Ice Blue (8 page)

Her first, instinctive thought was she shouldn't have eaten the squid—she wanted to throw it up right then and there. But that was only fleeting; she was learning to be fast on her feet, and she moved, heading toward the stove as the two men closed in on her.

There were two huge vats of boiling water on the burners, heavier than she'd expected, but she was desperate. Summer pulled them to the floor, jumping ahead of the scalding water, which hit her pursuers. She knocked the kid aside as she sprinted out of the kitchen, howls of pain following her.

It was full dark now, the rain still falling heavily, and she heard the woman behind the counter let loose a shrill string of invectives as Summer ran out onto the sidewalk. A little boiling water wouldn't slow the brethren down for long—she'd heard rumors of the kind of training they went through—and she knew she had to move fast. The streets were crowded with people, enough to slow her down, not enough to hide her, but she wove her way through them quickly, keeping her head down while she tried to look for the familiar shape of her old green Volvo. Micah should have been here by now. With any luck he'd show up in time for her to jump in the passenger's seat and take off. Micah drove so fast he'd lost his license three times; once he arrived, no one would be able to catch up with them. He just needed to get there.

She thought she saw a flash of white out of the corner of her eye, and she sped up, moving as fast as she could. People didn't tend to wear white in January, even in L.A., and there were at least three white-garbed forms behind her, closing in. She didn't dare take the time to look back, just kept heading blindly forward as they got closer. She could try running—she would if she had to—but she was already feeling sick to her stomach. They couldn't just snatch her in broad daylight, could they? Except that it wasn't broad daylight, it was dark and raining, and people in cities tended to mind their own business and ignore trouble. She could see an alley up ahead, and she had a split second to decide whether to risk it or not. With no Volvo in sight she was going to have to save herself, not count on Micah.

She darted into the alley, away from the muted streetlights, and she could hear her pursuers following her. She was screwed, she thought desperately, taking time to glance behind and see the three white-robed men with shaved heads moving into the shadows after her. There wasn't going to be anything she could do about it.

Summer slammed into him hard, too busy looking behind her to notice his sudden appearance in front of her. He caught her arms and shoved her out of the way, behind him, and she fell, momentarily dazed. She didn't need to look through the shadowed alleyway to know who had turned up at the last minute to save her. Summer scrambled back against the brick wall, watching through the pouring rain with frozen fear as the three burly men converged on slender, elegant Takashi O'Brien.

And then she closed her eyes, horrified. Violence was one thing on television and in the movies—it had nothing to do with real life. In person, the slow motion, macabre dance of it made her feel dizzy, and she couldn't, wouldn't watch. The sounds were bad enough.

If she had any sense, she would get up and run—there were three against one, and she only trusted the one slightly more than the very dangerous three. They would make short work of him, and she needed to use this chance to get away.

And then the noises stopped, leaving just the sounds of the heavy rain and traffic in the street beyond. She opened her eyes, to see Takashi O'Brien standing over her, and she glanced past him to discover two white-clad bodies lying in mud and rain and blood, and no sign of the third.

He held out his hand and she took it, letting him pull her to her feet. His cool, beautiful face was expressionless—no hint of censure or emotion at all. "Don't run away again," he said. "Or next time I'll let them have you."

And she didn't doubt him for a minute.

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I
f there was any chance the Shirosama's goons would have simply killed her, then Takashi O'Brien would have let her go and good riddance. He was pissed. As far as she knew he'd nobly saved her life, twice, and she'd thanked him by taking off when his back was turned.

In fact it was himself he was mad at. Normally he wouldn't have made the mistake of leaving her long enough to switch cars. Normally he wouldn't have had to factor her in at all—she wouldn't be alive.

He couldn't afford to make mistakes, not if he wanted to live. And he did—he'd fought hard when that madman had finished with him, survived when other men wouldn't.

The icy Madame Lambert was probably wondering what the hell was going on. During the night Taka had come up with a simple enough plan—switch to a less conspicuous car, find out where Summer had stashed the real Hayashi Urn and retrieve that, and see if he could figure out exactly what else she knew.

That had been his original mission. Keep the urn out of the brethrens' hands, find the missing piece of the puzzle and then wipe out any trace of his presence. But Summer Hawthorne didn't appear to be any more forgetful than she was compliant, and she wasn't about to ignore the events of the last twenty-four hours. He had his orders about her, whether he liked them or not. He couldn't waste any more time trying to circumvent them—the Shirosama and his followers were upping the ante, the lunar year was approaching and a mistake could be disastrous.

He stared at her, not bothering to hide his annoyance. She looked like a drowned rat again, but he was getting used to it. He actually preferred her that way; he had an annoying weakness for blond hair, and when she was drenched her hair looked brown as it snaked over her shoulders in sopping tendrils, not its usual sunlit gold. Hair color aside, he'd never once been interested in a woman with freckles.

She wouldn't look at the men in the alleyway, which was probably just as well. One was already dead—from a broken neck when he'd thrown him against a wall, and the other would soon be gone, too, hemorrhaging from the knife he'd tried to draw on Taka. The third had gotten away, another mistake, because Taka had recognized him. Heinrich Muehler was one of the Shirosama's better known followers—and one of his most dangerous weapons. If Taka had recognized the murdering German punk in time he would have concentrated on taking him out first.

Except if he had, Summer Hawthorne would already be dead. Instead he'd gone for the one who'd been coming at her with a knife, and by the time Taka had gotten around to baby-faced Heinrich it was too late. Taka had acted on instinct, and by doing so complicated his life yet again.

