Action: Pulse Pounding Tales Volume 2

KOKORO By Andrew Scorah

Jerryko Jones knew he had walked into a world of hurt the moment the big hairy biker’s fist slammed into his face, launching him over a bottle-filled table, the floor near the toilets breaking his fall.

“C’mon man, I haven’t got any time to tango with no Eskimo.” He tested his jaw to see if it was still attached to his head.

The man roared like a primeval beast leaving the swamp to look for food. Hairy biker moved fast for his size, pushing tables out the way as he approached.

Take the job, Fat Joe had said, sweet deal, he had said.

Well Fat Joe could go screw himself, after this job he wanted out.

He met Fat Joe after doing time in Pelican Bay. Jones had been one of the best Cat Burglars in the world; the few people who knew him, said he could steal a Nun’s underwear without her knowing. His father had been a Colonel in the US Marines, stationed at Pearl Harbour; he grew up in and around Pearl City, Hawaii. His mother was a doctor at the base hospital, this meant for much of the time he was on his own at their mansion in the hills above Pearl. A nannie, and a Japanese gardener, was his only company in the big house. Jones could not be sure if the gardener spoke any English; the few times he had heard the man speak to his father it had been in Japanese. His mother and father were out at work as usual; he was sitting reading a book at a table on the patio behind the house, occasionally looking up at the gardener raking leaves off the lawn.

It always amazed him how the gardener appeared to flow on a cushion of air when he moved. To Jones the man looked a hundred years old, wiry with skin like leather.

The man glanced over to him and smiled. He walked over and poured himself a glass of juice from the pitcher on the table. He patted Jones on the head and said something in Japanese before laughing. Jones smiled shyly at him.

A noise from the corner of the house made him turn in his seat. Two men dressed all in black, rounded the corner; both armed with machetes. Three more emerged from the patio doors.

The gardener, seeming without effort picked him up by his shirt and threw him down to the lawn. Like a ballet dancer, he flowed down the steps, placing himself between Jones and the interlopers.

He watched in awe and fear as the men formed a semi-circle in front of the gardener. The rake was at his feet. He slipped a black-toed foot under the handle and flipped it up in the air. Catching it in his right hand, the handle braced against his back, the rake end held out to his side.

With his left hand, he signalled them to attack. As one they screamed, machetes held high, as they complied. The gardener became a blur. Moving between the attackers, he used the rake to sweep feet, hit stomachs, or deliver bone-jarring strikes to the attackers’ heads. Within seconds, three lay unconscious on the grass.

The two remaining attackers were more cautious. They began to circle the gardener. They ignored Jones. He was too scared to move.

One of the attackers shuffled towards the gardener, swinging his machete in figure eights, every now and again feinting at him. The other had manoeuvred behind him, taking advantage of his friend’s distraction. Without a sound, he attacked. The machete coming down to split the gardener’s skull. Just as it looked as if the machete would hit its mark the gardener raised the rake, blocking the machete; he bent over, and kicked back, catching the rear attacker in the groin. The other dashed forward; the gardener sidestepped and hit him in the temple with the metal-pronged rake. He finished the other one with a hard blow to the face.

The gardener came over to Jones, and knelt next to him.

“Are you okay, Jones San?”

He looked at him, mouth-catching flies. The gardener had never spoken English before. It was at that moment he realised there was more to this strange old man, than that of a simple gardener.

Jerryko Jones cat flipped to his feet, and braced himself as the biker came towards him. A knurled ham-like hand reached out to grab him. He caught it in his left hand, twisted as he stepped in. Jones dropped to one knee, the biker flipped in the air, and came crashing down to the floor. The wind taken out of his sails. Jones delivered an Atemi strike to the cervical nerve plexus on the side of his beefy neck, the man was out cold.

One down, the rest of the bar to go.

Jennifer Delaney was the daughter of Senator Tom Delaney, multimillionaire owner of Delaney Electronics, a Silicon Valley Microchip Company. She was taken from her University campus in the dead of night. When no ransom demand was forthcoming, her father called in Fat Joe’s company.

