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Ice Blue
Anne Stuart


Museum curator Summer Hawthorne considered the exquisite ice-blue ceramic bowl given to her by her beloved Japanese nanny a treasure of sentimental value—until somebody tried to kill her for it. The priceless relic is about to ignite a global power struggle that must be stopped at all costs. It’s a desperate situation, and international operative Takashi O’Brien has received his directive: everybody is expendable. Everybody. Especially the woman who is getting dangerously under his skin as the lethal game crosses the Pacific to the remote and beautiful mountains of Japan, where the truth can be as seductive as it is deadly….“A master at creating chilling atmosphere with a modern touch. ” —Library Journal










Praise forNew York Timesbestselling author

ANNE STUART

“A consummate mistress of her craft, Stuart crafts a sophisticated romance that mirrors the rigours of the era and adds her own punch of passion and adventure so that her characters can have the time of their lives. It is pure pleasure to indulge in this part-lighthearted, part-deeply emotional and all-glorious story.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Devil’s Waltz

“This taut romantic suspense novel from RITA


Award winner Stuart delivers deliciously evil baddies and the type of disturbing male protagonist that only she can transform into a convincing love interest … Brilliant characterisations and a suitably moody ambience drive this dark tale of unlikely love.” —Publishers Weekly on Black Ice

“[A] sexy, edgy, exceptionally well-plotted tale.”

—Library Journal on Into the Fire

“Before I read … [a] Stuart book I make sure my

day is free … Once I start, she has me hooked.”

—New York Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber

“A master at creating chilling atmosphere

with a modern touch.”

—Library Journal




Author’s Note


The True Realization Fellowship and its leader, the Shirosama, is very loosely inspired by the Aum Shinrikyo cult in Japan and their charismatic leader, Shoko Asahara. Most people remember the sarin gas attack on the Tokyo subways twelve years ago, when terrorist attacks were less common, and there’s something about cults, Jonestown and the like, that are macabre and fascinating. Believe it or not, the real characters were just as badly behaved as my fictional ones—sometimes more so. I simply used Aum as a jumping-off point to create my own delusional madman.

For those who want to explore the story further, there are a number of excellent books, including Destroying the World to Save It by Robert Jay Lifton, A Poisonous Cocktail? by Ian Reader and Underground: The Tokyo Gas Attack and the Japanese Psyche by Haruki Murakami.


Ice Blue

Anne Stuart






www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)


For the three great natural beauties of Japan—Etushi Toyokawa, Yoshiki Hayashi and Gackt Camui.

With thanks to Karen Harbaugh for technical advice, my daughter for the inspiration, and my sister Taffy Todd, who complains that I never dedicate a book to her. Here you go, Taffy.




1


Summer Hawthorne wasn’t having a particularly good night, though she smiled and said all the right things to all the right people. Someone was watching her. She’d been feeling it all evening long, but she had absolutely no idea who it was. Or why.

The opening reception at the elegant Sansone Museum was small and exclusive—only the very rich and very powerful were invited to the tiny museum in the Santa Monica Mountains to view the collection of exquisite Japanese ceramics. And even if she wasn’t particularly fond of one of those guests, he’d have no reason to watch her.

Her assistant, Micah Jones, resplendent in deep purple, sidled up to her. “I’m leaving you, my darling. This is winding down, and no one will miss me. I’m assuming everything’s going well, and I’ve got an offer I can’t refuse.” He grinned.

Summer jumped, startled. “Evil man,” she said lightly. “Abandoning me in my time of need. Go ahead. I’ve got everything under control. Even his holiness.”

Micah glanced at their guest of honor and shuddered dramatically. “I can stay and shield you …”

“Not on your life! The True Realization Fellowship and their slimy leader are just a bunch of harmless crackpots. Hollywood’s religion du jour. Besides, you’ve been celibate for too long, or so you’ve been complaining.”

“If you’d wear anything but black you might get lucky, too,” Micah said, candid as ever. “Even so, you look marvelous.”

“You lie,” she said, ignoring her uneasiness. “But I love you, anyway. Despite the fact that you’re ditching the reception early.”

Micah smiled his dazzling smile. “True love waits for no man.” He leaned down and gave her an exuberant kiss. “You know your room’s ready for you if you need it. Just ignore any whoops of pleasure coming from my bedroom.”

“You’re a very bad man,” she said affectionately. “I’m fine, I promise you. You can enjoy yourself in private.”

He blew her a kiss, sauntering off through the crowd, and she watched him go, ignoring her sudden, irrational pang of unease. Feeling the eyes digging into her back once more.

She was half tempted to call Micah back, ask him to wait. The reception would be over in another half hour, and then she could follow him down from the museum, and this odd, tense feeling would vanish.

But she hadn’t gotten this far in her life by giving in to irrational fears. It simply had to be because of their esteemed guest of honor, his holiness the Shirosama. He had a reason to watch her out of his colorless eyes—she was standing between him and the prize Summer’s foolish mother, Lianne, had promised him. And the Shirosama had not gotten to where he was, as head of a worldwide spiritual movement, without knowing how to get what he wanted.

He wanted her Japanese bowl, probably as much as she didn’t want him to have it—the bowl her Japanese nanny had given to her a short while before she’d been killed in a car accident. It was one more betrayal from her self-absorbed mother, something she was used to by now. Summer had loaned it to the exclusive museum where she worked, just to keep it away from the religious charlatan for as long as she could. But sooner or later the creepy, charming Shirosama was going to get it, and there wasn’t a whole lot she could do about it. At least she’d put it off for the time being.

