An unstoppable killer . . .
An inevitable battle . . .
In the third book of the Shades of Gray Series, Kat finds herself hunted by Cerberus, a Council experiment sent to killer her. Cerberus is faster and stronger than her. Can Kat survive the inescapable fight?
An appalling truth . . .
A grim decision . . .
Kim discovers her father may have had something to do with her mother's murder. She confronts him. What if he did order her mother's death? Can Kim kill her own father?
Confessions . . .
A shocking truth . . .
In the process of interrogating her father, Kim is told an awful truth about her family. What will Kim do with her father? Is he the one she's been searching for to take her revenge? Does the truth about her family have something to do with Kat? If so, what will Kim do?
A simple black cover . . .
A not so simple story . . .
Shades of Gray
Book Three
Cerberus Versus Pandora
Chapter Fifteen
Four days earlier . . .
October 21 . . .
Thursday . . .
10:51 P.M. . . .
Rising Sun Sector, Gaming Vicinage . . .
Cigaret smoke filled the slot machine area of the Un ga ii Casino as Wilbert Williams, a man in his late fifties, walked a row of machines. The tall lanky man, with long gray hair, hunched over as he walked with his hands in his pockets. He had a scar over his right eye. Wilbert wore blue jeans, a white t-shirt, and a blue sport jacket rolled up to his elbows. He wasn’t studying the machines with his gray-blue eyes, hungry for a chance to double his credits like most. No, he surveyed the people sitting at them. He switched to a different row and kept walking, till he came to a blonde woman sitting at a Sevens and Cherries. No one else occupied the row. Wilbert grinned, and his thin lips curled up in a devious smile. He sat at the slot machine to her left, another Sevens and Cherries, and swiped a card containing his credits. Ten thousand points appeared on the quarter slot. The blonde woman took a drag on her long thin cigaret and blew smoke to the right of her. She tapped the ashes in an ash tray sitting on a ledge between her machine and the empty one to her right. The Blonde wore a tight fitting, red, leather, mini skirt and a revealing black tank top. She had an hour glass proportioned body. A red ribbon looped around her pony tail. Wilbert watched her from the corner of his eye. He hoped to hit the Jackpot, and not necessarily at the machine. Wilbert maxed out his bet and hit the spin button. The electronic wheels on the quarter slot spun, and one by one fell into place. No win.
The Blonde noticed the amount of credits he placed on his machine. “Oh, are you a high roller?” she asked in a slightly high pitch voice.
He looked over her curvaceous body and thought her annoying voice could be over looked. He pressed the spin button and played down the question. “I’m a man of meager means.” The electronic wheels spun and fell into place. Two lemons and a seven. He received a return of double his bet.
She put a hand to his shoulder. “You’re so modest. Why don’t you buy me a drink, and we can get to know each other a little better.”
Wilbert nodded, hit the spin button, and waved over a cocktail waitress. “I’d like a whiskey and coke, and the lady will take . . .” The wheels fell. No win.
“I’ll take a Pina Colada.”
The waitress nodded as she wrote down their orders.
Wilbert hit the spin button. “So . . . What’s your name?”
“My name?” she laughed, pointing at herself. “I didn’t tell you my name? How silly of me. What’s your name?”
“Wilbert.”
“Hello Wilbert. Nice to meet you.” The Blonde eyed him. “You know you look familiar. Ever been in Un ga ii Casino before?”
“Nope. I’m from the Light Side of the planet. Only been in Noir for a few weeks. But I do have a twin, you might have seen him.”
“A twin, really?” She tilted her head. “How many?”
Wilbert raised a gray eyebrow. “How many?”
“Yeah, you said you were a twin. So how many others look just like you?”
“Talk about a blonde,” he thought. “One. There’s just one other that looks like me.” Wilbert pressed the spin button. No win.
The cocktail waitress returned with their orders.
The Blonde raised her glass. “Here’s to an interesting night.”
