"The Open Fist of Furious Buddha"
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dochermes"The Open Fist of Furious Buddha"
6/27-6/28/1998
I.
By one in the afternoon, Bane's hyperactive metabolism was getting the better of him. The price for his enhanced speed was eternal restlessness and constant hunger. Since coming into his office at eight-thirty that morning, he had answered his mail and written out checks for the bills. He had made a dozen phone calls to the network of observers he had established, hoping for some mysterious goings-on to investigate. He had tidied up the office, throwing out the pile of old newspapers that always accumulated on top of the bookcase, dusting everything, checking the contents of the medicine cabinet and the travel bag he always kept packed. He had cleaned and reassembled his Smith & Wesson 38 revolver, screwing on a fresh extended barrel. He had sharpened the edges of the matched silver daggers he always wore.
Still no business. The Dire Wolf decided to go for a long lunch at the Thai restaurant over on Second Avenue but first he wanted to do his form. Tugging off his boots and taking off his jacket, he stood in the center of the office and bowed toward Teacher Chael at the Order of Tel Shai. Starting with stances that stretched and warmed up every muscle, his movements grew brisker until he soon was blurring through combination kicks and punches and blocks that whipped too quickly to be clearly seen. After thirty minutes, the procedure reversed and he started slowing again until he was kneeling or lying on the floor in different poses. Then, reaching the last movement, he bowed again to Chael and stood there reviewing his performance.
He was grudgingly satisfied. No one ever did the Doh Ra perfectly. There was always room for more precision, a bit more snap, a split-second less between two movements. But he was as good as he had ever been. He had felt no stiffness, no hesitation. He was still the same Dire Wolf he had been almost twenty years earlier. As he got his boots back on, Bane noticed with quiet pleasure that his breathing had not sped up noticeably and his pulse was at nearly the same rate as well. Now for lunch. And just as he decided this, the front doorbell rang.
Bane rushed from the office into the front hall, turning right to where the heavy oak door stood. He flipped open a wooden panel at eye level to reveal a monitor screen and control panel, which he activated and said, "Just a second, I'll be right there." As the screen lit, he was looking out at East 38th Street. A heavy man in a brown business suit was standing on the top step before the outer door, peering around nervously. He had thinning blond hair and a flushed face. Bane didn't recognize him at all, but he thumbed the button that opened the outer door and said through the speaker, "Please come in."
The man stepped into a tiny vestibule that held a bench, a shelf with some magazines and a lamp, and an oil portrait of Kenneth Dred. Although the visitor could not feel it, he was being probed and analyzed by Trom sensors more detailed than an MRI. Readings showed in yellow letters on the screen. The man was not armed, there were no traces of explosives or poisons on him, he was not in the data banks. At a biological age of sixty-three, standing five feet ten with a weight of two hundred and thirty pounds and poor muscle tone, he didn't seem like much of a possible threat.
Opening the inner door, Jeremy Bane started to say, "Good morning..." just as a slim young redheaded man in a plain white T-shirt and blue jeans came up on the steps behind the visitor. There was a glimpse of motion and the heavy man came flying right at Bane as if he had been thrown by a catapult. Instinctively, the Dire Wolf caught the man, stepping aside and redirecting the momentum to lower the body to the carpeting. He nearly fell too but caught himself in time. Even as he broke the impact, Bane could tell he was holding a corpse.
Vaulting over the body into the vestibule, Bane leaped through the still open door down to the sidewalk. The killer was gone. In barely three or four seconds, he had gotten away. The Dire Wolf glared in all directions. Two cars were turning onto 38th from Lexington, no vehicles were exiting at the moment. Across the street, two middle-aged women had stopped to chat. Further down the block to his right, a tall Hispanic man struggled with too many shopping bags. No sign of the thin young redhead.
Reluctantly, the Dire Wolf went back into the old KDF building, closing the outer door behind him. He pulled latex gloves from an inner pocket and began examining the corpse. A billfold identified the man as Alfred W Wood, 63, from Edgewater New Jersey. Some credit cards, a good amount of cash, a photo ID for staff at Columbia University. Bane wanted to look for cause of death but undressing the corpse would be going too far to escape forensic detection. With a scowl, he carefully carried the heavy body back into the vestibule and took more readings from the Trom sensors built into that area.
In a second, he was looking at detailed images of a ruptured heart and three broken vertebrae. It was hard to believe that a normal Human could have struck hard enough to do that much damage and to fling Wood forward so violently. Was the killer a Melgar, perhaps? Or a Gelydra? Bane had not seen any weapon, the dead man's clothing was undamaged and the murder was inexplicable. This was an interesting problem. He had not even started to wonder on why Alfred Wood had been killed just as he was about to meet with Bane.
The Dire Wolf stood lost in thought for a few minutes, turning the events over in his mind, but he knew he should not let too much time pass. This was the part he hated. Closing the wooden panel again, he turned to a phone on the wall and called the extension for Inspector Harold Klein of Homicide.
II.
Three and a half hours later, the late Albert Wood had been loaded on a gurney and taken away. Dozens of photographs from all angles had been taken, as had measurements with yellow tape measures and samples from the rug where the body had lain, even though there was no blood. "We'll see what the Medical Examiner has to say," Klein told Bane. "But he won't get to it for at least a day or two, he's backlogged."
Jeremy Bane had typed out a five page statement in his office, and he went over it word by word with Klein before finally signing it. It would have to be notarized when Bane went to police headquarters later that day, but the officer assisting Klein served as a witness. Klein folded the statement into a manila envelope before tucking it in the inside pocket of his coat. Past the usual retirement age by a year or two, Harold Klein was a short dumpy man with curly greying hair. His left eye was glass, but such a good job that most people never noticed it.
Klein turned to the uniformed officer who served as his driver and assistant, saying, "Hey, Potter, you got any thoughts?"
The big cop grinned good-naturedly. "Not me. I'm just muscle. You two are the geniuses. Yeah, I've heard about you, Mr Bane. You brought in Samhain, Dr Sabbath, Seneca, Golgora... one lunatic after another. I bet you've got the case all sewn up now."
Bane made a scoffing noise, ushering them toward his office. As they seated themselves, he answered, "I wish. I told you two everything I saw, which wasn't much. White male, aged twenty to twenty-three. Medium red hair, worn a bit long and untidy, green eyes, long pointed nose. He was wearing a plain white T-shirt, blue jeans, white sneakers. I saw him for an instant over Wood's right shoulder before Wood came lurching right at me. By the time I got outside, there was no sign of him."
Sitting at the right side of the desk, Inspector Klein cleared his throat. "Here's where we get all hypothetical and just-suppose. What do you think happened?"
"Well. It sure looked to me like the killer struck Wood from behind somehow with enough force to kill him instantly and to throw the body on top of me with real impact. No marks on the man's clothing, no blood from ears or nose, and no noise from the hit. That's the odd part. I didn't hear the blow." Bane leaned back and folded his hands over a flat abdomen. "That's hard to explain."
"You know all kinds of kung fu and karate, that stuff," said Klein. "Maybe this guy knows a different bag of tricks than you do?"
For a long moment, Bane didn't comment. Finally, he said, "That's what I'm thinking, Inspector. A different bag of tricks..." He sounded mortally offended at the thought.
Standing up, Klein gestured for his aide to rise also. "You're not even being held as a material witness, Bane. I'll be honest, the brass is gonna ask me how soon you'll solve this mess. They expect miracles from you at this point."
On his feet, the Dire Wolf escorted Klein and Potter into the hall. "I'm on it, Klein. This is personal. Something thinks he can murder a possible client on my property- right in FRONT of me- he's got a rude awakening." As the two lawmen left, Bane closed the inner door and suddenly his face lit with new enthusiasm. He opened the wooden panel on the wall and turned on the monitor screen. The murder had been recorded. Not mentioning it to Klein was withholding evidence but Bane had broken enough laws to earn a lifetime sentence. The Dire Wolf played back had happened in the vestibule earlier that day, then froze the image. He blew it up but the results were still disappointing. The killer was clearly visible, even the smirk on his face could be seen.