But it wasn’t the Shirosama who was watching her, or any of his white-robed minions—not as far as she could tell. She could feel the eyes boring into her back, and she turned, trying to catch whoever it was. Certainly not the elderly Asian couple by the fourteenth century incense burners. Not the tall, slender man with the sunglasses, who seemed much more interested in the impressive cleavage of the blonde he was talking to than in the exhibit. Maybe she was imagining it.

She recognized only half of the elegantly dressed guests who filled the gallery for this private opening, and none would have any reason to be interested in the lowly junior curator at the Sansone Museum. Her connection to Lianne and Ralph Lovitz and their Hollywood lifestyle was generally unknown, and by southern California standards she was totally ordinary looking, something she did her best to cultivate.

“His holiness wishes to speak with you.”

She was very good at hiding her emotions, and she turned to face the monk, if that’s what he was. For a group of ascetics, the followers of the True Realization Fellowship tended to be particularly well fed, and the plump young man in front of her was no different. He had the same round face, shaved head and faintly sanctimonious look they all did, and it made her want to stomp on his sandaled feet.

She was being childish and she knew it. She could come up with an excuse, but the reception was drawing to a close, the trustees were seeing to the departing guests and she had no real reason to avoid their guest of honor.

“Of course,” she said, trying to add a note of warmth to her voice. Someone had trashed her house three nights ago, taking nothing, but she’d known instinctively what they’d been looking for. The Japanese bowl they coveted was right in front of them now, guarded by an excellent security system.

She crossed the room, feeling like a prisoner on her way to execution. She could still feel those eyes boring into her back, but all the Shirosama’s posse, including the man himself, were in front of her. She glanced behind, but there was no one except the blonde and her date. Summer decided she must be paranoid, looking behind her for trouble when it was right in front of her.

“Dr. Hawthorne,” his holiness greeted her in his soft voice. “You do me honor.”

It was the softest of barbs—he knew very well that he was the one conferring honor on the place, at least by conventional wisdom. The Shirosama was highly sought after; obtaining his presence at a social event was a great coup.

Unlike his followers, he hadn’t shaved his head—his pure white hair was long and flowing to his shoulders, a perfect match to his paper-white skin and pale, pink eyes. His white robes draped his rounded body, and his hands were soft and plump. Charismatic to those easily swayed, like her ditzy mother. Harmless. Unless he was thwarted, and Summer was thwarting him.

But she knew how to play the game. “You honor us, your holiness.” She didn’t even trip over the words.

“And this is the bowl your mother spoke of?” he said softly. “I wonder that it has no provenance, and yet you still put it in the exhibit.”

He knew as well as she did that she’d put it on display to keep it out of his hands. “We’re researching its background, your holiness,” she said, the absolute truth. “In the meantime a piece of such singular beauty deserves to be seen, and we were ready to open an exhibit of Japanese ceramics. It seemed only logical to show it.”

“Only logical,” he echoed. “I would be very interested in anything you might discover about the piece. I am somewhat an expert in ceramics, and I’ve never seen anything that particular shade of blue. Perhaps you might let me borrow it, examine it more closely, and I could help you with your research.”

“You’re very kind,” she murmured. “But I’m certain the piece has little monetary worth—it was simply a gift from my nanny, and for that reason I cherish it. If in fact it does have considerable intrinsic value, then I would return it to the Japanese government.”

There was no shadow in the Shirosama’s benevolent smile. “You are as generous and honorable as your mother.”

Summer resisted a snort. It wasn’t enough that Lianne was funneling huge sums of money into the True Realization Fellowship, which seemed to have an insatiable need for cash. They weren’t getting Summer’s Japanese bowl, no matter how much they seemed to want it. She knew why Lianne wanted to get rid of it. Ralph had told her it was valuable, and Lianne had always been jealous of Summer’s nanny. Hana-san had been the mother Lianne had never had time to be, loving Summer, protecting her, teaching her what she needed to know and listening to her. The bowl had been one of the keepsakes she’d given Summer when Lianne had finally managed to fire her and send Summer off to boarding school, and Summer had promised that she’d keep it safe until Hana came for it. But Hana had died, unexpectedly.

And shallow, beautiful Lianne wanted to hand it over to her current guru. Over Summer’s dead body.

“Your mother has expressed great sorrow that you haven’t been to see her recently,” he added in his soft, rolling voice. “She wishes to make peace with you.”

“How very kind,” Summer murmured. Lianne Lovitz preferred her daughter to be as far away as possible—it was damn hard to convince the world you were in your early forties if you had a daughter in her late twenties hanging around. If the Shirosama wanted her to say anything more, she wasn’t going to; her relationship with her mother was none of his business.

He turned to glance back at the ceramic bowl. “You know that she promised this to me?”

Nothing like coming straight to the point. “And you know it was not hers to promise, your holiness,” Summer said with exquisite politeness.

“I see,” the Shirosama murmured, though Summer had no doubt her mother had filled him in on all this. “But do you not think it should be returned to its rightful place in Japan? To the shrine where it belongs?”

“Almost everything in this room should be back in Japan,” she said. Including you, she added silently. “Perhaps I should be in touch with the Ministry of Fine Arts and see if they’re interested.”

