedi though. One of the party's organizers is my ex, Luke – he's a tattoo artist at Rusty's Needle – and yesterday he overheard two Sons talking about a new shipment they'd received this week."
Now I was pissed. If the Sons of Samedi were still running their product without us knowing after all the Saints had done, taking them down might be harder than I'd thought.
"I thought we were watching their drug routes, how'd we miss this?"
"We missed it because the cargo didn't arrive on one of their boats, came from Europe instead of the Caribbean, and delivery was performed by a third party," Shaundi's calm reply helps to ease my irritation. "Honestly, Boss, it might not be drugs at all. Luke said they referred to the cargo as 'rowdy,' so it's probably either animals or people."
Well, that puts a spin on things. Crazy voodoo-looking motherfuckers that might be up to actual voodoo? Or possibly human trafficking? I feel a pang of nostalgia for the days when Stilwater's gangsters stuck to drive-bys and spray paint.
"Anything else you can tell me?"
"All I know is that the delivery truck was one of the 'Hightail Moving' company's. You'd have to check their records or talk to a supervisor to learn more."
"Thanks, Shaundi, I'll look into it."
A chance to stick it to the Sons is far better than anything I'd planned for the day. Guess I'm breaking into an office.
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Another green-capped thug bursts around the doorway, firing wildly, and I drop him with a shotgun blast to the face. I've been clearing out the apartment I'd located from the bottom up, and not found anything of interest yet, so whatever the Sons have hidden away has to be on this last floor. Going in without backup probably wasn't the best idea, but I've been feeling restless, and so far I'm ten for ten vs. enemy goons.
The chatter of a K6 splits the air as someone hoses the corridor Green-Beret-Wannabe emerged from, obviously hoping to catch me charging in. No dice for you, friend, your luck's run out. I pull the ignition tape off the last of the crude grenades I'm carrying and hock it around the corner by bouncing it off the opposite wall.
Pause, flash, bang, panicked yelling – music to my ears.
I lean out and drop a blinded woman with two well-placed slugs. That's the last of my ammo for the boomstick gone, but I've still got pistols, and she won't be needing that assault rifle anymore. Hefting the heavier gun, I take stock of the hallway.
Five doors to the left and several windows to the right, but the corridor itself is empty of Samedi. I may have just cleared all my opposition out, unless someone's hiding in the rooms. I kick the first door open and dodge to the side.
No shots or noise greet me, so I peer in with caution.
Well, that was anti-climactic – virtually empty. A few fridges, a moth-eaten couch, a card table, the traditional stained carpets. An abandoned lunch is already gathering flies. Shrugging, I move to the next door and repeat the process.
This one is substantially different and I shiver.
Plastic over the entire floor, the walls, no furniture besides a narrow table, and extra lights. Blood's pooled under the table, and there are a couple of beer coolers lined up on one wall. A metal chest sits in one corner. Ratchet straps are lying coiled on the table, also blood-stained. An unpleasant premonition is nudging at my mind as I move to the third door down the hallway. Shaking off distraction, I boot the door open, rifle ready to greet anyone inside.
No occupants – aside from a large number of black trash bags piled on more bloody plastic. I immediately recognize the smell of rotting meat. I don't want look in them. I don't need to look in them. I can clearly see the outline of a hand here, a foot there. Whole people don't bend that way.
Grimly, I return to the first rooms and open the fridges. Two of them are packed with…parts, some of them rather small. I snarl wordlessly. There's low – and then there's this.
Two doors left, and my fury almost makes me miss the subtle noises coming from behind it as I approach. At the last moment, instinct kicks me to the floor just before gunfire fills the air above me with splinters.
If I had remained standing, that entire clip would've gone into my chest, but, lucky bitch that I am; I get off with only a bruised elbow. Punching the door open I return fire, dimly aware of high pitched screaming from multiple voices in my ears as another gang member's brains turn into chunky salsa. I roll away as the weapon clicks empty, and hear someone rushing me, their shotgun tearing a fist-sized hole from the wall by my head.
Just as this second opponent clears the doorway, I stick the rifle between his legs and twist, springing to my feet as he loses his. A solid punch to the man's solar plexus staggers his recovery nicely, and I follow it up by striking for his throat with my open palm as he sways to his feet. He gags and wheezes, loosening his grip just enough for me to tear his weapon away completely before I kick him through the rotting wood of the window frame across the hallway. I register brief flash of widening eyes before he inverts over the sill and plummets away, not even able to scream. We're ten stories up, so there's a poignant silence before the distant, satisfying smack of his death.
I'd already wheeled to cover the door with my liberated firearm, but no more attacks are forthcoming. Carefully entering the room, I find eleven children of mixed nationalities and ages, all handcuffed to rings in the wall. The oldest probably isn't more than thirteen, the youngest looks about nine. They all stare at me, still vocalizing their terror, and I admit I'm probably not the most comforting sight in the world. Still a Saint's better than a Son, at least at this juncture.
For a moment I stand at a loss: calming children has never exactly been my forte, and it doesn't help that most of them continue screaming.
Loudly.
And I have a headache.
"Shut UP!"
So much for tactful.
Worked though.
I shake my head in despair - if they were afraid before, now they're petrified. Shit, how on earth can I salvage this?
"How many of you understand English?" I say out loud.
That's right, normal voice girl, normal voice.
About half of them nod or make affirmative gestures. Good enough.