“Yes.” He clinked his glass to hers. “To a very interesting night.” Wilbert took a few sips of his whiskey, hit the spin button, and asked, “Want to go back to my room?” A win, ten times his bet.
“Sure, but there’s something I’ve been dying to do, since I’ve been back to the Rising Sun Sector.”
“What’s that?” he asked.
She smiled. “Let’s go to a Karaoke bar.”
* * *
October 22 . . .
Friday . . .
12:48 A.M. . .
Rising Sun Sector, Gaming Vicinage . . .
Wilbert finished singing a rock-n-roll song about the rise and fall of the great Liberty Eagle Corporation. He left the small stage of their private room and went and sat at the table with the Blonde. She clapped her hands.
“That was very good.” Her eyes widened. “You aren’t a professional singer are you?”
“No.” He shook his head and took a drink of the whiskey and coke. “I’m not in that line of business.” Wilbert eyed her, a little tipsy after seven whiskey and cokes. “You know, I still don’t know your name.”
“My name? I didn’t tell you my name? Oh.” She scooted over to him across the curved booth and put her arm around him. “Sorry about that.” The Blonde noticed the scar over his right eye. “How did you get that?”
“This?” He motioned to the scar. “In a battle to the death.” Wilbert laughed as if it were a joke.
Her eyes widened as if impressed. “A battle to the death? Your opponent must have been a brute.”
He remembered back. “You could say that.”
“So, what do you do for a living?” the Blonde asked.
Wilbert put his arm around her. After a few drinks, he didn’t care if he knew her name. Wilbert leaned over, kissed her slowly on the neck, and whispered, “My job? I’m a free lancer.”
“A free lancer? Doing what?” She lifted his head with both her hands, pressed her red lips against his, and said, “Are you a Corporate Spy?” The Blonde kissed him again. “That would be a dangerous job. A very exciting job.” She stuck her tongue in his mouth and wrestled with his. A few minutes later, she said, “A hot job.”
“No.” He gently rubbed the back of his fingers across her cheek. “I’m not a Corporate Spy. Nothing so boring.”
“Boring?” She leaned back, eyeing him. “What could be more exciting than that?”
“I’m a Closer, babe.”
“A Closer? That is hot.” She removed his jacket. “So you’ve killed lots of people?”
“Yeah, lots of people.”
“Anyone I might know?”
“Maybe. But you don’t want to hear about that.”
She leaned back from him. They both breathed heavily.
“Sure I do. Nothing gets me hotter. Actually . . . I’m so hot, let’s do it right here.”
“Right here?” Wilbert looked around the private room. “Are you sure you want to do it right here?”
“Oh, yes. I’ve rented the room for a few hours, so we won’t be disturbed.” The Blonde leaned over, reached her hands into his pants, and removed his tucked shirt. She ran her hands up his rippled abs and helped him removed his shirt. The Blonde french kissed him again. “I’m hot,” she said. “But nothing sets me on fire like visualizing the people, the faces of those who have been killed.” She untied the ribbon in her hair, letting her blonde hair fall past her milky white shoulders. “So tell me.”
“You’re kinky babe, just like I like them.” Wilbert undid his belt and unzipped his pants. “You know I shouldn’t tell you. Part of the job is keeping secrets.”
She smiled. “You can tell me. I want to hear.”
Wilbert took another drink, finishing the whiskey. He swayed a bit and his speech slurred. “You want to hear about who I’ve killed.” He threw the empty glass, and it clinked on the carpet, but didn’t break. “Then get a load of this. Norman Odin. I offed that rich kid from the Odin family.” Wilbert grabbed her and pulled her close. “How’s that for famous?”
She ran her hand through his shoulder length hair. “Oh, that’s real famous, and you know what that will get you?”
He grinned. “A night of passionate love, with a little kinky thrown in here and there?”