Fat Joe was a Bail Bondsman, one of the best in the business. His firm had many arms, skip tracing, fugitive retrieval and kidnap intervention. He passed the job to Jones who did not want to take it; it had been a week with no contact from the kidnappers. He thought the woman would probably be dead by now, but Fat Joe managed to persuade him, as he always did when Jones dug his heels in over a job. The fact that Jennifer Delaney was a stunner of Playboy proportions helped sweeten the deal.

He looked around at the other Denizens of the dimly lit spit and sawdust bar. For a moment, the black-hearted patrons were frozen in shock at the speed with which he had dispatched their pal.

A little oriental guy, who came towards him, a Pool cue in his hand, broke the moment.

“You are not going to leave this bar alive.” He cracked the cue over his knee, breaking it in two, motioning with one section at the floored biker. “He was my friend, now you’re gonna pay.”

The other scum-sucking sons of venereal bitches egged him on as he went into a set of movements from the Filipino martial art of Kali, twirling the sticks in a display that would have made Bruce Lee proud.

It looked as if reaching the upper floors of the bar would be harder than Jones had anticipated. Jimmy Chew must have dropped a dime to let them know he was on the way.

He edged around to his right until his back was up against the pool table.

“Okay, Sticks, you wanna shoot some pool?”

Jones palmed a ball as the little Oriental came at him, the sticks a blur in front of his body. Jones kicked him in his nut sack; he woofed as the air exploded from his lungs. Bringing his hand from behind his back, Jones smashed the pool ball down on his head. Son of Bruce crashed out of the game.

Jones felt something wrap around his throat, and he was lifted bodily into the air. Jones was now on the pool table being strangled. His eyes bulged as he fought for breath. Whoever had grabbed him had breath that smelled of cheap lager, cigarettes and fish. The man was whispering in his ear, about how Jones was about to die.

Funny, he thought, people keep telling me that, and I’m still here.

He stepped back and down into a crouch. The man was not expecting it, so went flying over-the-top of Jones; the leather belt he had been using as a garrotte flew from his hand. He landed flat on his face. Broken teeth and blood blasted out of his pulped face.

Jones jumped off the table.

“Anyone else fancy a game?”

He looked directly at the nearest biker dude, a skinny guy with a scraggly beard, and a face not even a mother could love. Ugly held up his hands, backing away.

“You play too rough for me, Kimosabe!”

It looked like the others felt the same, Jones gave them all his best ‘don’t mess with me ‘cause I eat gasoline and shit fire’ look before pointing to the exit with a nod of his head. They did not need telling twice, like a herd of stampeding buffalo they headed for the door.

Alone at last, Jones thought, as he gazed at the door that led upstairs.

Jones hated doors; they hid all kinds of secrets.

There was a time when doors held no problem for him. That was before he met Ashikaga No Yoshitsune, the family’s gardener. Two days after the attack at the family mansion, nothing had been mentioned to Jones about who the attackers were, but he figured it had something to do with the work his father did. The gardener was getting ready to leave for his home. Jones stopped him at the front door.

“Excuse me sir, how did you defeat the bad men?”

The old man stopped and turned to look at Jones, his dark eyes deeper than any lake or ocean Jones had seen, and full of esoteric knowledge.

“Koryu Bujutsu.” With an enigmatic smile, he walked out the door.

Jones later asked his father what this was. His father turned from the papers on his desk and looked at Jones, a quizzical air to his iron hard features. Jones’ father explained it was a very old Japanese way of fighting, steeped in the history and culture of the Japans.

Jones, who had always been a stubborn boy when his mind was set on a course of action, decided there and then that he wanted to learn this strange way of fighting.

The next day he approached the gardener, and asked if he would teach him.

“Bujutsu is not for Gaijin, Gaijin play Soccer. Bujutsu too hard.”

The gardener carried on with his weeding, and Jones skulked off to think of a way to persuade the old guy.

That night he watched an old film on the television: it was a Samurai film, the hero wanted the master to teach him the way of the sword so he could avenge the death of his parents. The teacher refused, so the hero began leaving gifts at his house, or tidying his garden, while the teacher was out. Finally, the teacher relented; he said the hero had Kokoro, and so would teach him.

