Bamboo Bloodbath and Ninja's Revenge

  Bamboo Bloodbath

  &

  Ninja's Revenge

  Jason Striker

  Martial Arts Series

  Volume II

  Piers Anthony

  &

  Roberto Fuentes

  Copyright © 1974, 1975, 2001

  ISBN: 1-4010-3351-2

  CONTENTS

  Book 1: Bamboo Bloodbath

  Chapter 1 Running The Line

  Chapter 2 Hyena

  Chapter 3 Thera

  Chapter 4 Ilunga

  Chapter 5 Brainwash

  Chapter 6 Cuba

  Chapter 7 Tao Vs. Kill-13

  Chapter 8 Ki

  Chapter 9 Fidel

  Chapter 10 Everglades

  Book II: Ninja's Revenge

  Prologue: Fall Of The Black Castle

  Chapter 1: Hiroshi

  Chapter 2: Fu Antos

  Chapter 3: Bastard Bones

  Chapter 4: Nympho

  Chapter 5: Hot Ice

  Chapter 6: Assassin

  Chapter 7: Monk's Treasure

  Chapter 8: Demon

  Epilogue: Ninja's Minions

  Glossary

  Book 1:

  Bamboo Bloodbath

  Chapter 1

  Running The Line

  I took hold of the lad's arm, tugged gently. He resisted, whereupon I caught his left ankle with my right foot and swept it out from under him in a de-ashi barai foot-sweep. His weight was on that leg; he fell with a cry. He was ten years old.

  Instantly I was on top of him, pulling his arm back in a jujiga-tame cross lock till he shouted "Mate! I yield!"

  I leaped at the next. He was twelve, and he weighed about ninety pounds. I caught him with his hands down and pinned them to his sides. I lifted his feet from the tatami, the judo practice mat, twisted him to the horizontal, and set him down. There was laughter in the dojo, the practice hall.

  The next one was a fifteen year old, obese; he weighed almost as much as I did, but it was mostly fat. I went over his head with my right hand, forcing him to bend almost horizontally; then I grabbed the back of his belt and went down in a fast sumi-gaeshi, or back rolldown. He went over me; instead of letting go I rolled on top of him and grabbed him in a yoko-gatame holddown.

  So it went. I was "running the line" with my judo students, starting with the novices and working my way up to my black belts. The object was to throw each one as rapidly as possible, until I had met every one of them. This gave each student the instructor's individual attention, if only for a moment, and that was important. It also served to illustrate that I was still the master here; every so often they needed a reminder that the old man still had it.

  Still, there was room for variation. Sometimes I played with a beginner, a small kid, going in hard but not throwing him, making it look as if he was really resisting, and even on occasion (but very seldom!) letting him throw me. On the other hand, when I met a cocky brat too big for his britches, I did the opposite, throwing him several times very quickly with a variety of moves—or even with the same move, making him look ridiculous. Sometimes I would strangle him a couple of times for good measure. Never hard, of course.

  It always started fast, but as I encountered the more experienced students at the other end, it slowed. They were harder to throw—my instruction would have been worthless if they weren't—and I was no longer fresh. The last two or three could be real bastards. But I had to throw them, and in reasonable time, or I would lose the respect of the group.

  I grappled with a green belt. He had good promise, but was too timid to know it. So I eased up, trying a couple of moves I knew he could block, making him look good. Instruction is more than merely physical; I tried to inculcate confidence and courtesy, too. Then I put him down with a harai-goshi—a sweeping loin hip-throw—and moved on.

  One after the other, I put them down. I lost track of the number; I wanted only to get on through and proceed with the formal class session. Each time I ran the line it was rougher, because all my students were getting better, learning my tricks, and I had too many students at the moment. In time the size of the classes would whittle down. Then I would have to worry only about paying the rent.

  Hardly looking. I tried a foot-sweep on the next okuri ashi barai. He fell, but did not release his hold on my sleeve. The kimono stretched tight across his chest as he twisted, and pulled halfway up to his shoulders.

