Elektra (12 page)

Jack snorted and shook his head, grinning at a couple of his friends where they lounged against the wall. “You don’t have to call all your shots, pops. Just the first one.”

“That
is
the first one,” the white-haired man said blandly. Without even lining up his shot, the older man reached over and hit the cue ball. Jack’s jaw opened as the balls scattered and dropped into the pockets, just as his opponent predicted.

For no apparent reason, the white-haired man stopped and tilted his head, then turned and looked at the door where Mark, Abby, and Elektra had paused.

Jack licked his lips. “Uh… still your shot.”

His coplayer nodded. “Nine and fourteen here and here,” he pointed to the two end corners. “And eight in the side.” An impossible-looking soft tap of his stick against the cue ball, and the balls sunk in just where he’d said they would. “Leave your money on the table,” he said absently. He folded up his pool stick and headed for where the trio stood.

Elektra watched Stick approach and, incredibly, felt herself tremble. It had been years since she’d last seen him, that day when he’d thrown her out of the training camp. She had gone from potential Chaste to assassin—could she face him, after his rejection and after all the things she’d done in between? But why shouldn’t she? After all, she was as much a child of his own making as she was of her temperament.

Mark glanced at her, and something on her face must have given her away. His eyes widened and he stared back at Stick.
“This
is the guy?” he asked incredulously. “He’s
blind?”

Elektra nodded, and while he didn’t understand, Mark tapped Abby on the shoulder anyway. “Look,” he said, digging a handful of coins out of his pocket. “Here’s a dollar, Abs. Go play a few games of pinball.”

Abby scowled, but she still took the money. “Why do I always have to miss the good stuff?”

A corner of Mark’s mouth lifted. “When you get old enough to be there, you’ll wish you
could
miss it.”

Abby tossed her blond hair. “Does that mean life always sucks?”

This time he grinned outright. “Exactly.” This time, Abby smiled too, then she headed for the machines in the corner. Mark watched her go, and when he turned back, Elektra was face-to-face with the blind guy she’d called Stick.

“Elektra Natchios,” the blind man said calmly. “Same perfume. Same walk.”

Elektra grimaced and rubbed her forearm with one hand, betraying her self-consciousness. “Listen,” she began. “I’m not here for—”

“Same chip on the shoulder,” Stick noted.

“Look,” Elektra said in a low voice. She sounded very close to outright pleading with him. “Don’t start, okay? This is Mark Miller. He needs your help.”

“I’ve heard of him,” Stick said flatly.

Mark looked startled. “How do you know who I—”

Stick’s gesture toward another part of the pool hall, where it was darker and there were booths that would give them a little more privacy, stopped his question. “Over there.”

Stick moved off, and Elektra and Mark followed. When they were settled, Stick said, “Tell us who you are, Mr. Miller.”

Elektra sent Stick a frustrated look that even Mark could interpret—whoever this man was, he was way ahead of her and she was
not
happy about it. Mark had the distinct impression that kind of thing had happened before. After casting a glance toward his daughter to make sure she was all right—she was killing the pinball machines and a couple of the pool hall’s regulars had gathered around to watch—Mark had the good grace to look a little ashamed as he finally owned up to his, and Abby’s, history.

“I owned a bunch of gyms,” he finally told her. “Martial arts schools.” He glanced at her furtively, and she frowned and nodded, acknowledging his unspoken admission to lying to her earlier. “I wasn’t a practitioner, just in the business part. And I took on a partner, for capital.” He paused and picked at a spot on the battered wooden table. It was clear that he wished he didn’t have to keep going.

Obligingly, Stick picked up where Mark had stopped. “Then Mr. Miller found out he was in business with the
Hand.”
His sightless eyes still bored into Elektra, making her squirm despite her resolve to appear unconcerned. “You remember the Hand, Elektra?”

“They wanted something I couldn’t give them,” Mark put in. His fingers were still digging at the table-top. “When I tried to walk away, they came after me.”

This time he glanced at Stick, making Elektra frown. He wasn’t telling her everything and Stick knew it. She didn’t like being the only one in the dark. “And?” Stick prompted.