The next day he followed the gardener home. He would show him he had this Kokoro, after all how hard could it be to leave a few gifts, and do a bit of gardening?

The gardener’s home was a modest sized bungalow, hidden deeper in the hills above Pearl City, it had a small garden to the rear with a Buddhist shrine at the bottom. Over the next month, he left gifts of rice cakes, or sushi, and tidied up the weeds that grew among the neat little flowerbeds. Jones always waited until the gardener was almost home before he lit incense sticks at the shrine before hiding nearby to watch the gardener’s reaction.

The gardener, a week into the second month caught him; it was also the moment his whole world imploded. He was lighting the incense sticks as usual when the gardener entered the garden. Jones stood frozen to the spot.

The gardener, his face a stony visage approached him. Jones saw sadness in the old man’s eyes. He opened his mouth, about to apologise, and explain his actions. The gardener took his hand and led him to a bench against the back wall of the house. Here, he told Jones his parents had been killed in a car crash.

Jones felt dizzy, and he tried hard to hold back the tears. At first he did not believe what he heard, it could not be true. He believed it a week later at their graveside, only then did the tears flow.

He had no other relatives stateside, and it was up in the air where he was going to live. Finally, he was told someone had come forward to care for him.

He stepped into the foyer of the Child Services Care Home to find the smiling face of the gardener.

“I am Ashikaga No Yoshitsune.” The old man bowed low. Instinctively Jones returned the bow.

Ashikaga took him into his home, and it was agreed he would teach Jones the ways of Koryu Bujutsu, the ways of the Tenshin Shoden Katori Shinto Ryu.

On the first day of training he took him deep into the woods above his home. They stopped at the head of a trail.

“Jones san, I want you to walk down this trail, no matter what you see or hear do not deviate from the trail. Here.” Ashikaga handed Jones a wooden sword. He held it, looking in awe along the length of the wooden blade. When he looked up to thank Ashikaga, he had vanished like smoke in the wind.

Looking around he shrugged and started down the trail. He had been walking for about an hour when he came upon a wooden shack in the middle of a clearing. The door was ajar; he heard the faint sound of crying from within. There was no one else around, a thin voice from inside said, “Help me please,” then screamed.

Jones dashed forward, the sword held high. He was about to crash through the door, when something inside him screamed to stop. Something felt wrong. He kicked the door open, then jumped back, sword at the ready.

There was a glint of sun off metal, as a Katana blade whistled through the air where Jones would have been, if he had stepped through the door.

Ashikaga stepped out of the shack, sword in hand, and smiled.

“You have learned your first important lesson Jones san; always trust your inner voice.”

Jones felt the old familiar tingling down his spine as he stood in front of the door that led to the upper regions of the bar. Through Ashikaga’s training, he had learned the esoteric art of Haragei; the ability to sense threats or to anticipate an opponent's movements. His Haragei was telling him there was a threat waiting through the door. He could almost pick up on the murderous black thoughts of his antagonist.

Jones drew his Tanto fighting knife from his right boot. He approached the door; the feeling was more intense on the right side. He crashed his left boot into the door, almost knocking it off its hinges as it flew open.

The man to the right of the door was taken by surprise, the axe he was holding still raised above his head as Jones plunged the Tanto into his stomach, ripping up towards his rib cage. He was dead before he knew it.

Jones stepped over the eviscerated man, ignoring the wet gurgling of gasses escaping from the man’s torn stomach. A short corridor in front of him led to a flight of stairs leading up into darkness.

Extending his Haragei, he could tell no threat waited on the floor above him. Reversing the Tanto blade, he began to ascend the stairs; keeping to the side to minimise any creaks in the wood.

He reached the landing and paused, the darkness was all encompassing, and no windows were present to let in even ambient light. He dropped his centre of gravity, slowly shuffled along the landing, arms up, and blade at the ready.

He listened with his entire being, reaching out as he had been taught, to feel with the eyes and mind of god. This was Haragei in its extreme. There, he felt it; someone was descending the next flight of stairs. Whoever it was, they could hide their intentions, even so he picked it up like a spark in a cave; there one moment gone the next.