But oddly, there was a second invidual standing behind Wood. An elderly Asian, no more than five feet tall, withered and dry with a few strands of white hair blowing in the breeze. Bane studied that face, the nose and eyes and skin tone, and decided the man was not Northern Chinese but Tibetan. Yes, this was interesting.
Taking the Link from his belt, the Dire Wolf sent the image to its memory storage. He worked a few more switches on the wall control panel and a whirring clicking noise came from the cabinet beneath the control panel. Bane closed the panel and opened the cabinet to reveal a printer which now held five 8x10 color photos of the image from the video. Details were sharper than he had hoped. Now, he thought, maybe I have something to get working on. First, he decided to identify the killers and then concentrate on what Wood had wanted and why he had been killed. Wood wasn't going anywhere, the assassins might on the run right now.
Taking the photos to his office, he started making phone calls to some of his network of observers, people who owed him either their own lives or the lives of loved ones he had rescued. For payment, Bane asked only they kept alert for anything mysterious or inexplicable. He had gotten many invaluable tips that way. He didn't expect much this time, though, and in fact none of them could be of much help. There was only one man he could turn to, even though he didn't want to bother Shiro Mitsuru.
III.
It had gotten dark, a sullen humid night without a breeze when Bane drove past the Pennsylvania town of Grahamsville. He turned off the main road onto a hard packed dirt lane that had empty fields on either side. Once, wheat and corn had grown there for the harvest, but now the land was left alone. At the end of the road, under a brilliant light on a wooden pole, sat a barn and an old-fashioned farmhouse. Bane eased his car alongside a red MG that had collected a few dents and scratches over the years. Shiro's sports car, he thought wistfully, the last in a series of snappy little roadsters, now getting faded.
A screen door opened, spilling a rectangle of warm yellow light over the porch and down the steps to the dirt. Framed in that open doorway was a man who was grossly overweight and yet somehow still moved with easy grace. "Ah, captain! It's been a few months."
"I know," Bane answered. "You were trying to teach me chess and I was getting nowhere."
"You look fine," the former Tiger Fury said soberly. "The same as the day we met. It's as if time cannot touch you."
"And you look better than the last time I saw you. More relaxed. Happier."
"It's true," said Shiro. "I've come to peace with myself. What happened to me was a long time ago." He moved forward to shake hands firmly. Only nine years earlier, the Tiger Fury had looked like something carved of ivory, all sharply defined muscles hard to the touch even when relaxed. Aside from Teacher Chael himself, Shiro had been the most skilled martial artist Bane had ever met, including himself. Then had come that week for Shiro as a prisoner of Janos Pelt himself....
Now, his friend was built like a middle-aged truck driver with a beer belly and a double chin and eyes sunk almost to concealment beneath the single eyelid fold. Shiro's thick shock of jet black hair had thinned and lightened, going not so much grey as colorless. He wore a dark blue robe over white pajamas, with his feet in slippers and a pencil behind one ear. As he caught the look on Bane's face, Shiro grinned unexpectedly and looked more like his old self.
"Ah. The wolf is hunting tonight, eh? You need to ask me something to help you track a monster. Am I right?"
"You know me pretty well," Bane said.
Shiro held out his broad hand to indicate a cushioned bench that ran alongside the porch, close enough that one could sit on it with feet up on the railing. "Please. Let us sit, captain. It is stuffy inside and I need to take a break anyway."
As he dropped down onto the bench and gazed past the barn at dim blue mountains in the distance, Bane allowed himself to settle back. "You picked a good place to retire, Shiro. I thought you would stay in a Shaolin temple or something. This is so... American."
The Tiger Fury leaned back and crossed his legs at the ankle. "The simplicity appeals to me. It makes no demands. I can work on my poetry and my essays. They are so poor I wouldn't dare show them to anyone, but the act of writing makes me happy. I can't master the haiku, though."
"Shiro, you know more about fighting art than anyone I know, maybe even more than Teacher Chael. You've mastered a hundred styles. If anyone can point me in the right direction, it has to be you." Bane described what had happened early the afternoon, going into detail and taking his time. Finally, he concluded, "I don't know any such silent blow, and I thought I was reasonably educated. Does it ring a bell with you?"
"It does," said the Tiger Fury with a deadly calm in his voice. "It is from a House I had thought had been wiped out long ago, a style that deserved to be forgotten. But no such luck. That man was killed by a technique called the Open Fist. The assassin belongs to the House of Furious Buddha." He shook his head. "More bad news for the world..."
Sitting beside his old friend in the gloom, Jeremy Bane thought for a second. "I think I'd remember a name like that. House of Furious Buddha...?"
"There is a legend about a school of assassins from Tibet, right on the Chinese border, hiring out their best teacher and student to other nations for gold," Shiro said quietly in the gloom. "Through the ages, they are supposed to have influenced history by slaying generals and emperors and crimelords. I don't believe a fraction of the tales. Furious Buddha claims to have received supernatural wisdom from a vision of the Lord Buddha in an angry state. Really!"
Bane thought it over. "What makes them dangerous? What's their secret?"
"Now, THERE is a scandal and a living shame. Long ago, a student of Tel Shai was about to be entitled Master of Kumundu. This was before Teacher Chael, of course. The student turned renegade, slew three of his fellows and fled into the real world. He founded the House of Furious Buddha."
"With knowledge of Kumundu? Damn. That offends me. These guys are still exploiting knowledge entrusted to them by our Order?" Bane sat up and seemed about to throw a fit. "Oh, now I'm going after them. There's no question of it."
Shiro placed a heavy hand on his sleeve and drew him back down. "There is more to them than that. They have added tricks and techniques of their own. They do not have the holy plant Tagra as we do, but they use a forbidden Velkandu serum to give them increased speed and strength."
"Velocitin? The source of the Tao-tsin crystals. Bah," scoffed Bane. "I've fought bad boys on velocitin and dragged them by their heels."
"Jeremy, please. These are fighters on a Kumundu level with enhanced speed. Does that remind you of someone we both know well?" He jagged a finger at Bane's chest. "Eh? Eh?"
"I get your point. I'm going to be tackling my equals, maybe more than my equals." Bane jumped to his feet, unable to sit still any longer. "What else can you tell me, Shiro? Where can I find these Furious Buddha boys? What are their habits?"
"Take a breath and let my words sink in," Shiro said. "The House hires out to those who spy for a country. They know that is where they can find much work for assassins is found. They send gold back to their village, never money and never promises. That leaves a trail. Also, the teacher and student travel together since the training never ends, so that makes them somewhat easier to spot."
Bane took the photo from his pocket and passed it over. Holding it up to the light from the open door, the Tiger Fury whistled. "Ah. Not good. Su Tze-Kyu."
"Oh come on, 'Susie Q?' What kind of name is that for an assassin?"
"You will always be an American, my friend. Su Tze-Kyu, pronounced more like Zoo She Kyoo is a real threat, a genius at his art. I don't recognize his young student."
"That's okay," growled Bane. "I'll know them when we meet!"
IV.
The top floor of the Lieberman Building in Richmond was occupied by a company calling itself Fleet Processing Services, which itself was little more than a name. The nine offices and the meeting room and the soundproofed torture chamber were the realm of the organization known as the Mandate. Long ago, that agency had drifted from its original agenda designated by Franklin Roosevelt and redefined during the Eisenhower years. It answered to no one, although it was on paper a branch of the Justice Department. Its budget was hidden within the expenses of other agencies. It had never had its officers compelled to testify before Congress, there had been no tell-all books on the stands about it. The Mandate kept its secrets well, few outsiders learned of its activities and lived.