  She!

  He? One white globe of flesh showed under that twisted shirt. I have taught many women self-defense, but this particular class was all male. What was woman doing in the line? My surprise interfered with my concentration, and her yank on my sleeve pulled me down so that I barely avoided falling on top of that handsome breast. I have quick reflexes but this was happening in mid-throw. I spun to the side, rolling on my shoulder while the girl raised her legs and flipped to her feet. There was another tantalizing flash of her bosom, her breasts bouncing together, before the shirt fell back, covering it.

  I sat up on the mat, bemused and dismayed. No student should have thrown me like that, especially not a girl, and most particularly not a strange one. Of course I had been trying to disengage when she made her move, but who would believe that? My students were already chuckling at my embarrassment—those whose eyes had recovered from the girl's startling display of anatomy. It would be hell to get them oriented on basic judo practice after this.

  She looked my way, enjoying the commotion, and now I got a good look at her face. She was a platinum blonde, her long hair almost white, and her green eyes were heavily painted with deep shadows. She was using some kind of far-out makeup, with white lips and powdered skin, the powder perhaps concealing a tan. She had long false eyelashes and longer silver nails.

  I knew I had never seen her before; but something about the bones of her face, and particularly her manner, nagged me. I have a fair memory for distaff beauty—and she was a beauty, despite the baggy judogi uniform, or gi, she wore.

  Then it clicked. "Thera Drummond!" I exclaimed. Her hair had changed completely, from moderate-length brown to long blonde, and she had put on weight in provocative places, but it was her.

  She smiled. "At your service, Jason Striker. Your memory must be fading with age, like your judo skill. Can I give you a few pointers in technique?"

  "She's got pointers, all right!" one of the black belts commented admiringly. That wasn't strictly true, as she was manifestly bra-less under the gi; I like the soft rounded bouncy effect of the unbound bosom, but "pointers" is not the applicable description.

  "Let me give you a hand, old man," Thera said. "I'll raise you."

  "She sure will!" someone called. "Stiff and tall!"

  I needed no assistance to stand, either way, but I played along. Class discipline was already a shambles; I could only aggravate it by getting stuffy. What was Thera doing here? I hadn't seen her in months, and had thought she was away at college. I reached up to take her proffered hand.

  A mistake! She wasn't through fooling with me, as I should have known. She didn't pull, she pushed, with the result that we both went sprawling, with her on top of me. Possibly by accident, but more likely by design, her left breast landed in my face with tangible impact. It was a good breast, long since graduated from the orange league to the grapefruit league or even beyond, and I suppose she wanted me to know it.

  "Hey, I'd take a fall for you anytime, Jason," she said, twitching her shoulder so as to make that breast move an enticing inch under the gi, but no more than an inch. "Let's try that again."

  There was more vigorous laughter from the line, even from the ten year old. The students were enjoying this, a
nd their eyes were taking in every detail.

  I disengaged my nose from her anatomy. "Cut it out, Thera! This is a class!"

  "You look tired," she said mischievously. "Why not let me finish running the line?"

  "Yeah, yeah!" the husky black belts at the end of the line agreed eagerly.

  I moved Thera off me and stood. "I'll talk to you after the class." I said.

  She caught my hand. "Jason, it can't wait."

  God, she was as passionate as she was beautiful. But I had had prior experience with her, and regarded her as one of my three top prospects for avoidance. Nothing but trouble could come of this, tempting as she was physically. "It'll have to."

  "Jason, it's my father!" she said urgently.

  Her father: millionaire industrialist Johnson Drummond. He had once paid me a pretty figure to tutor his pretty daughter in self-defense, and he hadn't cared what else she learned in the process. He was tough and unscrupulous, but I understood why; it was the natural mode of the born moneymaker. But in his daughter the same qualities were not so appealing.

  "He knows where to reach me," I said. I turned to the class and bowed to the next student in line, signaling the resumption of our exercises.