He froze, keeping his body still as a lake on a windless day. The darkness felt like a solid entity, enveloping him in its deadly embrace. He was patient though, like a spider at the centre of its web awaiting the victim to come within reach.

A smear of darkness crashed into him. He fell back against the rough wall behind, the wall fell away, and his backwards momentum continued, through and down onto a carpeted floor. There must have been a door.

Jones was confused, why had he not noticed the threat so close? He felt a strong blow to his side, lifting him up off the floor. Jones crashed against a glass cabinet in the darkened room, the Tanto sent flying from his hand. He jumped up and braced himself. Something hit the side of his head. He saw stars. A flurry of blows assailed him, coming in from different angles. It felt as if a gang of attackers was beating him, when in reality he knew there was only one.

The attack was leaving him off balance, both mentally and physically. He had to find his centre again. This attacker was highly skilled, obviously not one of the bar’s normal patrons.

He pushed away from the wall to the centre of the room, focused his breathing. A wave of displaced air to his left, he reacted. Blocking a flurry of blows, he managed to fend off the attacker.

A dark chuckle filled the black room, followed by the sound of the door slamming.

He moved, heading in the direction of the sound. Pulling the door open, he heard light footsteps ascending the stairs.

Guardedly, he moved along the night black hall. He was like a blind man in the night, without his stick. He felt lost. Haragei had failed him. His opponent had training on a par with what Jones had undertaken. He would have to be careful.

Slowly he mounted the stairs to the next level. His Haragei was still picking up no threat; his opponent was obviously masking his intentions.

Jones flattened himself against the wall of the hallway, crabbed along it. He felt the outline of a door, and he extended his senses; this time seeking the girl. No trace.

He continued along the wall, coming to another door. He paused. This time he felt a different essence. Jennifer Delaney was beyond the door, he was sure of it.

He crashed the door with his shoulder, relying on surprise more than stealth; he went into a Ukemi role. Coming to his feet near the opposite wall, arms and legs braced for attack. The windows in this room were boarded up, but light filtered through like the sun bar-coding the pines on the hills above Pearl City.

The room ran the entire length of the building, chairs stacked against the wall behind him, tables along the window wall. A stage took up the entire far wall.

On the stage, secured by chains to the ceiling and the floor, hung a semi-conscious Jennifer. The half-light dappled her face in a yin yang display of light and dark, revealing bruised- and blood-splattered skin.

A man stepped out of the shadows behind her.

“We meet at long last, Mr Jones.”

“I don’t know who you are, but you’ve arrived at your final day, mister.”

The stranger waved his finger in the air. “I don’t think so Mr Jones, you are a loose end that I have been waiting a long time to tie up.”

The man was in his fifties. He was not the one who had attacked Jones in the hallway. So who was he?

“Seeing as I’ve not had the honour of meeting you before, you mind filling in the gaps?”

The man laughed. He stepped to the front of the stage, and began to speak. What he said left Jones cold, a ball of fury building in his stomach.

“I’m what you might call a fixer; I took a contract to eliminate certain people who were causing the Ichigumi Yakuza problems with their distribution network through Pearl Harbour. You Mr Jones, are the last person on the list I was given.”

The realisation hit him, that this man was responsible for his parents' deaths. The car crash was no accident.

“Why now, after all these years?”

He wanted to rush the man, who appeared to be unarmed, but something felt wrong. The atmosphere in the room hung heavy on him. His Haragei held him back. There was unseen danger here.

“I am a professional, Mr Jones. This is just business. I was given a contract, and I intend to fulfill my duty.” He brushed imaginary lint from the lapel of his suit. “You dropped off the grid for many years. Nothing I tried could locate you, so imagine my surprise when I took the Delaney contract, and you surfaced. You see…I hate loose ends.”

He went on to explain Jennifer’s father was in hock over loans he had taken out from the Yakuza. His daughter was taken as punishment until he paid in full what was owed. A straightforward job to the fixer, that was until Jones showed up.

He had the opportunity to fulfill his other contract.

Thinking back now, Jones thought the trail leading him to this bar in Chicago had been too transparent. The fixer had been rigging the game all along.