In a corner office where luxury was kept to a minimum lest it lead to softness, a man known as Edwin McClellan stood by his desk and waited. His two most indispensable agents were late, and they were never late. McClellan was of average height and on the thin side, dressed in a plain grey suit with a solid black tie. His thin brown hair was brushed straight back and the metal-rimmed glasses had thick lenses which magnified his eyes for everyone to see. They were eyes as hard and unreadable as two stones set in his head, eyes that were always judging and criticizing. Now, McClellan sighed in exasperation. He had a plane to catch. The Mandate officer opened the plain door to his office and peered up and down the softly-lit hall. No one. Starting to fume, McClellan closed the door and turned around to stare into the withered face of Su Tze-Kyu not a full twelve inches away from him.
McClellan screamed and fell backward, but the door behind him steadied him. The Mandate officer regained his composure and barked, "Don't DO that! How did you get in here?"
"If I tell our secrets, then everyone would be able to do what we do," the Master of his House replied in a whisper. "But it is enough we are here." Behind him, the young redheaded man was standing with arms lowered, watching impassively.
"Ah. Our new star," McClellan said. "How is Dale doing?"
"Well enough. He is a good pupil because he has no memories to distract him, no loyalties to cause conflict. You gave me a clean parchment to write upon, my lord."
"I wish you wouldn't call me that," McClellan said. "Is Dale aware of how he came to be your student?"
"Yes. It does not trouble him. His experience with the Death In Life severed all his ties to his previous life." The Master smiled, showing small perfect teeth that contrasted with the wrinkled dry face. "Now he belongs to Furious Buddha and nothing else."
"Buried alive!" McClellan muttered. "Drugged and aware the whole time. I can't imagine how traumatic that be."
"We of our House have all experienced the Death In Life," answered Su Tze-Kyu. "It is the passage from who we were to who we become."
McClellan stared dubiously at the boy. Dale Rutledge's green eyes gazed back at him calmly, not blank but simply self-contained. The student was not obviously athletic, just a regular teenage boy past the gawky stage, but if one looked closer, there was more definition in the muscles showing on his arms than you might expect. The hands were heavily calloused across the knuckles and outer edge. Suddenly, for no reason he could explain, McClellan felt uneasy locking eyes with the redhead and he turned away.
"The target Wood has journeyed to the land of ghosts," Su Tze-Kyu announced. "My village will expect the gold within seven days, of course. Does my lord have a new task for this poor old man and his unworthy pupil?"
"As it happens, yes. In fact, you saw him today during your commission. The man who Wood was going to meet and reveal our secrets. I suspect he knows too much already. He has worked with the Mandate but not FOR the Mandate. He is not loyal to us."
"I see," the Master purred. He raised a bony hand with fingernails long and sharp as blades. "When your purpose suits him, he co-operates but not otherwise."
"Exactly. He has been useful but, with the two greatest assassins in the world on our payroll, we hardly need a loose cannon rolling on the deck. He is your next target. Jeremy Bane, the Dire Wolf. When can you start?"
"In the morning," said the Master of the House of Furious Buddha. "Let this man greet another dawn while he may."
V.
For the rest of the evening, Bane and Shiro had reminisced about their times in the KDF. Bane had filled Shiro in on Midnight War gossip and discussed his tentative plans for a new KDF team. Shiro had served huge portions of steamed chicken, black beans, rice and fried plaintains that he had already been cooking and Bane had devoured it gratefully. His enhanced metabolism burned calories mercilessly and he was always hungry. Around eleven, Shiro asked his former captain if he wanted to stay in the guest room and leave in the morning.
"Thanks, but I have to get back. It's an ongoing case and I haven't started finding out about Wood yet. He wanted to see me about something, but I never heard of him. Thanks for everything, Shiro. I'm glad to see someone retired from Midnight War happily."
"I was broken," the Tiger Fury admitted. "Both in body and spirit. This life is best for me. Have you thought what you will do when it's your own time to retire?"
Bane shrugged. "I haven't thought of it. Funny. I guess I just expect to keep going forever, but that's not realistic. Okay. I'll be back to visit when I can, and of course you can always come to Manhattan."
"True enough," Shiro held out his hand. "Good hunting, Dire Wolf."
Bane got back in his car and pulled away, giving the former Tiger Fury a wave as he headed up the dirt road toward the highway. An hour later, he was at the state border, where he stopped for gas. It was almost one in the morning now, and his noctural nature was in full swing. Bane always thought better in the middle of the night. Putting aside that nostalgic chat with Shiro to the back of his mind, he focussed on the case in hand. Funny he hadn't heard of the House of Furious Buddha before but evidently they had been keeping a low profile and were generally believed to have become extinct.
By the time he reached Manhattan and was stowing his car in the small garage beneath the KDF building, dawn was not far away. Cindy would not be back for another day yet. Bane went down the narrow walkway from the garage and up steep concrete steps to emerge from a panel in the walk-in closet in the front hall. Even though he didn't feel particularly tired, he had to function during the day, so Bane went up to his quarters on the second floor. Piling his clothes on a chair, peeling off the flexible Trom armor with a sigh of relief, the Dire Wolf hung the sheathed silver daggers within reach on the headboard, slid between a single flannel sheet and was asleep within seconds.
IV.
Just after nine, Bane hurried down the staircase as the front doorbell rang. He had been by chance emerging from his room, fully dressed and ready for the day, when he heard the bell. Rushing to the wall panel, he pressed the speaker button and said, "Just a second," before flipping the panel open and watching the image on the screen. That was Inspector Klein outside all right, looking grumpy and impatient. Bane opened the street door by remote, announced, "Come right in, Inspector," and activated the Trom sensors. As Klein waited grudgingly, he was analyzed on a cellular level. The screen read Klein's ID as confirmed in yellow letters. Even though Bane was sure it was Klein out there, he always used the sensors first.
As he opened the inner door and said, "Morning," Klein tried to brush in past him. "Something wrong?"
"Hell yeah, something's wrong," snapped the Inspector. He waited until the door was closed. "I'm off the case. The Feds moved in and took over. I've been assigned something else."
Bane studied the angry face. "What's the reason they gave?"
"No reason. They just said it was Federal business. But I had already done some digging." His voice became conspiratorial. "That guy, Albert J Wood, was no professor at Columbia. They backed up that story but when I dug a little deeper, it smelled fishy. I think he was a sleeper."
"Really? He was a spy in deep cover." Bane motioned for Klein to head to the office but the veteran cop didn't budge. "He was waiting for a signal to carry out some action?"
"That's how I read it," Klein said. "I know you've tangled with the Mandate. I would never say that name out in public, I want to live to collect my pension. But I will bet my good eye this is Mandate business. Maybe you should drop it, Bane. Everybody has just so much luck they can push."
The Dire Wolf did not smile. "Too late for that. I think I've identified the killers and if they realize that, they'll be after me next. I need to face them."
Giving a short barking laugh, the Inspector reached for the doorknob. "You know what, my friend? Considering how I feel about this situation, I'm glad those killers are coming to visit you... because you'll be the last person they ever see in this life!" With that, he stomped out and slammed the door behind him.
Staring at the door, Bane allowed himself a dry smile. Thanks for the compliment, he thought. Then he went into his office, got himself comfortable behind the desk and started making phone calls. Over the years, he had built a network of people who owed him big favors, mostly saving their lives or the lives of their loved ones. Instead of accepting a reward, he asked that they report to them whenever they saw or heard anything inexplicable or genuinely weird. They were invariably grateful enough to gladly do so.
No one was much help today, though, especially as Bane was being prudent and not explaining exactly what he was looking for. After forty minutes, he took a break to pace the office and hash over what he had to work with. He was not intimidated at all by the prospect of facing "the world's two best assassin." Bane's confidence was close to unshakeable. It was the nuisance of tracking them down that annoyed him.