Mark hesitated. “They killed my wife, Abby’s mom. There was no drunk driver. We’ve been on the run ever since.”

Elektra sat back and digested this. More lies—why would they go to such lengths, especially if Mark and his daughter had already removed themselves from the picture? There was something she was missing here, something that in the strain of being in Stick’s company, she’d overlooked. Damn it, what was it? Never mind. If Mark Miller wouldn’t come clean with her, he and his daughter were too dangerous to play with.

She leaned toward Stick. “The Hand is your business, not mine.
You
help them.” Then she stood and sent a withering look down at Mark. “You’re on your own.”

A corner of Stick’s mouth curled before she could walk away. “And yet you saved their lives and brought them here. Why? Some kind of penance? A down payment on your sins?” He let his mouth stretch into a full, knowing smile. “Ninjas have always been your specialty.”

Elektra shrugged carelessly. “They’re overrated,” she said levelly, but her eyes said otherwise. “But what comes next will be worse.” Despite her dire statement, she turned to stalk off, then realized Abby had abandoned her pinball machine and all the free games, leaving the booty for the other guys to play out. Before she could get any further, she heard Stick ask Mark, “Has Elektra told you what she does for a living?”

“She saved my life,” Mark interrupted. “And my daughter’s.”

But Stick only smirked. “You landed on the lucky side of the street,” he said pointedly. “Because most people, she—”

This time, Elektra lunged for Stick’s throat. “Damn you, you son of a—”

And she barely had time to think about what a stupid idea
that
was.

Elektra didn’t see him move, nor likely did anyone else. In no more than the blink of an eye, she went butt over head and then she was bent over the nearest pool table with his pool stick—the one that she’d sworn he’d had neatly folded up—thoroughly pinning her to the dirty felt surface. She made a sort of growl in her throat and realized that the room had already cleared out—no one in here wanted a piece of this fight.

“I guess blind guys are your weakness,” Stick said mildly. He actually looked sorry. “Oh, Elektra—I had hoped you changed.”

Beyond furious now, Elektra slapped the tip of the pool cue to the side and jumped to her feet. With a last, murderous glare at Stick, she spun and stalked out the door.

Mystified, Mark grabbed Abby by the elbow and went after her, while behind them Stick headed back toward the pool tables to drum up another game when the bar’s customers came back inside.

Three feet from it, he stopped and looked up at nothing at all.

Someone, or some
thing,
had joined the game.

E
LEKTRA WAS WAITING WHEN
M
ARK AND
A
BBY
came out of the bar. She was pacing back and forth in the alley like an enraged leopard, and they watched her without saying anything, not sure of the next step. “What do we do now?” Abby finally asked. She looked from her father to Elektra, then back again, but Mark didn’t have an answer.

Elektra started to say something, then she noticed something on the graffiti-covered wall. She jerked to a stop and went over to the spray-painted image, peering at the brightly colored bricks. It looked like a bird, an ornate, stylized hawk that could’ve been a biker’s tattoo. After a few moments her eyes widened and she backed away from the wall.

“You have to run,” she finally said. Her gaze kept jumping back to the wall suspiciously. “As far as you can, as fast as you can. South America, Africa—change your name, change your appearance.” She brushed the hair out of her face and regarded the two of them steadily. “Change
everything.”

Mark only looked at her as the real meaning behind her words sank in, but Abby wasn’t so tactful. “You’re not coming with us.”

Elektra blinked, then looked away. “No. I… can’t.”

“Why not?” Abby took a step toward Elektra, stepping in between Elektra and the wall so the older woman would have to look her in the eye. “Isn’t that part of your code or something?”

Elektra rubbed her forehead tiredly. “I don’t have a code, Abby. Stick has a code—even Kirigi has a code. But—”

Mark blinked at her. “Kirigi?”

Elektra waved him away. “Never mind.”

Abby put her hands on her hips. “How are we going to defend ourselves?” she demanded.

Her father sighed and put a hand on her shoulder and pulled her back. “Abby, we’ll be okay,” he began.