  But Thera just wouldn't let go. "You must come with me now! His life is in danger!"

  "So you came to play games with my judo class!" I snapped.

  "I shouldn't have," she admitted. "But I just couldn't resist, and at least I got your attention in a hurry. Now I'm serious. You've got to come talk to Daddy."

  I had to get rid of her, that was certain. I couldn't do it while there was a male audience for her to play to; she'd be running around the dojo naked pretty soon if she thought that would help her get her way. "Arny, take over. Randori!" I called. That meant it was time for the students to pair off for mock fighting. Some tried for throws while others did mat work, while Arny watched. Sometimes he would stand over a pair on the mat, so as to prevent others from stepping on them accidentally. It gets crowded when a whole class goes at it, and we don't like accidents.

  "Now, Thera, come to my office," I said.

  "Sure thing," she said, jiggling after me. One student was so busy watching her motions that he paid too little attention to those of his opponent, and got ignominiously thrown. God! Before the day was out the rumor would be all over town: Jason Striker was seducing sexy girls in his office. Thera was trouble when just passing through.

  In the office I put it to her succinctly. "I am the trainer for this year's American judo team," I explained. "We're a fifth-rate judo nation, but this time we hope to put up a respectable showing. The meet is only three weeks off. I'll be happy to help your father—but not right now. It's all I can do to keep up with my regular classes. This team assignment has priority."

  "But he's been threatened! We can't wait three weeks!"

  "Let him hire a bodyguard. He can afford it."

  "Jason, you just don't understand!" she said. "They're going to kill him! Horribly!"

  "Is there a nice way to kill?" I asked dryly. But my resolve was wavering. I did owe Johnson Drummond a favor or two, and Thera was not the type to go into hysterics over trifles.

  "He's sent for Diago, but you know how it is, it takes a while to locate Diago."

  I knew. Diago was a top flight martial artist, distantly related to Thera—something of a black sheep—and he was in trouble with the law. He had to stay hidden whenever he was in the States, and he could not afford to trust many people. Drummond had resources, but locating Diago was bound to be slow.

  "Dad's going to be killed tonight or tomorrow. I know it. He's afraid of everyone. He's dismissed all the help, and he won't talk to strangers. But he trusts you, Jason."

  "Sounds like a case for the police," I said uneasily.

  "They don't provide bodyguards for private citizens, and anyway, it wouldn't work. This isn't ordinary murder! And Dad would be sure the policemen were really killers in disguise. He could be right; the killer may have them in his pay."

  "That's paranoid," I exclaimed.

  "Maybe if you ever had more money, you'd know what it could do, Jason. We know. We can't trust the police—not for this. Those who trusted the police are dead."

  This didn't add up. Drummond was no coward, and neither was his daughter. They weren't paranoid, either, just imperiously rich.

  "What good could I do?" I asked. "If what you say is true, he'll think I'm in the pay of his enemy, too."

  "No! I told you, he knows you and he trusts you. He was going to offer you a lot of money to be his bodyguard, but I told him that'd drive you off in a huff. So I came myself." Her eyes looked pleadingly into mine, and it was effective because I had the feeling she was not putting on an act. "Jason, please. Will you?"

  A lot of money... It was true that I tried not to let money influence me too much, but it happened that I was unusually hard up at the moment. That seems to be chronic in the trade; few teachers make fortunes, and martial arts teachers are no exception. Many go broke, in fact.

  Thera pulled on my arm, making me face her. Her eyes were teary, a fetching effect. "Jason, it's not for me! If it's money you want, you can have it; Dad will pay anything! If it's something else, well, I know you liked me once, and there won't be any strings."

  "Shut up!" I yelled explosively.

  She actually got down on her knees before me. "I love my father. I don't want him dead! What do I have to do to make you help him?"

  Brother! She was pulling out all the stops. I realized I'd probably be better off to check this out now, rather than suffer her further blandishments. And, in truth, I had liked her once. Maybe it hadn't really worn off.