It was rare to see someone with no pigmentation in their skin turn paler still. “I doubt that’s necessary. I will be returning to Japan in a short while—I can make inquiries for you if you wish.”

She bowed as Hana had taught her. “That would be very kind of you,” she replied with exquisite courtesy. She’d heard rumors that the Shirosama and his Fellowship were not particularly well thought of in Japan—probably a result of the distrust built up after the sarin-gas poisonings on the Tokyo subways more than a decade ago, perpetrated by a fringe cult of doomsday fanatics. The Japanese government tended to look on alternative religions with a wary eye, even one steeped in sugary goodwill like the True Realization Fellowship. But the Shirosama was good at what he did, and he could probably count government ministers among his deluded disciples. If she turned the bowl over it might very well just land back in his hands.

He gazed at the bowl, sitting in innocent beauty beneath the bright lights. “I promised your mother that we would bring you by this evening, after the reception,” he said, changing the subject. “She is most eager to see you and to clear up any possible misunderstandings.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Summer said. “I’m much too busy tonight. I’ll give her a call and see if we can meet for lunch in a few days.”

“She wants to see you tonight. I cannot ignore my duty in reuniting an estranged mother and daughter.” There was only the hint of an edge beneath his rich, sonorous voice. It was no wonder he managed to mesmerize thousands. But Summer Hawthorne was not easily mesmerized by slimy old men.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m busy.” And before he could say another word she turned away, heading toward the dubious safety of the caterers, hiding behind them as the Shirosama made his slow, gliding way toward the exit, surrounded by his entourage.

She was tempted to start scooping up champagne glasses and taking them out to the kitchen area, anything to keep busy, but they had an army of waiters to handle that, and it would have looked odd. The museum guests had gone, including the tall man and his bimbo, and Summer no longer had that peculiar feeling in the middle of her shoulder blades. Now it was in the pit of her stomach, and she knew exactly who had been watching her with thinly veiled animosity. The Shirosama.

The caterers were damnably efficient, whisking everything away in record time, leaving Summer alone in the building a good half hour before the night security force was due to arrive. The reception had ended early, but the alarm system at the Sansone was excellent, and Summer had no concern for the safety of the priceless works of art. No concern for the ceramic jar that Hana-san had left in her care. The Shirosama knew where it was, and no one was going to be breaking into her house again and bothering her when they knew the bowl wasn’t there. It had been a preemptive strike, putting the treasure on display, and a good one.

She switched off the last of the lights, turning on the alarm system with its infrared beams and heat sensors. Then kicking off the high heels she’d forced herself to wear, she padded barefoot through the vast, marble hallway of the faux Grecian villa that encompassed the front entryway. The moon was out, a thick crescent hanging over the mountains, and even with the light from the endless city around them it shone clear and bright. She stared up at it for a moment, breathing in the serene beauty. The day had been long and stressful, but it was almost over. All she had to do was climb into her old Volvo station wagon and drive home, where she could strip off her clothes, drink a glass of wine and soak in the wooden tub that had been her one extravagance.

Suddenly she wasn’t alone. She could feel the eyes on her again, watching her, the intensity like a physical pull. She glanced around, as casually as she could, but there was no one in sight. The landscaping at the Sansone provided ample places to hide and watch—someone could be in the eighteenth century gazebo in the midst of the formal gardens on the right, or hiding behind the shrubbery on the left. She’d parked her car at the far end of the lot to leave room for the guests, and it was hidden in the shadows of overhanging trees. For a brief, cowardly moment she considered heading back into the museum, waiting until the security guards arrived.

But she was worn-out, and decided her imagination must be playing tricks on her. She’d been sleeping at Micah’s since her house had been broken into, but the last thing she wanted to do was intrude on her best friend’s newly resurrected love life. Besides, she missed her own bed.

The guards would be there soon enough, and if an army of cat burglars decided to show up there wasn’t much she could do about it. If she waited that long she’d probably fall asleep at the wheel. No, she was being absurd, paranoid. No one was out to get her, not even the greedy Shirosama. He didn’t want her. He wanted the bowl, though she had no idea why.

She started walking down the drive, the tiny white bits of gravel sharp under her bare soles, and she cursed beneath her breath. Nothing would make her cram her feet back into the high heels, but maybe she’d see if she could talk the board of directors into paving the parking lot instead of littering it with decorative little shards of stone.

Her car was too old to be equipped with power locks, and she’d shoved her key in the door to open it when she heard a noise, so small that she might have imagined it. She jerked her head up, peering into the darkness around her—she could feel those eyes again—when suddenly the door of her Volvo slammed open and someone leapt out at her, knocking her to the ground, the tiny stones digging into her back as cloth covered her face and she felt the smothering darkness close in.




2


She wasn’t going down without a fight. She kicked out, hard, but bare feet weren’t much of a defense, and whoever had been hiding in her car was strong, wrapping burly arms around her over the shroud and dragging her across the pebbles. She began to scream, loud cries for help, and something cuffed the side of her head. She could hear voices, low and muffled, and a moment later the unpleasant sound of a car trunk opening. She fought back, but another pair of hands joined in, and she was dumped into the trunk, the lid slamming down on her before she could stop them.