Getting back to his calls, he finally reached Bleak. His best and most knowledgable observer, the sixty-four year old Bleak was on a monthly retainer to keep his eyes open. He said outright that the Mandate didn't scare him, that he had seen an assassin from the House of Furious Buddha twenty years earlier and the guy was really good... as good as Bane, actually. And he knew someone who could give Bane inside information.
"Be on the roof of the Hotel Lancaster at three o'clock this afternoon," said the sour voice of the old man. "Bring a couple thousand in an envelope just to sweeten the deal. The guy will recognize you, you're kinda distinctive!"
"Thanks, Bleak. I'll let you know how much of a fight these Buddha guys put up," Bane answered.
"Seriously. Be on your toes. Overconfidence has killed more fighters than anything else." There was a click and Bane lowered the phone to its cradle. The Dire Wolf knew Bleak was right, being cocky was giving the opponent an advantage. Even Shiro had cautioned him.
Standing up, he glanced at the clock over the door. One-fifteen. Time enough to warm up with his Doh Ra. Again taking off his boots and jacket, the Dire Wolf went through the form devised for him by Teacher Chael, getting lost in the movements, letting his body act on its own. When he was done and after he bowed to Chael further away than miles, Bane felt fully alert and ready. He was wearing the flexible Trom armor under his clothes, he had the silver daggers sheathed on his arms and his clothing held its usual assortment of gadgets and weapons. He left the office and paused in the small waiting room. Up in one corner was a video monitor showing the street directly outside. Bane studied the view and saw nothing suspicious. Opening the door, he took in his surroundings with all his trained senses and felt no threat. For a long moment, he watched and waited. Maybe he was being too cautious.
Looking across the street, he spotted something. On either side of the twin doors to the barber shop a wedge of dark material showed.. the shoulder of a man, one on each side of the doors. Bane's eyes suddenly glittered. He was tempted to confront them, but this was a time for discipline. Even if the Mandate was having him watched or followed, dealing with Furious Buddha came first. He spun and walked quickly back down the hall to the recreation room where the KDF had relaxed between cases.
On the back wall, a six-foot high wooden panel swung open after he unlatched hidden catches. He moved down a short passage barely wide enough to navigate. At the end of the passage was a plain wooden door which he unlocked and stepped through to stand behind a receptionist desk. A heavyset Hispanic woman in a floral dress gave a slight start and then smiled warmly at him. "Hello, Mr Bane. I'm afraid Dr Wright is out on a call but I expect him back shortly,"she said.
"Thanks anyway, Rosario," Bane answered over one shoulder as he kept moving, "I'll give him a call." He left the office and turned right in the foyer to exit the building on the door facing west. As he stepped out onto the sidewalk, he decided that Mandate agents watching the KDF building would not see him.
So many tricks, he thought, he had expended so much time and money preparing for getaways but sometimes it paid off. Out on the street, he headed north and then turned right at 49th Street. On Second Avenue, the Hotel Lancaster stood where it had been for ninety years. It was a four-story yellow brick building and next to it, separated by an alley, was a five-story apartment building with shops on the ground floor. During the walk over, Bane had decided how to do this. Watching the roof of the Lancaster, he stood next to the neighboring building and leaped straight up to swing onto the the fire escape without having to lower its bottom section. Quickly as if walking on a level surface, the Dire Wolf raced up the metal steps of the fire escape onto the roof of the apartment building, then without pausing he hopped up on the edge of the roof and dove off, easily clearing the twelve foot width of the alley. He came down onto the roof of the hotel, rolling to break the impact and leaping up to his feet as a startled young man spun around.
Dale Rutledge had been watching the usual routes by which a man would come up onto the roof and, although he was surprised, he recovered instantly and snapped into a ready stance with his weight evenly distributed and his hands open and loose in front of him.
Bane got his first good look at the assassin. No more than twenty-two, thin and wiry, Dale had on the same white T-shirt and jeans he had been wearing the day before. The shaggy red hair and green eyes in a bony face were the same. As he realized that his target had found him and the element of ambush was lost, Dale's expression did not change. He remained impassive, seeming almost distinterested in fact.
The Dire Wolf took one step forward and the Furious Buddha assassin shifted his balance, lowering one arm to his thigh. Bane took that in. The two began to circle each iother, each intensely scrutinizing his enemy's response to getting closer or further away, to seeing his foe make a fist or turn one foot inward. They were studying each other in a detailed way that few martial artists ever approached. In less than a minute, they had learned volumes about the other man's quickness, his reflexes, his response time.
To most observers, it would have seemed dull, even boring. It was as if the two fighters were afraid to clash and were simply staring at each other. Actually, each was playing a dozen scenarios in his imagination of what would happen depending on which attack he launched. Their slow circling grew even slower as they started narrowing their options.
For the briefest instant, Bane caught sight of the seemingly frail figure of an elderly Asian man in a bright yellow robe. Su Tze-Kyu was standing on the other side of the roof, as far away as he could get from the fight. It seemed clear he wanted his student to handle this alone, at least for the moment. The Dire Wolf's eyes had not left his opponent long enough to offer an opening. They continued to draw nearer.
As if on some secret signal, the two men flashed toward each other and immediately separated, with a single sharp cracking noise echoing across the roof. They got their footing and wheeled to face one another. Bane's right arm hung limply at his side and he reached over to hold it gingerly. Seeing this, Dale started to laugh in malicious triumph. But then dark blood spouted from his mouth, his knees gave way and he felt face down to the tarpaper.
Spinning to face an expected attack from the Master of Furious Buddha, Bane saw no one. Slightly disbelieving, he moved around the roof, his left hand having drawn the silver dagger from the right arm's sheath. Su Tze-Kyu was indeed gone. The Dire Wolf stepped closer to the edge of the room and stared down just in time to catch sight of a fragile small form in a yellow robe turn the corner to First Avenue.
Bane stood there, wondering just how that eighty year old could possibly have gotten down off the roof to the street in a few seconds. He had no idea. Giving it up for the moment, he watched Dale Rutledge for a long five minutes until he was certain the man was not breathing at all and had not even shown the barely perceptible skin vibration of blood circulating. The Dire Wolf massaged his right arm, which was still useless but which was starting to regain some sensation. It was dangerous to let your opponent connect with a blow so that you could strike him with something more punishing, but it had seemed like the only tactic to use. Bane grudgingly had to admit that he would have had a hard time dueling Dale for any extended time, which meant an older and more experienced Furious Buddha fighter would be a real threat.
As his arm started to come back to life, it also began to ache. He had accepted that, pain was an old companion for him. Bane moved around the roof, heading toward the wooden shed which covered the stairs leading down. The door was open and a pair of feet in well-shined leather dress shoes protruded. He bent over a man about thirty, athletic in build and with short black hair over a square face. Bane could see the man breathing a bit irregularly, and the vivid bruise above one ear showed why he was unconscious.
This must be the informant that Bleak had sent here. Why had the assassins spared him? They were so used to simply killing anyone who was inconvenient to them that it had become habit. Bane thought he knew the answer. Crouching, he found the man's wallet in the left hip pocket and went through it. Henry William Forrestal, 32, sales representative for Fleet Processing Services.
Another Mandate agent! They were double-crossing themselves at this point, using their own agents as bait. This one had intended to distract Bane while Dale attacked from behind, that was clear. Suddenly offended and angrier than he had been while fighting for his life, Bane hauled the man up with one hand and dragged him over next to where Dale Rutledge lay with open unseeing eyes. He took a pair of handcuffs from the back of his belt and fastened Forrestal's wrist to Dale's.
There. Let that Mandate agent straighten this mess out when he woke up in a few minutes. Jeremy Bane started down the steps from the roof, glad his injured arm was starting to flex when he tried to use it. He glanced back at the scene and felt satisfied at last. He hadn't known Albert J Wood and may not have liked the man if he had gotten to know him, but he had been killed on Bane's doorstep. At least now that insult was repaid.