“Makes no difference, I’m not an easy guy to get rid of. Seems to me the world will be a better place once I off you.”

Jones moved towards the stage. Something crashed down on him from above. He was pinned to the floor by a black-garbed figure. He must have attached himself to the ceiling, waiting like a great Vampire Bat.

The fixer stepped down from the stage, and walked over to them.

Jones tried to force the figure off him. He was pinned good.

“Meet Dan-Te, the greatest assassin in the world. Only natural we would join forces. Indeed, I believe you two have met before. Farewell, Mr Jones.”

The fixer turned and walked out of the room.

Ashikaga took Jones to a temple, hidden amongst the needle pines, strawberry guava and eucalyptus on the slopes of the Waianae Mountains. This was where Ashikaga trained a select handful of students. Jones was the only Caucasian in the group; the others were Japanese, and one Kanaka Maoli – a pure blood Hawaiian – Makua Ohana.

From the start, Jones was paired with Ohana as his training brother. He was also an orphan, and like Jones had recently been accepted into the small cadre.

Ashikaga was a hard taskmaster, punishing any mistakes with a strike from the bamboo cane he always carried during the sessions. The training was hard, but Jones threw himself into it with gusto.

The day started at five a.m. when the students had to scrub the floor of the Dojo before breakfast. The rest of the day was filled with weapons training, and Jujutsu. In the evening they learned about In-Yo Kigaku, the philosophy of Shingon Buddhism, Gunbai-Heihō, strategy and tactics, before ending with another Dojo cleaning session, then bed at around 1 a.m.

Jones excelled in the training, quickly overtaking the others in skill and knowledge. He had been at the temple for five years when he was introduced to a completely new set of training, the skills of the Shinobi. The Katori Shinto Ryu was primarily a Samurai art, the Shinobi were the natural enemies of the Samurai so they trained in learning the enemy's ways.

One night he was sneaking around the temple. He scaled the castellated walls of the temple and made his way around until he was overlooking Abbot Shohara’s office. A single candle illuminated the room; shadows seemed to dance across the tatami mats covering the floor.

Jones launched himself from the wall. He flew ten feet through the air, grasping a large wooden spar jutting out of the wall next to the window. He moved hand over hand along the spar, before dropping down to the sill of the unglazed window.

The task he had given himself that night was to move through the abbot’s quarters without disturbing him, or the other monks who slept nearby. The corridors between the rooms had singing floorboards, which would alert the sleepers if he triggered them.

Jones was about to pull himself over the ledge. A tingling feeling ran down his spine, the newly learned Haragei was spiking. He lowered himself until only his eyes were above the ledge.

He heard the whisper of a Shoji door sliding open. A shadow flitted across the room. It crouched by the only modern object in the room: a safe.

Jones knew it was not the abbot, he also knew the safe contained the Ryus Densho Scrolls. The figure turned its head for a second, and Jones was shocked to see it was Ohana.

Silently, he vaulted over the ledge into the room.

“Ohana, what are you doing?”

His temple brother turned as he was rising to his feet, leaping into the air he lashed out with his left foot. The blow caught him unawares, knocking Jones back against the window.

Jones saw the safe door was already open, and the scrolls already secreted under Ohana’s dark garb.

“Don’t try to stop me, little brother, this is beyond you.”

“You’re a thief, and no brother of mine.”

He threw a stamp kick. Ohana sidestepped, and delivered an Atemi strike to the nerve cluster in his thigh. He collapsed. Ohana put him in a neck lock, using his weight to pin him to the floor. He squeezed to the point that Jones was about to pass out, then bounded up and away.

Jones was determined, Ohana or Dan-Te, or whoever he was, would not escape him this time. Ashikaga had discovered Ohana worked for the Black Dragon Society, the enforcement arm of the Ichigumi Yakuza Clan. He had infiltrated the Ryu with the intention of learning its secrets, also to steal the scrolls, which were worth a considerable amount of money.

Jones employed a reversal, getting hold of Dan-Te’s arm and locking it out. The man was like an eel, easily escaping it. Jones found his wrist locked.