She shoved the thin blanket away from her and began kicking and pounding on the lid of the trunk. She was in some kind of luxury car—the space was huge and carpeted—and she had a pretty good idea who had done this. The True Realization Fellowship had a reputation for getting what it wanted, and no one wanted anything from her but the Shirosama. She kicked again, screaming at her captors, until someone pounded back on the trunk, a loud thwack that would have dented the metal of a cheaper car.

And then a moment later the vehicle was moving, tearing down the long, curving driveway that led from the Sansone, moving at dangerous speeds, tossing her about in the trunk like a sack of potatoes. Summer’s head slammed against the metal side and she braced herself, holding on. Screaming was a waste of time—no one would hear her over the noise of the road or through the soundproofing. She needed to save her energy to escape.

She could feel the car turning onto the main road—the vehicle leveled out, and whoever was driving was keeping a more sedate pace, clearly not wanting to draw any unwanted attention with a woman in the trunk. Summer tried to listen, to learn anything that would help her figure out what they wanted from her, where they were taking her, but there was absolute silence from the front of the car. She didn’t even know for certain whether there was one or more of them. Two people had tossed her into the trunk, but that didn’t mean both had gotten into the vehicle. If she had to deal with only one man, and she was prepared, then maybe she stood a fighting chance whenever he decided to stop and—

The car sped up suddenly, tossing her against the rear of the compartment, slamming her knee against the locking mechanism. She cried out, but the sound was muffled in the carpeted trunk.

“Calm down,” she said out loud, her voice soft and eerie in the darkness. She took a deep, steady breath, and then another. She couldn’t just let herself be tossed around indefinitely—she had to think of a way out.

Wouldn’t they have a jack and tire iron in the trunk? Under the thick carpeting? She slid her fingers beneath the edge, to a latch, but when she tried to pull it up the weight of her body was in the way. She scrunched over to one side as far as she could go, managing to get the lid up far enough to reach under it, into the well of the car. There was a tire there, all right, and she could feel the scissor jack. There had to be a tire iron as well.

She almost missed the small leather bag of tools. Inside was a nice iron rod that could manage to break a few bones if properly applied. The very thought was nauseating, but not as bad as being kidnapped in the middle of the night. She dropped the lid back down, rolling over on it, and tucked the foot-long iron bar into her long, flowing sleeve. She could even jab someone in the eye with it, if necessary.

They were going faster now, faster than when they’d sped down the road from the museum, so fast that she could barely maintain her balance in the huge trunk. She felt the car skid as the driver took a corner too quickly, and when he straightened out he sped up even more. It wasn’t until Summer heard the sound of another engine, much too close behind them, that she realized they were being chased.

Not by the police—there were no sirens blaring, just the roar of a vehicle far too near for her peace of mind.

The loud cracking noise was unmistakable, and she rolled facedown in the trunk, covering her head with her hands. Someone was shooting, and she sincerely doubted it was some white knight coming to her rescue. No one had been around to see her being hustled into the trunk of the car, and if anyone was trying to save her, he’d hardly be firing a gun and putting her in even greater danger.

She felt a jolt as the vehicle behind them smacked the rear of her prison, then everything happened at once. Time seemed suspended. The sound of gunfire, the crunch of metal on metal, the screech of tires as the driver fought to maintain control and the car began to slide to one side.

“Shit shit shit shit,” Summer muttered under her breath, a prayer or an incantation, as she felt her entire world spin out. The car was tumbling down an embankment, finally coming to a stop against something immovable, throwing her against the front of the trunk, knocking the wind out of her. She lay there in stunned disbelief as all went very quiet around her, except for the sound of the engine. The car was probably going to burst into flames and explode, with her in it, but at the moment she didn’t care. She just lay still, trying to catch her breath, waiting for the explosion.

Instead the engine died, and the sudden silence was shocking. There were no voices, but, more unnerving, she could hear footsteps outside the car.

She tried to sit up, to reach for the tire iron, which had been rolling around in the trunk. The car was partially on its side, and she felt as if she’d spent the last half hour in a blender—she was a mass of pain and bruises, and she wasn’t safe yet. Whoever was prowling around the car had a gun, and there was no reason to think he wouldn’t use it on her.

She groped about, still searching for the tire iron, and found it under her back just as the trunk popped open.

She couldn’t see a thing. Someone was standing there, but they seemed to be on a deserted road, and the lights from the car that had pulled up behind them threw everything into stark shadows. She wouldn’t have thought there were any roads this empty so close to L.A., but the driver had somehow managed to find one. Unable to get the tire iron out from under her, she simply squeezed her eyes tightly shut and waited for the bullet.

Instead she felt hands hauling her out of the cavernous trunk into the cool night air, setting her on unsteady feet, holding on to her until the trembling stopped.

It was the man from the gallery, the tall man with the sunglasses. He wasn’t wearing them anymore, and her panic increased as she realized he was at least part Asian, like her nemesis the Shirosama. It couldn’t be a coincidence, could it?

Even in the shadows she could see that he was exquisitely beautiful with high, perfect cheekbones; exotic eyes of an indeterminate shade; narrow face and rich, full mouth … His hair was long and silky, black, and he towered over her. Another of the Shirosama’s hit men? Because he did look like a hit man—that is, what she imagined one would look like.

“Are you all right?” He might as well be asking if she wanted sugar in her coffee. She tried to say something, but words failed her, and she simply stared up at him silently. “Get in the car,” he said.

That was enough to stir her out of her momentary shock. She wasn’t getting in anyone’s car. “No.”