1/4/2015
6/27-6/28/1998
I.
By one in the afternoon, Bane's hyperactive metabolism was getting the better of him. The price for his enhanced speed was eternal restlessness and constant hunger. Since coming into his office at eight-thirty that morning, he had answered his mail and written out checks for the bills. He had made a dozen phone calls to the network of observers he had established, hoping for some mysterious goings-on to investigate. He had tidied up the office, throwing out the pile of old newspapers that always accumulated on top of the bookcase, dusting everything, checking the contents of the medicine cabinet and the travel bag he always kept packed. He had cleaned and reassembled his Smith & Wesson 38 revolver, screwing on a fresh extended barrel. He had sharpened the edges of the matched silver daggers he always wore.
Still no business. The Dire Wolf decided to go for a long lunch at the Thai restaurant over on Second Avenue but first he wanted to do his form. Tugging off his boots and taking off his jacket, he stood in the center of the office and bowed toward Teacher Chael at the Order of Tel Shai. Starting with stances that stretched and warmed up every muscle, his movements grew brisker until he soon was blurring through combination kicks and punches and blocks that whipped too quickly to be clearly seen. After thirty minutes, the procedure reversed and he started slowing again until he was kneeling or lying on the floor in different poses. Then, reaching the last movement, he bowed again to Chael and stood there reviewing his performance.
He was grudgingly satisfied. No one ever did the Doh Ra perfectly. There was always room for more precision, a bit more snap, a split-second less between two movements. But he was as good as he had ever been. He had felt no stiffness, no hesitation. He was still the same Dire Wolf he had been almost twenty years earlier. As he got his boots back on, Bane noticed with quiet pleasure that his breathing had not sped up noticeably and his pulse was at nearly the same rate as well. Now for lunch. And just as he decided this, the front doorbell rang.
Bane rushed from the office into the front hall, turning right to where the heavy oak door stood. He flipped open a wooden panel at eye level to reveal a monitor screen and control panel, which he activated and said, "Just a second, I'll be right there." As the screen lit, he was looking out at East 38th Street. A heavy man in a brown business suit was standing on the top step before the outer door, peering around nervously. He had thinning blond hair and a flushed face. Bane didn't recognize him at all, but he thumbed the button that opened the outer door and said through the speaker, "Please come in."
The man stepped into a tiny vestibule that held a bench, a shelf with some magazines and a lamp, and an oil portrait of Kenneth Dred. Although the visitor could not feel it, he was being probed and analyzed by Trom sensors more detailed than an MRI. Readings showed in yellow letters on the screen. The man was not armed, there were no traces of explosives or poisons on him, he was not in the data banks. At a biological age of sixty-three, standing five feet ten with a weight of two hundred and thirty pounds and poor muscle tone, he didn't seem like much of a possible threat.
Opening the inner door, Jeremy Bane started to say, "Good morning..." just as a slim young redheaded man in a plain white T-shirt and blue jeans came up on the steps behind the visitor. There was a glimpse of motion and the heavy man came flying right at Bane as if he had been thrown by a catapult. Instinctively, the Dire Wolf caught the man, stepping aside and redirecting the momentum to lower the body to the carpeting. He nearly fell too but caught himself in time. Even as he broke the impact, Bane could tell he was holding a corpse.
Vaulting over the body into the vestibule, Bane leaped through the still open door down to the sidewalk. The killer was gone. In barely three or four seconds, he had gotten away. The Dire Wolf glared in all directions. Two cars were turning onto 38th from Lexington, no vehicles were exiting at the moment. Across the street, two middle-aged women had stopped to chat. Further down the block to his right, a tall Hispanic man struggled with too many shopping bags. No sign of the thin young redhead.
Reluctantly, the Dire Wolf went back into the old KDF building, closing the outer door behind him. He pulled latex gloves from an inner pocket and began examining the corpse. A billfold identified the man as Alfred W Wood, 63, from Edgewater New Jersey. Some credit cards, a good amount of cash, a photo ID for staff at Columbia University. Bane wanted to look for cause of death but undressing the corpse would be going too far to escape forensic detection. With a scowl, he carefully carried the heavy body back into the vestibule and took more readings from the Trom sensors built into that area.
In a second, he was looking at detailed images of a ruptured heart and three broken vertebrae. It was hard to believe that a normal Human could have struck hard enough to do that much damage and to fling Wood forward so violently. Was the killer a Melgar, perhaps? Or a Gelydra? Bane had not seen any weapon, the dead man's clothing was undamaged and the murder was inexplicable. This was an interesting problem. He had not even started to wonder on why Alfred Wood had been killed just as he was about to meet with Bane.
The Dire Wolf stood lost in thought for a few minutes, turning the events over in his mind, but he knew he should not let too much time pass. This was the part he hated. Closing the wooden panel again, he turned to a phone on the wall and called the extension for Inspector Harold Klein of Homicide.
II.
Three and a half hours later, the late Albert Wood had been loaded on a gurney and taken away. Dozens of photographs from all angles had been taken, as had measurements with yellow tape measures and samples from the rug where the body had lain, even though there was no blood. "We'll see what the Medical Examiner has to say," Klein told Bane. "But he won't get to it for at least a day or two, he's backlogged."
Jeremy Bane had typed out a five page statement in his office, and he went over it word by word with Klein before finally signing it. It would have to be notarized when Bane went to police headquarters later that day, but the officer assisting Klein served as a witness. Klein folded the statement into a manila envelope before tucking it in the inside pocket of his coat. Past the usual retirement age by a year or two, Harold Klein was a short dumpy man with curly greying hair. His left eye was glass, but such a good job that most people never noticed it.
Klein turned to the uniformed officer who served as his driver and assistant, saying, "Hey, Potter, you got any thoughts?"
The big cop grinned good-naturedly. "Not me. I'm just muscle. You two are the geniuses. Yeah, I've heard about you, Mr Bane. You brought in Samhain, Dr Sabbath, Seneca, Golgora... one lunatic after another. I bet you've got the case all sewn up now."
Bane made a scoffing noise, ushering them toward his office. As they seated themselves, he answered, "I wish. I told you two everything I saw, which wasn't much. White male, aged twenty to twenty-three. Medium red hair, worn a bit long and untidy, green eyes, long pointed nose. He was wearing a plain white T-shirt, blue jeans, white sneakers. I saw him for an instant over Wood's right shoulder before Wood came lurching right at me. By the time I got outside, there was no sign of him."
Sitting at the right side of the desk, Inspector Klein cleared his throat. "Here's where we get all hypothetical and just-suppose. What do you think happened?"
"Well. It sure looked to me like the killer struck Wood from behind somehow with enough force to kill him instantly and to throw the body on top of me with real impact. No marks on the man's clothing, no blood from ears or nose, and no noise from the hit. That's the odd part. I didn't hear the blow." Bane leaned back and folded his hands over a flat abdomen. "That's hard to explain."
"You know all kinds of kung fu and karate, that stuff," said Klein. "Maybe this guy knows a different bag of tricks than you do?"
For a long moment, Bane didn't comment. Finally, he said, "That's what I'm thinking, Inspector. A different bag of tricks..." He sounded mortally offended at the thought.
Standing up, Klein gestured for his aide to rise also. "You're not even being held as a material witness, Bane. I'll be honest, the brass is gonna ask me how soon you'll solve this mess. They expect miracles from you at this point."
On his feet, the Dire Wolf escorted Klein and Potter into the hall. "I'm on it, Klein. This is personal. Something thinks he can murder a possible client on my property- right in FRONT of me- he's got a rude awakening." As the two lawmen left, Bane closed the inner door and suddenly his face lit with new enthusiasm. He opened the wooden panel on the wall and turned on the monitor screen. The murder had been recorded. Not mentioning it to Klein was withholding evidence but Bane had broken enough laws to earn a lifetime sentence. The Dire Wolf played back had happened in the vestibule earlier that day, then froze the image. He blew it up but the results were still disappointing. The killer was clearly visible, even the smirk on his face could be seen.