The Blonde looked deep into his gray-blue eyes. “No . . .” She grabbed a hold of his hair as her innocent demeanor darkened to cold and calculating. “That will get you twenty to life, if you’re lucky.”
“What?” Wilbert grabbed her hand, that had a hold of his hair.
“You heard me.” She reached up and injected him in the neck with a syringe. “Nighty-night.”
He pushed her off of him. “What did you do? What did you stick me with?”
“A little something to put you to sleep. Feel lucky that I wasn’t authorized to Close your sorry butt.”
Wilbert moved off the booth and started for the door. His pants fell to his ankles, he tripped, and couldn’t get back up. She moved to his side. “Nice,” she said, looking at his red polka dotted white boxers. “Real nice bozo.” She kicked him, and he didn’t move. “Your alias should have been the Clown.”
He reached his hand after her. “Who are you?”
“Who am I?” The Blonde put a hand to her hip. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” She grinned. “You must know by now, I’m not the bimbo you thought I was. I bet you thought you hit the jackpot.”
“You!!” Wilbert dropped his hand and passed out.
“Amateur. You illegal assassins are always so easy to catch.” She walked over to the table, removed a cell from her purse, and dialed a number. “Tell the Assassins Guild Magistrates this is the Blonde. I have apprehended the Jackal, the Illicit Closer. Yes, I’m ninety percent sure it’s him. You wouldn’t believe what I had to go through to find him. I got a tip and went to this casino in the Rising Sun Sector. I picked up ten jerks, before I stumbled across this bozo. I wish I was authorized to Close him.” The Blonde paused, listening. She sounded disappointed. “Yes, I know I’m not allowed. So how do you want to handle this?” She nodded. “Understood. I’ll make the call and leave a tip for Noir Civil Police Force, that the Jackal was spotted at this bar. They can come pick up the trash.”
Central City . . .
The N.C.P.F. transportation vehicle arrived outside of the only above ground structure of the Assassins Guild city, the white marble Ingress. The Guild built the rest of the structures underground. Two Guild Sentinels and a Guild Prefect, a samurai, left the Greek style pillared Ingress and stepped down a dozen stairs to the sidewalk.
The Guild Sentinels wore Spartan like garnet armor consisting of a helmet with a black plume, a breastplate with the Assassins Guild’s Emblem (a black dagger piercing a white mask) marked on the center, and shin guards. They carried a halbert (a two-handed pole weapon that consisted of an ax blade topped with a spike and mounted on a long shaft. It had a hook on the back side of the ax blade for grappling.) The Sentinels were also armed with a claymore (a two-handed large sword with a wheel pommel capped by a crescent-shaped nut and a guard with a straight, down-sloping arms ending in quatrefoils and langets running down the center of the blade from the guard.)
The man with them, the Guild Prefect, wore a black full length kimono, hakama pants, a black haori, and tatami sandals. He carried two swords tucked in his obi (a sash); a katana (a single-edge long sword 30 inches long) and a shoto (a single-edge short sword 23 inches long). A dragon baring its claws and teeth decorated the hilt of the pair of samurai swords. A pair of samurai swords were known as daisho.
A Noir Civil Police Force officer exited the transport vehicle and approached the samurai.
“Are you Prefect Yagyu Jubei?” the officer questioned, a little nervous.
“I am.” The samurai sensed the man’s nervousness. The officer wasn’t the first to react this way when dealing with those of the Assassins Guild. The Prefect eyed the vehicle with disdain. “Are you delivering the Jackal?”
The officer threw his thumb over his shoulder. “He’s in the back.” The officer handed a H.H.C. to the Prefect. “All I need is your signature, and he’s all yours.”
Jubei took the Hand Held Computer, removed the pen stylus, and signed the document on the screen. The Prefect handed the H.H.C. to the man. The officer walked to the back of the transport, followed by Jubei and the two Guild Sentinels. The officer unlocked the back and opened the doors. Inside the vehicle, the Jackal sat, hand cuffed, in between two more officers. The shackles, the prisoner wore, kept his hands close together and positioned in front of him.