“It’s your choice. I can leave you here, but there’s no guarantee who will find you first. If you don’t show up at the Shirosama’s headquarters, someone will come looking.”

“Is that who tried to kidnap me?”

“Unless you have any other dire enemies, which I doubt. Get in the car.”

It wasn’t much of a choice, and she climbed the bank toward the waiting car, limping slightly. She stopped, turning back to glance at the vehicle she’d been trapped in. It was tilted on its side, and someone was slumped over the steering wheel. Someone in a white robe, with red staining the pristine cloth.

“Shouldn’t we see if he’s all right?” she said, hesitating.

“Do you care?”

“Of course I care. He may have wanted to hurt me, but he’s a human being and—”

“He’s dead.”

“Oh.”

She was very cold. It was a warm L.A. night and she was freezing. “Get in the car,” the man said again, opening the passenger door like the perfect chauffeur.

She got in. The seats were leather, comfortable, and it took her a long time to get the seat belt fastened. Her hands were shaking, and she couldn’t seem to make them stop. She ought to pay more attention to her surroundings, she told herself, so she could give a full report to the police, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. She didn’t know what kind of car this was, though she’d recognized the other vehicle as one of the Shirosama’s well-known white limos.

“Was the driver the only one in the car?” she found herself asking in a quiet voice when the man got in beside her and started the engine. A low, sexy rumble … it must be some kind of sports car. She didn’t notice any insignia inside, which didn’t help. She was going to be a piss-poor witness when the police questioned her. Assuming she got to the police.

He put the car in reverse, backed up and then took off into the night, moving so fast the road was a blur, the crash site vanishing into the darkness. “You don’t really want to know that,” he said.

Maybe he was right. She leaned her head back against the cushioned seat and closed her eyes, feeling dizzy. “Where are we going? Are you taking me to the police?”

“Now why would I do that?”

She turned horrified eyes on him. “To make a report. Some men tried to kidnap me. They shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it.”

“Actually, they didn’t just try, they succeeded. And they didn’t get away with it.”

Immediately, she pictured the man slumped over the steering wheel, the bright red blood against the white linen. Calm, she told herself. Deep, calming breaths. Think about more important things.

“Did you shoot them? I heard gunshots.” The question seemed almost surreal, but he simply shook his head.

“They were the ones shooting. They didn’t like being run off the road.”

She could have asked him about the blood, but suddenly she didn’t want to know.

Fighting her panic, she forced herself to look at the driver’s impassive profile. “And who exactly are you? Don’t try to tell me you’re a random passerby—I won’t believe you.”

“If I were a random passerby I wouldn’t know about the Shirosama, would I?” he replied in a reasonable tone.

“You were at the reception. I saw you there.”

“I was.”

“Where’s your girlfriend?”

“What girlfriend?”

“The blonde with the boobs. It was obvious you couldn’t keep your eyes off her cleavage … except it was you watching me, wasn’t it? I could feel someone staring at me, but every time I turned around I couldn’t find anyone. It was you, right? Why?”

“Let’s just say I expected something like this to go down. The Shirosama and his bunch were practically drooling over the Hayashi Urn, and you were keeping it from them. I’m guessing once his holiness was through with you they thought they could get you to open up the museum for them.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. The Hayashi Urn? Do you mean my ceramic bowl?”

He shot a glance at her in the darkened interior of the car. He seemed perfectly comfortable at the immense speeds he was traveling. His hands were draped loosely on the steering wheel. Beautiful hands, with long, elegant fingers. All of them intact, which ruled out her sudden suspicion that he might be a member of the Japanese crime syndicate, the Yakuza. Most members of that organization were missing at least part of their fingers, a sign of atonement for mistakes made. Unless her rescuer never made mistakes.

“You have no idea what you have?” he asked. “Where it comes from, its history?”

“I know it’s something that other people want and that I’m not about to give up. What’s the Hayashi Urn?”

“A part of Japanese history that wouldn’t matter to you.”

“Since the bowl is mine, then it matters to me. I’d like to know why someone tried to kidnap me in order to get his hands on it.”

“It doesn’t make any difference—the urn won’t be yours for much longer. And you needn’t pretend you’re surprised—you put it in the exhibit just to keep it out of reach of the Shirosama. You decided it was best to hide it in plain sight. Unfortunately, you underestimated your enemy. The Shirosama isn’t quite the philanthropic spiritual leader he presents to the world. He has no problem killing for what he wants.”

“Neither do you.” She wasn’t quite sure why she said it.

“When necessary,” he said, unmoved by her accusation.

“So where are you taking me?”

His eyes were on the road. “I haven’t decided yet.”

There was something about the flat, emotionless tone that made her stomach knot even more intensely. “Just tell me one thing,” she said. “Am I better off with you than I was with those men?”

For a moment he didn’t answer, and she wondered whether he would. Finally he spoke, not even looking at her. “That’s up to you.”

And for the first time in that shocking, crazy night, Summer began to feel afraid.

Taka could see her hunch lower into the seat, and he couldn’t blame her. He wasn’t going to lie to her, not if he could help it. She’d somehow managed to get through being kidnapped and tossed in the trunk of a limo with nothing more than a few bruises. He’d thought he was going to have to deal with tears and hysterics. Instead she was shaken but calm enough, making things easier. Maybe.