But his daughter jerked out of his grasp. “No, Dad— we won’t!” The teenager was practically stomping her foot to make him comprehend her words. “Wake
up,
Dad—we
won’t!”

Elektra’s mouth worked. God, she didn’t know
what
to do here—if she let Mark and Abby go, it meant certain death for both of them, but what else could she do? This wasn’t her fight, and the odds against them were probably insurmountable. She wasn’t—

The beady black eyes of the hawk painted on the wall behind Abby shifted suddenly, moving to the right and locking with Elektra’s narrowed gaze. Incredibly, the finely detailed feathers along its wings started to bristle.

“Get in the car,” Elektra whispered urgently.
“Now!”

In a burst of abrupt color, the bird’s painted image suddenly went 3-D, pulling free of the cracked surface of the wall and taking full shape. It flapped its wings frantically for a second or two to fluff out its feathers, then exploded free and rocketed down the alley. It banked right, then soared high into the air and disappeared over the rooftop.

Tattoo jerked and opened his eyes as his hawk tattoo slammed back into his upper arm with enough force to jerk him backwards. The bird melted into his skin, sliding along the flesh until it fit precisely into its rightful place. He blinked for a moment to clear his head of the avian’s thoughts, then gave an evil grin.

“Tattoo,” Kirigi said impatiently, “where are they?”

He rubbed his arm absently, then pointed past Kirigi. “Down the street and three blocks over, in the parking lot. With that assassin.”

Kirigi’s returning grin was quite a bit blacker. “We need to kill her first.”

Tattoo looked up. “Should we do it now?”

Looking over from her spot at the edge of the roof where the five of them had gathered, Typhoid sent Kirigi a small, sleepy smile. “I can handle that.”

Kirigi started to answer, then stopped and frowned slightly. He turned back in the direction Tattoo had indicated and concentrated, trying to confirm with his mind what his senses were feeling. Yes—it was true. Of all people, Stick was down there, and he wasn’t alone. Always one to show up when it was most inconvenient, the elder was accompanied by members of his precious Chaste. Kirigi knew Typhoid was waiting, but he took his time deciding, weighing his options. “No,” Kirigi finally decided. “Not here.” He inclined his head toward Tattoo. “Keep track of them.”

Tattoo nodded, and his fingers reached up and began to once again stroke the hawk inked onto his upper arm.

They were in the pickup truck again, which frustrated Elektra no end. Elektra was driving this time, zipping down the interstate at a speed limit–defying eighty-five miles an hour, but it wasn’t like that was going to do them any good. As far as she was concerned, they might as well paint a big bull’s-eye on the hood, or maybe the roof, where the Hand’s aim would be more accurate and put them all out of this ridiculous misery that much faster.

Mark was in the passenger seat, staying quiet and staring out the window. Maybe he was contemplating his coming death, maybe he was thinking about the possibility, no,
probability,
that his daughter was going to die right along with him and Elektra. Why didn’t people think things through before they put themselves and their loved ones in these kinds of doomed situations? Elektra had suffered so much loss in her life that she had learned well the pain of having family members become collateral damage.

This time, anticipating a long drive, Abby had opted for the back seat of the oversized truck. Now she leaned forward, straining against her seatbelt and holding on to the back of the front seat, so she could talk to Elektra. “So you really kill people for a living?”

That was the thing about children. They didn’t pull punches or monkey around with tact. Keeping her eyes on the road, Elektra nodded.

Abby paused, then asked simply, “Why?”

Elektra opened her mouth to answer, but suddenly all her thoughts were tumbling around in her head. Why, indeed? She was, she thought, still full of the anger that had never gone away after her mother’s death—in fact, losing her father, then what she’d had, no matter how short and sweet, with Matt Murdock had only refilled the fury tank. Finally she said the only thing she could come up with. “It’s what I’m good at.”

Amazingly, this seemed to appease Abby, whose only response after a moment was, “Weird.”