“Guess I’m here.” Wilbert Williams stood and, with the aid of the officers, stepped down from the vehicle. “So . . .” The Jackal eyed the samurai. “Are you my judge?”
“No,” Jubei answered, amused by the question. “I am a Guild Prefect, one of nine. I will be your council for the trial.” Jubei motioned to the Ingress up the stairs and said with disdain, “This way to the entrance. There is much for us to cover before the arraignment to learn of the charges against you.”
“Right, the charges,” Wilbert scoffed. “Wouldn’t want to execute me without a trial.” The Guild Sentinels started up the steps and the Jackal followed. Wilbert smirked. “What would people say?” The Jackal paused half way up. “By the way, what’s up with the costumes? Is there a party I don’t know about?”
The Prefect motioned to his attire. “These are merely our clothes.” The man’s comments amused Jubei again. “Do not forget Illicit Closer, you are entering a world few people see.” The Prefect started back up the stairs. “Once we get there, you will be the one who seems out of place.”
“If you say so.” The Jackal followed. “How long do we have?”
“Less than an hour, by the time we reach your cell,” Jubei answered. “Do not worry though.”
“Why’s that?” the Jackal asked.
“As you implied before, all of this is a formality. You have already been convicted. All that there is to decide is your punishment.”
Wilbert hid it, but deep inside he was scared, scared out of his Pucking mind. “What’s there to decide? I’m a dead man right?” Or at least he thought he hid it well.
Jubei grinned and thought, “Foolish Illicit Closer, I know you must be thinking it. Why go through all this, if you are to be killed? You must wonder, fear that the Magistrates will do more than kill you.” The Prefect gloated within his own thoughts. “After all, there are worse things than death.”
The Guild Sentinels walked to the top of the stairs, entered the Ingress, and approached a desk, in the otherwise empty large room. A woman sat at the desk. She wore a white eye patch and stared at a computer with her green eye. The woman, with fiery cropped hair, clicked a mouse, pulling up several files.
Wilbert followed the Sentinels and Jubei, him. The Jackal looked around. Four large pillars stood in the middle of the Ingress and the desk in the middle of them.
“Prefect,” the woman started, pleased to see the samurai. “The Jackal’s cell is ready. You may proceed down.”
Jubei bowed. “Arigato, Grace O’Malley.”
A new file appeared on her screen and beeped. “One moment Prefect.” Grace read over the file. “The Guild Magistrates have pushed up the Jackal’s trial. You do not have time to go to his cell. You will need to proceed to the Magistrate Hall directly.”
Jubei glanced at the Jackal. “Looks like we will have to go over the details on the way down.”
Wilbert frowned. “Just perfect. I thought I’d at least have time to mull over my demise.”
“Do not worry,” Jubei said. “You will still have time. Your sentence will not be carried out right away.” The Prefect tapped the hilt of his katana. “There will still be time to fret over it.”
“Down you go then.” O’Malley pressed one of two buttons under her desk. “Wouldn’t want to keep every one waiting.” She winked at the Prefect. “Now would we?”
Jubei hid a smile from the fiery hair woman, with a matching temper. She, on many occasions, showed her interest in him. By Guild law, he couldn’t get involved with someone lower than the Three Classes. So he said nothing to her remark. Best to be on the safe side and not encourage her.
The elevator behind the desk opened, and the Guild Sentinels led the Jackal into it. The cab doors closed after the Prefect entered. The elevator descended a mile underground and stopped. The cab doors opened to a white stone passage. Brass torches lit the dark way. The passage led to a huge cavern covered with stalagmites and stalactites. Many of the calcium carbonate formations had been removed centuries ago, to make way for different architectural structures. Brass torches lined the cavern walls and brass lampposts lined a white stone walkway. Hundreds of people filled the streets of the city within the cavern.