She was a liability, and he’d learned long ago that you couldn’t get sentimental over individual life when the stakes were so high. There was an old Zen koan—the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few—and if he had to choose between mass destruction and the life of one spoiled California blonde, then he wouldn’t hesitate.

Except she wasn’t what he would have expected. He’d skimmed the intel he’d gotten on her—daughter of a Hollywood trophy wife, product of Eastern boarding schools and college, advanced degree in Asian art, with no scandals attached to her name. She’d lived a quiet enough life—maybe too quiet. It wasn’t her fault she just happened to hold the key to something that could tear the entire world apart.

His old friend Peter would be mocking him, telling him it was his damn Asian inscrutability that kept him so cold-blooded. The thought amused him, because Peter Madsen had been the coldest person Takashi O’Brien had ever known. Until he ran into the wrong woman, the same one who’d almost brought an end to Takashi’s life.

Taka wasn’t going to make that mistake again. If Summer Hawthorne had to die, he’d do it as quickly and as painlessly as he could manage, and with luck she’d never know what happened. It wasn’t her fault that hidden somewhere in her memory was the location of an ancient Japanese shrine. Nor was it her fault that people would kill to discover it. And that he would kill to keep her from revealing it.

He could pull over to the side of the road, put a comforting hand on the back of her neck, and snap it. Her death would be instantaneous, and he could take her body and dump her into the white limo’s trunk. The scandal attached to the Shirosama’s deluded cult would be an added bonus.

Taka should never have taken her away from there in the first place—he should have just ended it then. If he hesitated much longer someone might discover the crashed vehicle with the two bodies in the front seat. As far as he could tell, Summer Hawthorne had no more value. Now that he knew where the urn was, retrieving it would be simple enough for anyone with his talents.

Keeping her alive would only make things more dangerous. She knew where the site of the temple ruins were. One valley girl who’d never traveled farther west than Hawaii held the key to a location so valuable that hundreds of thousands of lives could depend on it. Better she die and the secret with her, than risk Armageddon.

It was all made more complicated by the fact that she didn’t know what she knew. Hana Hayashi had left the secret with her, but so well hidden that no one might find it, Summer included.

The Committee couldn’t take that risk. Better to terminate her and all possibility of finding the hidden shrine, than let the Shirosama move ahead with his lethal, dangerous visions.

Taka didn’t even need to pull off the freeway to do it, or even slow his speed from the seventy-five miles per hour he was traveling. The technique was simple and he’d done it too many times already. He needed to stop thinking about it and just do it.

But then, his reflexes were still off from his accident. His fuck-up, which had landed him in the hands of a sadist. There was no need to take chances, just to prove to himself he was still at the top of his game. Taka took the next exit off the freeway, heading west, while his passenger sat quietly in her seat, asking no questions, oblivious to the fact that she was about to die.

He drove onto a less crowded street, pulled over to the side of the road and turned to face her. She had blue eyes, and she was prettier than he’d realized. She didn’t wear makeup, and she had a sprinkling of freckles across her nose. He’d never killed anyone with freckles before.

“So what happens next?” she said, looking at him, and he wondered if she knew.

He put his hand on the back of her neck, under the single thick braid that was starting to come undone from her active night. He could feel the nerves jumping through her skin, feel her pulses racing, though he didn’t know whether it was in fear of him or remembered panic. There was something there, in her eyes, that he didn’t understand, couldn’t afford to think about. Her skin was soft and warm, and his large hand could span her neck quite easily.

“Are you going to kiss me?” she asked, sounding as if that would be a fate worse than death. “Because I know you saved my life and probably figure that, as a knight in shining armor, you’re owed something. But I’d really rather you didn’t. I’d like you to tell me why you were watching me, why you were following those men and what you intend to do about it.”

“I wasn’t planning on kissing you.”

“That’s a relief,” she said, despite the faint stain of color beneath the freckles. “So who are you, and what do you want from me?”

It wouldn’t take much pressure. He could even kiss her, if that’s what she wanted, and by the time he lifted his mouth she’d be gone. So easy, all of it. So logical, sensible.

He didn’t need her help in retrieving the Hayashi Urn from the museum—he was one of the Committee’s acknowledged experts at breaking and entering. When she died she’d take her secrets with her, the safest option all around. As long as she lived there was a good chance the Shirosama would get his hands on her and the secrets she didn’t know she carried. Once she was dead that danger was gone.

Taka tightened his grip on her neck, exerting just a tiny bit of pressure, and he saw the sudden doubt in her eyes. He needed to move fast, because he didn’t want that doubt to increase, to turn into terror before it went blank, and hesitation would only hurt her.

“I’m guessing you’re some kind of private security guard hired by my mother,” she continued, when he didn’t answer her questions. “She must have had second thoughts. She knows how determined her precious guru can be when he wants something, and maybe she thought I was in danger. Too bad. They just didn’t realize how easy it would be to steal the bowl from the museum.”

He loosened the pressure an infinitesimal amount. Nothing that she would notice. “What do you mean? The Sansone has state-of-the-art security.”

“Well, you’d think they’d at least try to get it,” she said. “Most of the security is focused on the more valuable pieces. It would have been a lot easier than they thought—I was counting on them going for it sooner or later.”

“Counting on them to steal the urn?” He was totally confused by this point. “Why?”