But oddly, there was a second invidual standing behind Wood. An elderly Asian, no more than five feet tall, withered and dry with a few strands of white hair blowing in the breeze. Bane studied that face, the nose and eyes and skin tone, and decided the man was not Northern Chinese but Tibetan. Yes, this was interesting.
Taking the Link from his belt, the Dire Wolf sent the image to its memory storage. He worked a few more switches on the wall control panel and a whirring clicking noise came from the cabinet beneath the control panel. Bane closed the panel and opened the cabinet to reveal a printer which now held five 8x10 color photos of the image from the video. Details were sharper than he had hoped. Now, he thought, maybe I have something to get working on. First, he decided to identify the killers and then concentrate on what Wood had wanted and why he had been killed. Wood wasn't going anywhere, the assassins might on the run right now.
Taking the photos to his office, he started making phone calls to some of his network of observers, people who owed him either their own lives or the lives of loved ones he had rescued. For payment, Bane asked only they kept alert for anything mysterious or inexplicable. He had gotten many invaluable tips that way. He didn't expect much this time, though, and in fact none of them could be of much help. There was only one man he could turn to, even though he didn't want to bother Shiro Mitsuru.
III.
It had gotten dark, a sullen humid night without a breeze when Bane drove past the Pennsylvania town of Grahamsville. He turned off the main road onto a hard packed dirt lane that had empty fields on either side. Once, wheat and corn had grown there for the harvest, but now the land was left alone. At the end of the road, under a brilliant light on a wooden pole, sat a barn and an old-fashioned farmhouse. Bane eased his car alongside a red MG that had collected a few dents and scratches over the years. Shiro's sports car, he thought wistfully, the last in a series of snappy little roadsters, now getting faded.
A screen door opened, spilling a rectangle of warm yellow light over the porch and down the steps to the dirt. Framed in that open doorway was a man who was grossly overweight and yet somehow still moved with easy grace. "Ah, captain! It's been a few months."
"I know," Bane answered. "You were trying to teach me chess and I was getting nowhere."
"You look fine," the former Tiger Fury said soberly. "The same as the day we met. It's as if time cannot touch you."
"And you look better than the last time I saw you. More relaxed. Happier."
"It's true," said Shiro. "I've come to peace with myself. What happened to me was a long time ago." He moved forward to shake hands firmly. Only nine years earlier, the Tiger Fury had looked like something carved of ivory, all sharply defined muscles hard to the touch even when relaxed. Aside from Teacher Chael himself, Shiro had been the most skilled martial artist Bane had ever met, including himself. Then had come that week for Shiro as a prisoner of Janos Pelt himself....
Now, his friend was built like a middle-aged truck driver with a beer belly and a double chin and eyes sunk almost to concealment beneath the single eyelid fold. Shiro's thick shock of jet black hair had thinned and lightened, going not so much grey as colorless. He wore a dark blue robe over white pajamas, with his feet in slippers and a pencil behind one ear. As he caught the look on Bane's face, Shiro grinned unexpectedly and looked more like his old self.
"Ah. The wolf is hunting tonight, eh? You need to ask me something to help you track a monster. Am I right?"
"You know me pretty well," Bane said.
Shiro held out his broad hand to indicate a cushioned bench that ran alongside the porch, close enough that one could sit on it with feet up on the railing. "Please. Let us sit, captain. It is stuffy inside and I need to take a break anyway."
As he dropped down onto the bench and gazed past the barn at dim blue mountains in the distance, Bane allowed himself to settle back. "You picked a good place to retire, Shiro. I thought you would stay in a Shaolin temple or something. This is so... American."
The Tiger Fury leaned back and crossed his legs at the ankle. "The simplicity appeals to me. It makes no demands. I can work on my poetry and my essays. They are so poor I wouldn't dare show them to anyone, but the act of writing makes me happy. I can't master the haiku, though."
"Shiro, you know more about fighting art than anyone I know, maybe even more than Teacher Chael. You've mastered a hundred styles. If anyone can point me in the right direction, it has to be you." Bane described what had happened early the afternoon, going into detail and taking his time. Finally, he concluded, "I don't know any such silent blow, and I thought I was reasonably educated. Does it ring a bell with you?"
"It does," said the Tiger Fury with a deadly calm in his voice. "It is from a House I had thought had been wiped out long ago, a style that deserved to be forgotten. But no such luck. That man was killed by a technique called the Open Fist. The assassin belongs to the House of Furious Buddha." He shook his head. "More bad news for the world..."
Sitting beside his old friend in the gloom, Jeremy Bane thought for a second. "I think I'd remember a name like that. House of Furious Buddha...?"
"There is a legend about a school of assassins from Tibet, right on the Chinese border, hiring out their best teacher and student to other nations for gold," Shiro said quietly in the gloom. "Through the ages, they are supposed to have influenced history by slaying generals and emperors and crimelords. I don't believe a fraction of the tales. Furious Buddha claims to have received supernatural wisdom from a vision of the Lord Buddha in an angry state. Really!"
Bane thought it over. "What makes them dangerous? What's their secret?"
"Now, THERE is a scandal and a living shame. Long ago, a student of Tel Shai was about to be entitled Master of Kumundu. This was before Teacher Chael, of course. The student turned renegade, slew three of his fellows and fled into the real world. He founded the House of Furious Buddha."
"With knowledge of Kumundu? Damn. That offends me. These guys are still exploiting knowledge entrusted to them by our Order?" Bane sat up and seemed about to throw a fit. "Oh, now I'm going after them. There's no question of it."
Shiro placed a heavy hand on his sleeve and drew him back down. "There is more to them than that. They have added tricks and techniques of their own. They do not have the holy plant Tagra as we do, but they use a forbidden Velkandu serum to give them increased speed and strength."
"Velocitin? The source of the Tao-tsin crystals. Bah," scoffed Bane. "I've fought bad boys on velocitin and dragged them by their heels."
"Jeremy, please. These are fighters on a Kumundu level with enhanced speed. Does that remind you of someone we both know well?" He jagged a finger at Bane's chest. "Eh? Eh?"
"I get your point. I'm going to be tackling my equals, maybe more than my equals." Bane jumped to his feet, unable to sit still any longer. "What else can you tell me, Shiro? Where can I find these Furious Buddha boys? What are their habits?"
"Take a breath and let my words sink in," Shiro said. "The House hires out to those who spy for a country. They know that is where they can find much work for assassins is found. They send gold back to their village, never money and never promises. That leaves a trail. Also, the teacher and student travel together since the training never ends, so that makes them somewhat easier to spot."
Bane took the photo from his pocket and passed it over. Holding it up to the light from the open door, the Tiger Fury whistled. "Ah. Not good. Su Tze-Kyu."
"Oh come on, 'Susie Q?' What kind of name is that for an assassin?"
"You will always be an American, my friend. Su Tze-Kyu, pronounced more like Zoo She Kyoo is a real threat, a genius at his art. I don't recognize his young student."
"That's okay," growled Bane. "I'll know them when we meet!"
IV.
The top floor of the Lieberman Building in Richmond was occupied by a company calling itself Fleet Processing Services, which itself was little more than a name. The nine offices and the meeting room and the soundproofed torture chamber were the realm of the organization known as the Mandate. Long ago, that agency had drifted from its original agenda designated by Franklin Roosevelt and redefined during the Eisenhower years. It answered to no one, although it was on paper a branch of the Justice Department. Its budget was hidden within the expenses of other agencies. It had never had its officers compelled to testify before Congress, there had been no tell-all books on the stands about it. The Mandate kept its secrets well, few outsiders learned of its activities and lived.