“Welcome to the city of the Dragon’s Teeth,” Jubei said. “The heart of the Assassins Guild.”
Wilbert marveled at the sight. The city was grander than anything he could imagine. They walked for sometime down the path, before they reached a grouping of three large stalagmites. The icicle-shaped deposits rose from the floor like giant claws. A twenty foot bronze statue of a man, just as tall as the stalagmites, stood in their center.
“I wonder who that guy is?” Wilbert thought as they went by.
The walkway wound around the three stalagmites and headed for a greek style building of Parthenon design. It had a rectangular plan surrounded by colonnaded portico on all four sides. The gable roof produced a squat triangular shape at each end of the building, the pediment. Sculptures of Guild Sentinels, Prefects, and Magistrates, about daily court business, filled the pediment.
A group of fierce people blocked the way into the Magistrate Hall. The Guild Sentinels paused and tensed. Jubei moved to the front as the Sentinels took position, one on each side of the Jackal. The Prefect eyed the group of three men and one woman. Jubei grabbed hold of the saya (scabbard), so if he had to, he could quickly draw the katana. The Prefect noticed three of the people were of the Lords and Ladies Class. A rank just under Prefect, third highest in the world of assassins. The Magistrates being the highest.
“Lords and Ladies.” Jubei bowed his head in greeting. None of them responded. He scrutinized each of them.
Lord Geronimo, a Native American Apache and a monster of a man, stood seven foot six. He carried a large steel mallet, with a head the size of a small barrel, which he wielded on a long steal pole with both of his massive hands. He lifted the heavy weapon with one hand and rested it on his shoulder. Geronimo was bare chested, wore a breechcloth, leather leggings, moccasins, and a leather head band that kept his long raven hair out of his eyes.
Jubei chose his words carefully, having no time for squabbles. “I see our paths have intersected.”
The Jackal leaned to one of the Sentinels. “Like I said, what’s up with the wild costumes?”
The guardian didn’t reply.
Lady Tomoe Gozen dwarfed in comparison to Geronimo and hid in the shadow of the Apache. She wore black ninja gear, a sheath full of throwing stars crossed her chest, and a ninjato (a straight sword with a square hand guard) rested on her back. Tomoe wore a hood and her eerily dark eyes stared at the Prefect. Three, six inch, metal claws strapped to her left hand, glinted in the torchlight.
“So what business brings you here?” Jubei asked them.
Next to her stood Lord Michael Collins, a ghost of a man with pale white skin and light blue eyes. He stood at a meager six foot, armed with a long sword (a straight double-edge blade 35 inches with a lengthy cruciform hilt) and wore a haubergeon (knee-length chain mail).
None of the group answered Jubei. “I see. None of you will speak?”
Those three concerned Jubei, but not as much as the third man. A man dressed in a late 1600s French court style attire, and he donned a silver Classical Rapier. Two metal snakes of the handguard intertwined the hilt of the thin blade. The serpents bared their fangs at each other, in an epic battle to the death.
Jubei turned to the fourth member, hoping to find answers with him. “Prefect Cyrano de Bergerac, why do you block our entrance into the Courthouse?”
“What’s with these swords?” The Jackal looked over the four. “Doesn’t anyone pack a gun?” Wilbert eyed the second Prefect. “And what’s with the fruitcake? Is he some sort of pansy?”
The Sentinels dare not respond to the Jackal’s comment.
Cyrano wore a blue velvet long coat, a waistcoat, a white lace cravat with red ribbon knots under it, a ruffled long-sleeved white shirt, breeches gathered at the knees, and a sword belt. Curls from a blonde wig fell past his shoulders.
“Why do we block your entrance into the Magistrate Hall?” Cyrano grinned. “That is simple, Prefect Yagyu Jubei.”
The samurai knew that smirk and placed his hand on the dragon hilt of his katana.
Cyrano lifted his right hand, nonchalantly, and his ruffled sleeve bounced. “We are here to kill the Illicit Closer.”