He took her arm and started toward the back of the alley. It was a good thing for her she didn't say anything, not even when saw the huge black luxury SUV he'd traded for. She winced when she climbed up into the passenger's seat, and he wondered if he'd gotten to her before too much damage had been done. At least she was still in one piece…and any pain she was feeling was her own damn fault.

He pulled out into the rainy night, not looking at her, keeping his expression absolutely blank. He didn't often lose his temper, particularly in a situation like this one, but right now he was having a hard time not lashing out at her. He knew he was being ridiculous—no matter how polite he'd been, her instincts probably told her he was as dangerous as the men who were after her in the first place. He'd flat out told her as much.

And her instincts were right.

"Where are you taking me?" She was looking for something as they drove down the crowded street, far more alert than she had been before. "Are we going back to the hotel?"

"No. And don't think you can jump out the next time I come to a stop. You really wouldn't want to see me any angrier than I am already." His tone was calm, almost contemplative, but she had the sense to be afraid.

She hadn't fastened her seat belt, but at his pointed look she did, grimacing slightly. There were red splotches on her hands, and her pant legs were soaked by more than the rain. He couldn't deal with patching her up now. It was more important that they get as far away from Little Tokyo as they could.

"I don't see why you're angry," she said after a moment. "You aren't responsible for me. I can take care of myself…" Her voice trailed off as she realized how patently absurd that was. She tried again. "You could just drop me at a friend's house and not have to bother yourself—"

"I'm not dropping you anywhere. You'd just be drawing your friend into danger, too."

"I would?" She sounded distressed at the idea.

Shit
. "What have you done?" Taka asked.

Summer was silent for a moment, and he wondered if he was going to have to hurt her. After a moment she spoke. "I asked my friend Micah to bring me my car and some things from my desk at work."

"Shit." He said it aloud this time.

"It's not like anyone could trace me. I used a public phone."

"And where was this friend supposed to meet you?"

"Outside the noodle shop."

"The same noodle shop where the True Realization Brotherhood found you? Don't you have any idea what kind of danger you're in? This isn't a movie, and it isn't a game. These people are dangerous, and they'll stop at nothing to get what they want."

She looked shaken. "I think you're exaggerating…"

"Did you see what just happened in the alley?"

"I didn't look."

He shook his head, giving up, and punched a few numbers into his mobile phone. He said nothing but a number to identify himself, and then listened to the message. He hung up, then clicked the phone off so no one could pick up his signal. He took a sharp left turn. "And what was Micah Jones bringing you besides your Volvo?"

"My passport, a lot of cash, a couple of credit cards…" Her voice trailed off. "How did you know his last name?"

"A dark green 1996 Volvo was just discovered at the bottom of a cliff near Santa Monica, and the driver, an African-American male with the name of Micah Jones, was found dead inside. He was forced off the road."

She started hyperventilating, and Taka cursed beneath his breath. She was either going to pass out or throw up, and since they were going to be stuck in this car for a while, neither option was appealing. He couldn't afford to slow down, either. He took the back of her neck and shoved her head down as far as he could with the seat belt holding her back. "Breathe slowly," he ordered, still driving fast. He could feel her pulse against his palm, the fluttering, racing throb of it, and he figured once she started crying she'd calm down. She kept trying to hold it in, but she was a civilian, unused to the horror that often made up his daily life. She needed the release of tears.

But she simply let him hold her down as she shook, and it wasn't until he had an unbidden, unwanted erotic thought about cradling her head at crotch level that he let go of her, almost as if he were burned.

She sank back against the seat, her eyes wide and staring. "I killed him," she said in a bleak voice. "I didn't realize…"

"No, you didn't realize," Taka said, trying to forget about the feel of the warm skin at the back of her neck. He didn't want to offer Summer any kind of comfort, but he couldn't keep himself from adding, "You're in the wrong place at the wrong time, and anyone else you involve is going to run the same kind of risks."

"I wasn't trying to involve anyone. I just needed to get away from here…"

"You're going to need me for that."

She turned to look at him. "Who the hell are you?"

Takashi wondered whether he should try the Ministry of Antiques story again, then discarded the idea. They were long past that innocent lie. The next lie he told needed to be far more plausible and deadly, or she was going to run again.

And he couldn't afford to let that happen. At this point the only way she was going to get away from him was if she was equally safe from the brethren, and, right now, the only way that would happen was if she was dead.

"Someone who's not going to let the Shirosama get you," he said, which was nothing more than the truth. She just didn't know what lengths he'd go to ensure that.

She leaned back against the seat, her color pale in the reflected city light. She didn't ask where he was taking her, and he didn't volunteer the information. He drove fast and well, moving through the constant traffic with the ease of someone who'd learned to drive in one of the most congested cities in the world, and she said nothing, retreating in on herself.

He still couldn't figure out why she hadn't cried—not once in the time he'd been with her. She'd been through more than most American women would see in a lifetime, witnessed more violence, and yet through it all she'd remained shaken but dry-eyed. He wasn't used to it—there was something almost unnatural about her control. As long as she kept that eerie calm, she was capable of bolting, and he couldn't afford to let that happen.

She needed to break, completely. And if the events of the last twenty-four hours hadn't managed to do it, then he was going to have to finish the job. Until Summer Hawthorne was weeping and helpless, she was a liability.

He glanced at her pale, set profile. The lights from the oncoming cars prismed through the rain-splattered windshield, dancing across her face in shards of light and dark. Yes, he would have to break her. Or kill her.