The teenager sat back then, apparently to brood over Elektra’s words. Elektra drove on, occasionally glancing in the mirror to check on Abby and worrying about what she was thinking. Just the simple act of monitoring the girl nettled her—what was she doing here, anyway, driving down this highway and trying to save what was left of this average American family? It was ridiculous, and it wasn’t like she’d ever have a chance to be a part of the Miller family, a
real
part of it. No matter how much she was attracted to Mark—and yes, faced with the coming disaster she thought she might as well be honest enough to admit that much— she was never going to be normal, she was never going to slide into the spot vacated by the dead Mrs. Miller. She didn’t even
want
to.

Did she?

Of course not. She was Elektra, the Assassin. Men did not want lovers who killed for a living, and teenaged girls did not need assassins for role models.

The minutes stretched out, turning into several hours before Elektra turned off to get to the farm that had been her goal the entire time. Even this far away from any dense population or greenery, the driveway was long and lined with palm trees and a myriad of flowering plants. Farther off the little side road, she could see pine trees and bougainvillea bushes that had scattered scarlet December flowers blooming on them. When she finally got to the house, a rambling structure that probably had fourteen or fifteen rooms in it and was off the main road by a good three or four miles, McCabe was waiting on the front lawn, a Winchester twelve-gauge cradled comfortably in the crook of one arm. As she brought Mark’s truck to a stop, Elektra could hear the energetic popping of his gum through the open driver’s side window.

He gave her a wry grin, but it didn’t look very genuine. There were shadows beneath his eyes and he was being just a little too casual about her visit. “Well, well,” he said cheerfully. “The reluctant assassin.”

Elektra got out of the truck slowly, looking back at Abby. She’d fallen asleep sometime ago, and now the sounds of conversation and lack of motion were pulling her back into the here and now. “Sorry to drag you into this, McCabe.”

The last traces of his grin disappeared and he only looked back at her. “Me, too,” he said, and rubbed the back of his other hand nervously across his mouth.

Abby unbuckled her seat belt, then climbed groggily out of the back seat of the truck. When her gaze focused on McCabe, her eyes brightened with interest. “Hi,” she said. Elektra’s eyebrows rose and she fought a grin as Abby went into flirt mode. “I’m Abby. Who are you?”

McCabe’s smile reluctantly returned, this time a little more on the genuine side. “And I’m wondering why
you’re
here,” he came back instead of answering. When Abby gave him a winsome grin, he looked like he was surrendering. He turned to face Mark, who’d gotten out of the truck and was eyeing McCabe suspiciously. He didn’t offer to shake hands, and neither did McCabe. “Plenty of bedrooms in the house,” McCabe told him. “Help yourself to whatever you need.”

Mark relaxed a bit. “Thank you.” He glanced at Elektra, who motioned for him and Abby to go on without her. When they’d finally disappeared inside, she took a deep breath and readied herself to face the music. It wasn’t long in coming.

“What are you doing?” McCabe asked. His voice was a lot sharper than the tone he’d used with Abby and Mark. When all Elektra would do was stare at the ground, he continued. “You’re crashing on me, baby. I said you’d crash, and you’re crashing.”

She opened and closed her hands, feeling helpless. Her voice, when she answered, sounded small and uncertain. “I just want to get them someplace safe. Give them a chance.”

McCabe didn’t say anything for a long moment, then he exhaled and reached out one hand so he could squeeze her elbow. “They’ve got no chance, E.” His voice held more emotion than she’d ever heard before and she could tell he was grinding his teeth as he talked. “They’re already dead. Don’t go down with them.”

McCabe was right, of course—she knew that. She’d known it long before they’d arrived here. But she’d never been one to give up, or even necessarily listen to reason. “I need passports,” she said by way of answering. “Plane tickets.”

McCabe let go of her elbow and made a tiny sound of exasperation. When he spoke again, there was no trace of the feeling she’d heard before. “You pay for them,” he said flatly. “Not me.”

She nodded, feeling as though she’d just been terribly chastised by the gentlest teacher. She moved around him and went toward the house, and McCabe was still looking past her as if she wasn’t even there. Things were awkward enough without her trying to engage in idle conversation, so Elektra left him alone with his thoughts and his weapon.

Gripping the shotgun’s stock, with eyes that were just as piercing, McCabe was watching the hawk that watched him from the branches of a pine tree….