  "All right, I'll go talk to your father," I said.

  "I knew you would!" she exclaimed, delighted. She tried to kiss me, but I fended her off "My car's right outside."

  "We'll use my car!" I said, remembering the way she drove.

  Better to face an armed berserker... "It won't be as fast, but at least we'll get there alive."

  Docile enough, she acquiesced. She stepped into a dressing room and changed out of her gi within a minute. She had always been quick at manipulating her clothing. I just had time to give more instructions to Arny and dive into my own street clothes. My students, seeing me dressing on the run, shirt-tails flying, chuckled knowingly. What could I say?

  We drove sedately across town toward her father's estate. "Was it really so bad between us, Jason?" Thera asked wistfully.

  "It's past history," I shrugged, "I've known other girls before and after you. Some better, some worse."

  "But things are changed now. I'm older—"

  "Age has nothing to do with it! You said you wanted to marry me—"

  "And you said I'd have to be a black belt in judo and get two years of college—"

  "And long before you did either, you fornicated with my friend and top student—"

  "Who is dead because of you!" she cried angrily. "I loved him!"

  That hurt. There was too much truth in it.

  "I'm sorry, Jason," she said after a moment, contritely. "I didn't really love him. I thought I did at the time, but—well, he was available, and you weren't, and I was young. The more I learn about men, the more you stand out. I was wrong... but I'm learning. Learning how right you were the first time, and how right I was to want to marry you. You're teaching me yet, just as you taught me judo. Can't we—"

  "No!"

  "I guess you meant it when you said you'd met someone better."

  "Yes. A Chinese girl. Kung fu."

  "Why didn't you many her, Jason?"

  "She's dead."

  God, that memory hurt!

  Thera sighed ruefully. "I just keep striking out! Well, tell me about the worse one."

  That was easy. "Latin. She's married. She tried to kill my fiancée, and maybe succeeded, and I—oh, forget it!"

  "So you really aren't currently attached."

  "I don't know."

  "Oh, so you're holding
back on me!" she said with a mock affront. "There's yet another girl."

  Actually, I had been thinking of my Chinese fiancée; I loved her yet. But I felt too ornery to say that to Thera. "No girl. She's a woman. A drug addict. I call her the Black Karate Mistress."

  Thera laughed. "Now you're pulling my leg! Here—I'll help you." She lifted her right leg and crossed it right over her left and into my lap—a fair contortion, in a car. But then, she had always been athletic. All my girlfriends tend to be; I'm attracted by physical competence.

  I was pulling her leg in a way—but there actually was a woman such as I had described. That was a whole separate story, however. Or so I thought at the time.

  "For God's sake!" I exclaimed as my hand, reaching for the gearshift, smacked into her shapely calf. I picked up her leg by the ankle glanced across—and was treated to a striking view of her firm inner thigh beneath her short skirt. Her panties had "I LOVE YOU" embroidered in red-right in the crotch.

  I almost drove off the road.

  "A black woman—and an addict," she murmured as I finally got her leg out of my way. "I really hadn't figured you for that, Jason. You're so... so strait-laced, really."

  "It's my judo ethic," I said, nettled. It was not the first time I had been accused of being stuffy. "Don't make it more than it is. She attacked me and injured me—damn near castrated me!—and then she saved my life. I don't know whether she hates me or loves me."

  "Or you her," she murmured. "Unfinished business."

  "No business of yours!" I said angrily. "Who gave you leave to pry into my romantic life?"

  "By the authority vested in me as one of your has-beens, I pry," she said.

  I tried to stifle it, but the laugh burst out anyway.

  "Come on, Jason. How many of those girls did you actually lay?"

  "What?"

  "Don't pretend you don't know the word. You're not that sheltered. How many did you run the line with—all the way?"

  Running the line—an apt analogy! "All of them," I said. The strange thing was the confessions Thera was prying from me were cathartic. I should not have answered her at all, but I couldn't help myself.