They fought on the floor like this for several seconds, joint lock to strike, back and forth. They fought until they were back on their feet. Jones kicked Dan-Te away. He came back, attacking him with the chain punch of Wing Chun. Jones backed away, palm blocking each strike. Dan-Te switched to the White Crane style, attacking with his palm before switching to Praying Mantis, attacking with twin beak strikes, fingers hardened by years of training.

The man seemed to be a veritable encyclopaedia of martial styles. The switching had the effect of keeping Jones off balance, always on the back foot. Dan-Te was fast as well, his attacks coming in from all angles. Dan-Te would feint high before striking low. He would attack circular before switching to straight blasts.

Jones was taking a real beating, only just managing to hold him off from the killing blow. Dan-Te’s defence was perfect as well, never leaving an opening.

Jones pushed him back with a palm strike fake, before hitting him with a stamp kick to his chest. This gave him a few seconds to steady his breathing.

The black clad figure before him shook his head; only his eyes could be seen through the mask he wore. They held no anger, or malice, just a grim determination.

They eyed each other, circling the room, like two fighting cocks looking for an opening. Dan-Te quick-stepped forward, then backwards.

Jones waited, Dan-Te came at him with the Wing Chun punches again, followed by low kicks to his shins. Jones timed his move for the next attack to his shin. When it came, he sidestepped and hit out with a reverse roundhouse kick to the head. He followed this up with a punch to Dan-Te’s kidney. An elbow strike finished the combination.

Dan-Te backed off, the tension in his body telling Jones he had hurt his former temple brother. He smiled inside knowing his opponent could be beaten.

Dan-Te was still shaking off the effects of Jones’ blows when he struck again, attacking with a flurry of foot and hand strikes before firing the coup de grace: a throat strike, delivered with enough force to take off the man’s head. A split second before Jones hit him, Dan-Te twisted out of range. He dived out of the window behind him. Glass shattered, the wooden boards splintered like plywood.

“Damn it!” Jones swore.

There was no time to go after his temple brother. He ran over to where Jennifer was chained on the stage. He removed the chains, and she collapsed into his arms. Her eyes fluttered open.

“It’s okay. Don’t be scared. I’m Jerryko Jones, you’re safe now.”

At the mention of his name, her eyes clouded over. She seemed to fill with an unearthly strength. Grabbing one of the chains, she wrapped it around his throat. A guttural growl escaped from her throat.

“Saimin-jutsu, a wonderful weapon to use in defeat, little brother!” The voice was deep, not a woman’s. Dan-Te – Ohana – had transplanted his essence into the woman’s subconscious.

Jones had heard of this skill before, from the esoteric arsenal of the ninja. He’d always believed the supernatural skill to be a myth. He now bore witness to that myth as Jennifer/Ohana/Dan-Te tightened the chain around his throat.

Jones managed to grab her leg, and yanked her off her feet. The grip on his throat released, he apologised before unleashing a hard strike to her jaw. She slipped into darkness, and Jones lay back rubbing his throat.

“I really have to get a new job, one that doesn’t hurt so much.”

Slinging Jennifer over his shoulder, he headed out of the bar, knowing his temple brother was out there, somewhere, and had unfinished business.

BIO:

Andrew Scorah was born in Doncaster, South Yorkshire, but moved to Swansea in 1999. Andrew has worked in a variety of jobs over the years, mostly in the security industry. His main interests are music, an avid Springsteen fan, reading and his family. He describes himself as a journeyman in training, a writing Ronin. His writing has appeared in Action Pulse Pounding Tales Volume 1 alongside best selling thriller authors Matt Hilton, Stephen Leather, Adrian Magson, Zoe Sharpe and Joe McCoubrey. He also has a couple of books published on Amazon, A Collection in Time, Eastern Fury and Other Tales, The Beast, which is a short story, and a short story Dalton's Blues which is a prequel to Homecoming Blues a tale of revenge and redemption set in gangland London, and the sequels Border Town Blues and Jericho Blues. Check out his web site for more info on his work http://goo.gl/ibzNZ or contact him via email a_scorah@live.co.uk.