“Because it’s a fake,” she said in that maddeningly calm voice. “The real one is hidden. Sorry, but I don’t trust my mother not to sell me out. I’m really quite touched that she hired you—”

“I don’t know your mother.”

Her smile faded. “Then why were you watching me? Why did you come after me? Who are you?”

Your worst nightmare, he wanted to tell her. But the game wasn’t played yet, and he still had a job to do.

He’d have to kill her later.




3


“Where is the Hayashi Urn?”

Summer glanced over at his cool, exquisite profile in the darkened car. Now that she was beginning to calm down from the adrenaline rush of her abduction, she was starting to see things a little more clearly. And she was beginning to have the extremely unhappy suspicion that her dangerous night was far from over. Why the hell had she told him the bowl in the museum was a fake?

“Someplace safe,” she said. “I think you ought to take me home now.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said, starting the car. “Unless the urn is hidden there, which means it’s probably gone by now.”

“I’m not an idiot. Someone already ransacked my place looking for it. It’s hidden where no one can find it.”

“Where?”

Right. She was up shit’s creek, from the frying pan into the fire, and she hadn’t even realized it. He was driving fast again, and she couldn’t very well unlatch the door and jump out, even if she’d seen it done in dozens of movies. She’d end up roadkill …. She was better off taking her chances with this elegant stranger. He was hardly the type to hurt her.

“Look, I don’t know who you are or why you happened to be hanging around the museum if my mother didn’t hire you, but I’m not about to tell you a damn thing. I’ve already said too much. Either take me home or drop me off on the next street corner, and I’ll find my own way.”

He said nothing, keeping his attention on the road in front of him. They were heading toward the freeway again, and once on it she’d be effectively trapped. Maybe she’d just end up with a few bruises if she tried the rolling-out-of-the-car trick. She slid her hand toward the seat belt clasp, but he moved so fast he scared her, clamping his hand down over hers and pulling it away.

“Don’t even think about it,” he said, speeding up even more.

He was holding her hand in an unbreakable grip. She probably ought to struggle, hit him, anything to distract him from the road. She’d survived one car crash tonight; she’d probably survive another if it happened before they were going too fast. She just didn’t know which was the greater risk—careening off the road in this little car or staying with this man.

He wasn’t going to hurt her, she told herself. He wasn’t going to touch her. He’d rescued her. She just needed to hold on to that belief and she wouldn’t panic and make stupid mistakes.

“All right,” she said, relaxing the fist she’d automatically formed, and after a moment he released her hand. She could see his profile in the flickering light of the oncoming cars, and she stared, fascinated. No one that beautiful could be a killer, could he?

She shook the distracting thought from her mind. “Where are you taking me?”

“You wanted to go home, didn’t you?” He pulled onto the freeway, and Summer closed her eyes, certain she was going to die, after all. But a moment later they were speeding down the HOV lane, still in one piece, and she let out her pent-up breath. When she got home she was going to lock all her doors, strip off her clothes, climb into her tub and never come out.

She tended to drive her Volvo too fast, and if she’d been behind the wheel they would have reached her little bungalow in fifteen minutes. He made it in ten, pulling up outside the run-down cottage and leaving the car still running. She’d been desperately trying to think of ways to get rid of him once they got to her street, but it was turning into a non-issue, leaving Summer even more confused. She hadn’t told him where she lived.

“We’re here,” he said, putting the car into Neutral. “I’d see you to your door, but I expect that would only make you more nervous.”

“You mean you’re just going to let me go?” she said, disbelief warring with hope.

“It looks like it, doesn’t it?”

“And you’re not going to tell me who you are, or why you were following me? Or how you knew where I lived?”

He shook his head, saying nothing.

“I guess I should count my blessings then?” she asked, reaching for her seat belt. This time he didn’t stop her, didn’t move as she opened the door and slid out. Her legs were a little wobbly, but she managed to disguise it by clinging to the door for a moment. She still didn’t recognize what kind of car it was—something low and sleek and fast, but she wasn’t enough of a real Californian to care about cars. She was going to have to come up with something to tell the police, but right then her brain wasn’t working on all cylinders.

Her mother hadn’t taught her anything worth knowing in twenty-eight years, but Hana had instilled good manners no matter what the circumstances. Clinging to the door, Summer leaned over, peering into the darkened car. “Er … thank you for saving my life,” she said lamely.

There was just the faint ghost of a smile on his rich, beautiful mouth. “It was nothing,” he said, and the depressing truth of it was, he meant it. Her life was nothing to him. Not that it should matter, she reminded herself. She preferred being invisible.

She could feel his eyes watching her as she walked up the narrow sidewalk to her front door. She was overcome by the same sense of intrusion, invasion, protection. It was a crazy combination of all three, though she wasn’t quite sure where the protective aspect came from. Maybe simply because he’d saved her before scaring her.

She closed the front door behind her, triple locking it, and then leaned against it to catch her breath. She heard the sound of his car drive away, out of her life. The last ounce of tension finally drained from her body, her knees gave out and she sank down on the floor, leaning against the doorjamb and putting her head against her knees as she shook.

She had no idea how long she sat there, curled up in a kind of mindless panic, but at least she wasn’t crying. She never cried—not since she’d been told of her Hana’s death in a hit-and-run accident. Summer had been fifteen. That made a solid thirteen years without shedding a tear, and she intended to keep it that way.