In a corner office where luxury was kept to a minimum lest it lead to softness, a man known as Edwin McClellan stood by his desk and waited. His two most indispensable agents were late, and they were never late. McClellan was of average height and on the thin side, dressed in a plain grey suit with a solid black tie. His thin brown hair was brushed straight back and the metal-rimmed glasses had thick lenses which magnified his eyes for everyone to see. They were eyes as hard and unreadable as two stones set in his head, eyes that were always judging and criticizing. Now, McClellan sighed in exasperation. He had a plane to catch. The Mandate officer opened the plain door to his office and peered up and down the softly-lit hall. No one. Starting to fume, McClellan closed the door and turned around to stare into the withered face of Su Tze-Kyu not a full twelve inches away from him.
McClellan screamed and fell backward, but the door behind him steadied him. The Mandate officer regained his composure and barked, "Don't DO that! How did you get in here?"
"If I tell our secrets, then everyone would be able to do what we do," the Master of his House replied in a whisper. "But it is enough we are here." Behind him, the young redheaded man was standing with arms lowered, watching impassively.
"Ah. Our new star," McClellan said. "How is Dale doing?"
"Well enough. He is a good pupil because he has no memories to distract him, no loyalties to cause conflict. You gave me a clean parchment to write upon, my lord."
"I wish you wouldn't call me that," McClellan said. "Is Dale aware of how he came to be your student?"
"Yes. It does not trouble him. His experience with the Death In Life severed all his ties to his previous life." The Master smiled, showing small perfect teeth that contrasted with the wrinkled dry face. "Now he belongs to Furious Buddha and nothing else."
"Buried alive!" McClellan muttered. "Drugged and aware the whole time. I can't imagine how traumatic that be."
"We of our House have all experienced the Death In Life," answered Su Tze-Kyu. "It is the passage from who we were to who we become."
McClellan stared dubiously at the boy. Dale Rutledge's green eyes gazed back at him calmly, not blank but simply self-contained. The student was not obviously athletic, just a regular teenage boy past the gawky stage, but if one looked closer, there was more definition in the muscles showing on his arms than you might expect. The hands were heavily calloused across the knuckles and outer edge. Suddenly, for no reason he could explain, McClellan felt uneasy locking eyes with the redhead and he turned away.
"The target Wood has journeyed to the land of ghosts," Su Tze-Kyu announced. "My village will expect the gold within seven days, of course. Does my lord have a new task for this poor old man and his unworthy pupil?"
"As it happens, yes. In fact, you saw him today during your commission. The man who Wood was going to meet and reveal our secrets. I suspect he knows too much already. He has worked with the Mandate but not FOR the Mandate. He is not loyal to us."
"I see," the Master purred. He raised a bony hand with fingernails long and sharp as blades. "When your purpose suits him, he co-operates but not otherwise."
"Exactly. He has been useful but, with the two greatest assassins in the world on our payroll, we hardly need a loose cannon rolling on the deck. He is your next target. Jeremy Bane, the Dire Wolf. When can you start?"
"In the morning," said the Master of the House of Furious Buddha. "Let this man greet another dawn while he may."
V.
For the rest of the evening, Bane and Shiro had reminisced about their times in the KDF. Bane had filled Shiro in on Midnight War gossip and discussed his tentative plans for a new KDF team. Shiro had served huge portions of steamed chicken, black beans, rice and fried plaintains that he had already been cooking and Bane had devoured it gratefully. His enhanced metabolism burned calories mercilessly and he was always hungry. Around eleven, Shiro asked his former captain if he wanted to stay in the guest room and leave in the morning.
"Thanks, but I have to get back. It's an ongoing case and I haven't started finding out about Wood yet. He wanted to see me about something, but I never heard of him. Thanks for everything, Shiro. I'm glad to see someone retired from Midnight War happily."
"I was broken," the Tiger Fury admitted. "Both in body and spirit. This life is best for me. Have you thought what you will do when it's your own time to retire?"
Bane shrugged. "I haven't thought of it. Funny. I guess I just expect to keep going forever, but that's not realistic. Okay. I'll be back to visit when I can, and of course you can always come to Manhattan."
"True enough," Shiro held out his hand. "Good hunting, Dire Wolf."
Bane got back in his car and pulled away, giving the former Tiger Fury a wave as he headed up the dirt road toward the highway. An hour later, he was at the state border, where he stopped for gas. It was almost one in the morning now, and his noctural nature was in full swing. Bane always thought better in the middle of the night. Putting aside that nostalgic chat with Shiro to the back of his mind, he focussed on the case in hand. Funny he hadn't heard of the House of Furious Buddha before but evidently they had been keeping a low profile and were generally believed to have become extinct.
By the time he reached Manhattan and was stowing his car in the small garage beneath the KDF building, dawn was not far away. Cindy would not be back for another day yet. Bane went down the narrow walkway from the garage and up steep concrete steps to emerge from a panel in the walk-in closet in the front hall. Even though he didn't feel particularly tired, he had to function during the day, so Bane went up to his quarters on the second floor. Piling his clothes on a chair, peeling off the flexible Trom armor with a sigh of relief, the Dire Wolf hung the sheathed silver daggers within reach on the headboard, slid between a single flannel sheet and was asleep within seconds.
IV.
Just after nine, Bane hurried down the staircase as the front doorbell rang. He had been by chance emerging from his room, fully dressed and ready for the day, when he heard the bell. Rushing to the wall panel, he pressed the speaker button and said, "Just a second," before flipping the panel open and watching the image on the screen. That was Inspector Klein outside all right, looking grumpy and impatient. Bane opened the street door by remote, announced, "Come right in, Inspector," and activated the Trom sensors. As Klein waited grudgingly, he was analyzed on a cellular level. The screen read Klein's ID as confirmed in yellow letters. Even though Bane was sure it was Klein out there, he always used the sensors first.
As he opened the inner door and said, "Morning," Klein tried to brush in past him. "Something wrong?"
"Hell yeah, something's wrong," snapped the Inspector. He waited until the door was closed. "I'm off the case. The Feds moved in and took over. I've been assigned something else."
Bane studied the angry face. "What's the reason they gave?"
"No reason. They just said it was Federal business. But I had already done some digging." His voice became conspiratorial. "That guy, Albert J Wood, was no professor at Columbia. They backed up that story but when I dug a little deeper, it smelled fishy. I think he was a sleeper."
"Really? He was a spy in deep cover." Bane motioned for Klein to head to the office but the veteran cop didn't budge. "He was waiting for a signal to carry out some action?"
"That's how I read it," Klein said. "I know you've tangled with the Mandate. I would never say that name out in public, I want to live to collect my pension. But I will bet my good eye this is Mandate business. Maybe you should drop it, Bane. Everybody has just so much luck they can push."
The Dire Wolf did not smile. "Too late for that. I think I've identified the killers and if they realize that, they'll be after me next. I need to face them."
Giving a short barking laugh, the Inspector reached for the doorknob. "You know what, my friend? Considering how I feel about this situation, I'm glad those killers are coming to visit you... because you'll be the last person they ever see in this life!" With that, he stomped out and slammed the door behind him.
Staring at the door, Bane allowed himself a dry smile. Thanks for the compliment, he thought. Then he went into his office, got himself comfortable behind the desk and started making phone calls. Over the years, he had built a network of people who owed him big favors, mostly saving their lives or the lives of their loved ones. Instead of accepting a reward, he asked that they report to them whenever they saw or heard anything inexplicable or genuinely weird. They were invariably grateful enough to gladly do so.
No one was much help today, though, especially as Bane was being prudent and not explaining exactly what he was looking for. After forty minutes, he took a break to pace the office and hash over what he had to work with. He was not intimidated at all by the prospect of facing "the world's two best assassin." Bane's confidence was close to unshakeable. It was the nuisance of tracking them down that annoyed him.