"I am not one of these fu- people right here-" I gesture to the green-shirted corpse missing most of its head lying in the center of the room, "-that want your organs. I'm going to get you free, and take you somewhere safe. Then you never have to see me again. You just need to stay calm and stay quiet."
Okay, my diplomacy definitely needs work.
A few more nods though, with what might even be understanding. I rub my face with a free hand. What an eventful outing this has become. I start patting down the corpse for keys, not really expecting to find any. Knowing my luck, they're probably on the guy I pushed out the window.
One of the oldest girls, Korean from the look of her, with a split lip and a bandage over one eye, speaks up.
"Lady? They have…tools, in other room."
That would speed this along. Glad at least one of the brats is sensible.
I thank her and return to the plastic chamber again, finding a bevy of tarnished power tools in the chest. And a bolt cutter, whose other possible applications I try not to think about. Hurrying back to the children's room, I start breaking handcuffs. Freeing One-Eyed Girl first turns out to be a good move, she seems to have their trust, and they flock to her instinctively. She tells me her name is Yoon Se-Bin, and I tell her I'm the leader of the gang taking over Stilwater. Se-Bin doesn't bat an eye, leading me to think she's seen some shit. Honestly, I'm reminded of myself more than a little.
Once they're all free, I remember there's one last room to check. I give Se-Bin one of my pistols after extracting a promise that she won't shoot me with it, and tell her to look after the others. The kid holds it too confidently for this to be her first time, so good on her; she just might survive to adulthood.
The last door turns out to be locked, an obstacle I remedy with a sharp blow from the butt of my new shotgun.
No welcoming committee and I can finally breathe easy for a moment, though this room isn't a pretty sight either. Seems it was where they were keeping the adults, but most of the chains are empty now. Three sets are still occupied - by pale corpses, strangely without marks on them. I would've thought the Samedi would harvest their organs as well. Then again, who knows with fuckers that crazy?
The fourth occupant is alive though, despite appearances. He's barely out of adolescence himself, wearing clothes that are well on their way to becoming rags, and there's an I-V crudely hooked into his left arm. Whatever they're pumping him full of isn't for his health: what I decipher of the label indicates some potent sedatives. The kid groans as I touch his shoulder and his eyelids flutter. Must be a marginally tough bastard to remain even semi-conscious under this much juice.
He doesn't seem to be aware of me, or anything else really, and I'm not looking forward to dragging a dead weight down ten flights of stairs. I carefully remove the needle from his vein, and tear a strip off his shirt to bind the wound. Then it's bolt-cutter time, and with the support of the handcuffs gone he slumps to the floor, twitching as he tries to fight the cocktail still inside him.
I really don't have time for this. I should just leave him, for all I know he's one of those high society pricks I'd run down on the sidewalk without a second thought. Still, I basically committed to rescuing everyone I here after I saw the fridges. Which means there's a bigger problem: even I wouldn't be able to get a group of eleven traumatized kids and one stoned teenager to safety – whatever and wherever that is in this city – though the streets on my own. I'll need backup.
Half a minute is spent muttering unproductively under my breath as I try to come up with a plan.
Then inspiration strikes, and I grin.
So, Pierce, complaining about not being involved enough? Your prayers have been answered yet again. Prepare to be involved on a big, fat platter.
Besides, this is a good chance to see how ingenious he can be. Most of my requests have been too…reasonable, of late.
I pull my mobile and call him up, almost dialing Shaundi instead (twice - fucking piece of shit phone). He answers after the first ring.
"Hey Boss! What can I do for you?"
So eager, so naïve. Oh my innocent lieutenant, you have much to learn. When people used that tone with Julius he'd have them in the shit for weeks just on principle.
"Pierce," I purr, unable to mask the glee in my voice at the bomb I'm about to hit him with, "as it turns out, I do need your help with something. Right now."
"Uh…okay Boss," he says, far more hesitant this time, and I can barely restrain a cackle. Too late, boyo.
He takes a breath, crackly over the phone line.
"What do you need?"
"Boost something that can seat at least thirteen and come meet me." I give him the address of the block. "Backup and ammo too, I'm almost dry. We're doing some escorting."
"Right Boss," his voice is laced with confusion, but I hang up before he can ask for more details. Samedi reinforcements will be here soon if they aren't already, and I need to prepare to hold them off. Turning my attention back to Woozy Boy, I kick his leg with my boot.
"C'mon, wake up sleeping beauty, I haven't got all day here."
The kid is recovering his senses, but slowly. His head rolls slowly up, and, blinking, he tries to focus on my face-
Whoa…your eyes sure are a pretty shade of green…very intense, almost malachite.
"Wha…Who?" he gasps.
"I lead the 3rd Street Saints. They call me Boss," I reply, trying not to crowd him as he gropes at the wall for support. The drugs are definitely still in effect, and I wince in sympathy, remembering my hospitality at the hands of the General a fortnight ago.
"I'm Harry," he says in a tired voice. My eyes flick to his disheveled head, and I can't help but snort.
How apt.
"Hi, I guess. Can you walk, Harry? We need to get the fuck out of here, and I'd prefer not to drag you."
He isn't looking thrilled by the idea of standing up, but begins levering himself towards it.
"I…can try."
Getting home with this many liabilities in tow is going to be interesting.
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Next time: Harry stands up, descends some stairs, and participates in tourism.