Interlude (Part 3)

It’s getting real. Enjoy Part 3 of Interlude, a prequel for my next novel, Fates and Curses, coming July 2018.  My debut novel, The Warning, is available for purchase by clicking here.

Also, there’s still time to support my boi Zack’s Indiegogo campaign for Jawbreakers, a dope indie comic that’s currently on path to be one of 2018’s most successful graphic novels.  Be a part of that by clicking here.

Without further adieu. . .

Interlude (Part 3)

The low table was heavy set with a lavish feast of steaming food and chilled alcohol, surrounded by men in well-fitted suits that hid their ornately decorated bodies. At the head of the table, an old man wrapped in an embroidered silk robe sat flanked by his second-eldest son and a carefully-dressed assistant with nimble fingers who only picked at the plate set before him with languid chopsticks and never touched his drink. A nervous waitress circled the table, refilling glasses as needed with warm alcohol and taking away empty plates. She looked uncomfortable, like she wanted to be anywhere else but there, her discomfort largely unnoticed and completely ignored.

Despite the general merriment of the group, this was a business meeting. All the seats were full: Everyone had arrived, and they could soon begin. It was the son who called them to attention, and the chatter quickly died down. The old man stood slowly, though his legs were still quite strong. Assured of his clan’s full attention, he opened his mouth to speak – but was quickly interrupted by a shriek outside the door. The waitress nearly dropped the bottle she’d been pouring from and backed into the corner to make herself a smaller target.

Hands flew into jackets, and soon there were half a dozen guns pointed toward the commotion. The delicate door flew to the side, and there stood the man all of them recognized, but none of them had expected.

At his side he held a katana the old man recognized very well. Its black sheath gleamed beneath the halogen lights above them. Other than the sword, he appeared unarmed, and everyone held their breaths, fingers on triggers, waiting for an order from their leader.

The old man slowly stood, bracing his weight on his knee to push himself upwards unassisted. The carefully-dressed assistant remained seated, as did the second-eldest son, their eyes narrowed at the unexpected visitor.

“You have a lot of nerve showing your face here,” said the old man in careful English. The katana stayed still at the stranger’s side, his breathing as tempered as his reply.

“It’s been a while,” said the man who now called himself Caleb Callahan. Over a decade had passed since he’d last set eyes on the old man, but he did indeed recognize him.

“So it has. Did you come here to kill yourself on my sword?” asked the old man, stroking his gray beard. “If you provoke me, you know that’s the only outcome there can be.”

Caleb’s eyes darted around, studying the guns now pointed at him.

“Not exactly.” The old man narrowed his eyes as Caleb’s free hand rose to his chest. Fingers tightened, but still no one fired. Tied to a simple sling, Caleb bore an unassuming silver cylinder, too small to hold a gun, and it was this he lifted from his neck, and with slow, smooth movements, set it down in front of the old man, who knew immediately what it contained.

His face was an unreadable mask, and Caleb held his breath. At last the old man sighed, and resumed his seat, his eyes never wavering from the tiny metal urn, and for a brief moment Caleb felt a stab of pity for the old man, because he knew that despite what little was left behind, the old man felt the gravity of what had once been.

At last the old man spoke, and Caleb steeled his nerves for words he had no way of predicting:

“I heard rumors . . .Now I know they’re true. My son is dead.”

Caleb said nothing, his eyes trained on the urn as the old man’s hands reached out for it. Part of him wanted to take it back, but it had never been his to begin with, to give or keep. This was the right thing to do.

“Tell me how he died,” said the old man, holding the urn in his hands, his voice steady. The mood in the room seemed to shift, and guns lowered. If the strange visitor tried anything, there would be plenty of time to react. Caleb took a deep breath, exhaling slowly.

“He took a bullet to the spine. It happened instantly. He didn’t suffer.” The confession came easy, whether because he’d rehearsed the words so often or because it was the truth, and the old man’s face showed no reaction: He only gazed down at the urn. Caleb’s grip tightened around the katana. It was all he had left now, and if anyone tried to take it from him, he’d take their hands with it. “He died protecting the man he was sent to kill.”

“So, you know,” said the old man. “Yet here you are.” He looked up at Caleb briefly, then back down at the urn, as if trying to ascertain its purpose, its intricate meaning. “Did you come here to taunt me? Or did you come to be killed by me?”

“Not exactly,” said Caleb, his thumb sliding along the length of the polished enamel, pushing the blade of the katana ever so slightly forward. He refused to let his face show emotion, his eyes never leaving the old man’s. He understood very well that one wrong move would undoubtably result in in a dozen bullets piercing his body, but he hadn’t come here without a purpose. The old man looked up again.

“So why? What is it that you seek, if not death?”

“The third option.”

Caleb struck without warning, his movements as quick as a snake. He’d been trained well, and before any of the thugs surrounding him could react, his blade had found its mark.

The old man lifted his hand once, a silent signal to a dozen pointed guns. There was blood sprayed across his robe, but he hardly seemed to notice.

The assistant who’d been sitting on his left fell forward as Caleb extracted the blade from his chest. He’d struck him in the heart, and the wound was instantly pumping blood over the table.

“This man’s been meeting with your rival in secret. He was planning to betray you.”

If the old man was surprised by Caleb’s accusation, his face didn’t show it. He merely nodded curtly and gave a waving gesture to the others to lower their guns once more. Reaching out, he took a clean napkin from the table and wiped the splattered blood from his own hands, ignoring the river of red that continued to run down the table and onto the floor.

“Oto-san-” said the man on his right, rising slightly, and Caleb narrowed his eyes.

“Damare.”

There was no room for argument in the tone of the old man’s voice, and the entire room went silent. The man sat back down, his face contorted with rage. Meanwhile, the old man’s eyes never left Caleb’s.  He tossed the bloody napkin down onto the table.

Caleb finally lowered the sword. With a swift, careful motion, he wiped the blade on the white tablecloth before replacing it in its sheath. With a nudge, he pushed the bloody corpse aside, letting it topple to the floor in a heap.

“We’re in the same business, Oyabun,” said Caleb. He took a seat in the now empty chair next to the old man. “And it seems you have a vacancy in your organization.”