Getting back to his calls, he finally reached Bleak. His best and most knowledgable observer, the sixty-four year old Bleak was on a monthly retainer to keep his eyes open. He said outright that the Mandate didn't scare him, that he had seen an assassin from the House of Furious Buddha twenty years earlier and the guy was really good... as good as Bane, actually. And he knew someone who could give Bane inside information.
"Be on the roof of the Hotel Lancaster at three o'clock this afternoon," said the sour voice of the old man. "Bring a couple thousand in an envelope just to sweeten the deal. The guy will recognize you, you're kinda distinctive!"
"Thanks, Bleak. I'll let you know how much of a fight these Buddha guys put up," Bane answered.
"Seriously. Be on your toes. Overconfidence has killed more fighters than anything else." There was a click and Bane lowered the phone to its cradle. The Dire Wolf knew Bleak was right, being cocky was giving the opponent an advantage. Even Shiro had cautioned him.
Standing up, he glanced at the clock over the door. One-fifteen. Time enough to warm up with his Doh Ra. Again taking off his boots and jacket, the Dire Wolf went through the form devised for him by Teacher Chael, getting lost in the movements, letting his body act on its own. When he was done and after he bowed to Chael further away than miles, Bane felt fully alert and ready. He was wearing the flexible Trom armor under his clothes, he had the silver daggers sheathed on his arms and his clothing held its usual assortment of gadgets and weapons. He left the office and paused in the small waiting room. Up in one corner was a video monitor showing the street directly outside. Bane studied the view and saw nothing suspicious. Opening the door, he took in his surroundings with all his trained senses and felt no threat. For a long moment, he watched and waited. Maybe he was being too cautious.
Looking across the street, he spotted something. On either side of the twin doors to the barber shop a wedge of dark material showed.. the shoulder of a man, one on each side of the doors. Bane's eyes suddenly glittered. He was tempted to confront them, but this was a time for discipline. Even if the Mandate was having him watched or followed, dealing with Furious Buddha came first. He spun and walked quickly back down the hall to the recreation room where the KDF had relaxed between cases.
On the back wall, a six-foot high wooden panel swung open after he unlatched hidden catches. He moved down a short passage barely wide enough to navigate. At the end of the passage was a plain wooden door which he unlocked and stepped through to stand behind a receptionist desk. A heavyset Hispanic woman in a floral dress gave a slight start and then smiled warmly at him. "Hello, Mr Bane. I'm afraid Dr Wright is out on a call but I expect him back shortly,"she said.
"Thanks anyway, Rosario," Bane answered over one shoulder as he kept moving, "I'll give him a call." He left the office and turned right in the foyer to exit the building on the door facing west. As he stepped out onto the sidewalk, he decided that Mandate agents watching the KDF building would not see him.
So many tricks, he thought, he had expended so much time and money preparing for getaways but sometimes it paid off. Out on the street, he headed north and then turned right at 49th Street. On Second Avenue, the Hotel Lancaster stood where it had been for ninety years. It was a four-story yellow brick building and next to it, separated by an alley, was a five-story apartment building with shops on the ground floor. During the walk over, Bane had decided how to do this. Watching the roof of the Lancaster, he stood next to the neighboring building and leaped straight up to swing onto the the fire escape without having to lower its bottom section. Quickly as if walking on a level surface, the Dire Wolf raced up the metal steps of the fire escape onto the roof of the apartment building, then without pausing he hopped up on the edge of the roof and dove off, easily clearing the twelve foot width of the alley. He came down onto the roof of the hotel, rolling to break the impact and leaping up to his feet as a startled young man spun around.
Dale Rutledge had been watching the usual routes by which a man would come up onto the roof and, although he was surprised, he recovered instantly and snapped into a ready stance with his weight evenly distributed and his hands open and loose in front of him.
Bane got his first good look at the assassin. No more than twenty-two, thin and wiry, Dale had on the same white T-shirt and jeans he had been wearing the day before. The shaggy red hair and green eyes in a bony face were the same. As he realized that his target had found him and the element of ambush was lost, Dale's expression did not change. He remained impassive, seeming almost distinterested in fact.
The Dire Wolf took one step forward and the Furious Buddha assassin shifted his balance, lowering one arm to his thigh. Bane took that in. The two began to circle each iother, each intensely scrutinizing his enemy's response to getting closer or further away, to seeing his foe make a fist or turn one foot inward. They were studying each other in a detailed way that few martial artists ever approached. In less than a minute, they had learned volumes about the other man's quickness, his reflexes, his response time.
To most observers, it would have seemed dull, even boring. It was as if the two fighters were afraid to clash and were simply staring at each other. Actually, each was playing a dozen scenarios in his imagination of what would happen depending on which attack he launched. Their slow circling grew even slower as they started narrowing their options.
For the briefest instant, Bane caught sight of the seemingly frail figure of an elderly Asian man in a bright yellow robe. Su Tze-Kyu was standing on the other side of the roof, as far away as he could get from the fight. It seemed clear he wanted his student to handle this alone, at least for the moment. The Dire Wolf's eyes had not left his opponent long enough to offer an opening. They continued to draw nearer.
As if on some secret signal, the two men flashed toward each other and immediately separated, with a single sharp cracking noise echoing across the roof. They got their footing and wheeled to face one another. Bane's right arm hung limply at his side and he reached over to hold it gingerly. Seeing this, Dale started to laugh in malicious triumph. But then dark blood spouted from his mouth, his knees gave way and he felt face down to the tarpaper.
Spinning to face an expected attack from the Master of Furious Buddha, Bane saw no one. Slightly disbelieving, he moved around the roof, his left hand having drawn the silver dagger from the right arm's sheath. Su Tze-Kyu was indeed gone. The Dire Wolf stepped closer to the edge of the room and stared down just in time to catch sight of a fragile small form in a yellow robe turn the corner to First Avenue.
Bane stood there, wondering just how that eighty year old could possibly have gotten down off the roof to the street in a few seconds. He had no idea. Giving it up for the moment, he watched Dale Rutledge for a long five minutes until he was certain the man was not breathing at all and had not even shown the barely perceptible skin vibration of blood circulating. The Dire Wolf massaged his right arm, which was still useless but which was starting to regain some sensation. It was dangerous to let your opponent connect with a blow so that you could strike him with something more punishing, but it had seemed like the only tactic to use. Bane grudgingly had to admit that he would have had a hard time dueling Dale for any extended time, which meant an older and more experienced Furious Buddha fighter would be a real threat.
As his arm started to come back to life, it also began to ache. He had accepted that, pain was an old companion for him. Bane moved around the roof, heading toward the wooden shed which covered the stairs leading down. The door was open and a pair of feet in well-shined leather dress shoes protruded. He bent over a man about thirty, athletic in build and with short black hair over a square face. Bane could see the man breathing a bit irregularly, and the vivid bruise above one ear showed why he was unconscious.
This must be the informant that Bleak had sent here. Why had the assassins spared him? They were so used to simply killing anyone who was inconvenient to them that it had become habit. Bane thought he knew the answer. Crouching, he found the man's wallet in the left hip pocket and went through it. Henry William Forrestal, 32, sales representative for Fleet Processing Services.
Another Mandate agent! They were double-crossing themselves at this point, using their own agents as bait. This one had intended to distract Bane while Dale attacked from behind, that was clear. Suddenly offended and angrier than he had been while fighting for his life, Bane hauled the man up with one hand and dragged him over next to where Dale Rutledge lay with open unseeing eyes. He took a pair of handcuffs from the back of his belt and fastened Forrestal's wrist to Dale's.
There. Let that Mandate agent straighten this mess out when he woke up in a few minutes. Jeremy Bane started down the steps from the roof, glad his injured arm was starting to flex when he tried to use it. He glanced back at the scene and felt satisfied at last. He hadn't known Albert J Wood and may not have liked the man if he had gotten to know him, but he had been killed on Bane's doorstep. At least now that insult was repaid.
1/4/2015