And she’d cowered enough. She grabbed hold of the doorknob and pulled herself to her feet, steeling herself to ignore the faint tremor in her legs. She peered out the window, but there was no sign of the sleek, low-slung sports car and her nameless rescuer. He was gone. If only she could rid herself of the almost physical feel of his eyes on her, still watching her.

She switched on a light and winced in the blinding brightness. She’d be happier in shadows right now, but shadows could hide scary things, and she had no intention of being scared anymore. She’d fought that battle once before, and she wasn’t going to let herself be vulnerable again.

Her feet hurt, and she realized belatedly that sometime during the night she’d lost her shoes. They were expensive, but uncomfortable, and good riddance. She was going to strip off her clothes and throw them out, too, get rid of anything that reminded her of this hideous night. But first she was going to eat something, anything, have a glass of wine and try to rid herself of the lingering touch of his eyes, watching her.

The Ben & Jerry’s had ice crystals, the raspberry yogurt was past its due date, the cheese had mold. She couldn’t find the wine opener, and the only beer she had in the fridge was Sapporo—no thank you. She didn’t want to think about anything Japanese and she walked through her living room with eyes averted, pushing the shoji screen aside. There was nothing she wanted more than to strip off her clothes and climb into the hot tub, but Hana-san had trained her well. Summer’s feet were grass-stained and bloody, and she wanted to get the feel of the night off her before she settled into the blessed warmth of the water. She showered quickly, then climbed into the big cedar tub just outside her bedroom.

It was a blessing. She closed her eyes and let the warm, healing water flow around her. For a few minutes she didn’t have to think, didn’t have to worry. For a few blessed moments of peace she could just be.

And try to rid herself of the irrational feeling that somewhere out there he was still watching her.

For a smart woman, Summer Hawthorne was annoyingly brainless, Taka thought as he skirted the back of her bungalow. He’d already checked it out several days ago and knew just how pathetic her security was. Her house had been broken into recently, and yet she’d taken no measures to fortify the place. All three locks on the back door were easy to pick, the chain would break with one good shove and she had no outdoor security, no sensors or alarms. He could slip behind the house, disappear into the overgrown shrubbery and no one would even notice.

Her curtains were pathetic, as well. The faux-Asian synthetic rice paper shades were practically useless. She’d left the lights on in her living room and kitchen when she’d disappeared into the bathroom, and she was soaking wet and naked when she reemerged and climbed into the wooden tub, closing her eyes in obvious bliss.

So he could safely assume that she hadn’t been lying—the Hayashi Urn was nowhere near her. He’d done a fairly thorough search the last time he’d been there, though far more discreetly than the Shirosama’s goons, and he doubted he’d have missed it, though at that point he hadn’t been specifically looking for it. He’d thought it was already at the museum.

He’d been looking for any kind of clue that would lead him to the shrine. If they found it before the Shirosama managed to discover it, the Committee could stop the cult leader’s plans cold. The Shirosama needed the sacred location for his crackpot rituals, and without it he and his followers would be too superstitious to move ahead with their plans. It was only a few days till the Lunar New Year, the date the Shirosama had decreed was the most auspicious for his mysterious ritual, and at least for this year his time was running out. If they could just stall long enough, keep Summer Hawthorne and the Hayashi Urn away from him for the next few days, they’d have an entire year to figure out how to stop him.

And then there would be no need to silence her before she spoke the truth she didn’t know she had.

The urn in the museum was an excellent forgery—Taka had enough of a gift at ceramics to recognize the hand of a master. It had been an error on his part not to recognize that the ice blue glaze had been a little too uniform, but then, he’d been concentrating on other things.

Too bad he couldn’t just let it go at this point. The Shirosama would steal the fake from the museum, never knowing the difference, but he still needed Summer Hawthorne. In truth, she might be the more valuable part of the equation, and Taka knew what his orders were. If necessary, he was to destroy a priceless piece of Japanese art, culture and history, and execute the woman who held the key to where it belonged. And he wasn’t supposed to think twice about it.

It was the “if necessary” part that was the problem. The Committee, and the ruthlessly practical Madame Lambert, trusted him to make that judgment call. But he wasn’t quite sure he could trust himself at this point.

Because he didn’t want to kill Summer Hawthorne.

If she was found floating in her hot tub, the Shirosama would know there was nothing he could do, and he’d be stopped cold.

It was simple. Practical. Necessary. Except that this scenario meant the Hayashi Urn would stay lost.

The bowl would stay in one piece, however. And sooner or later, maybe decades from now, maybe after they were all long dead, it would reappear. That knowledge should be enough to satisfy the committee.

Taka took less than thirty seconds to pick the locks. He moved through the house in complete silence—he could come up on her, push her under the water, and she’d never have a chance.

Drowning wasn’t a good choice. He wouldn’t be able to make it look like an accident, it took too damn long and she’d be frightened. He didn’t want to scare her if he could help it. He just wanted it over, if that’s what had to be.

She was sitting in the tub, her back to him, her long hair loose, dark with water. She was humming, some tuneless little song that was making this whole fucking thing even harder, but he couldn’t let himself hesitate. He moved so fast she didn’t have time to turn around, to know he was there, sliding his hand under her thick veil of hair, finding the right spot and pressing, hard. She was unconscious in a matter of seconds, and he pushed her down on her back in the water, holding her there.

She lay still beneath his hands, her hair fanning out around her, her face still and peaceful and eerily beautiful; he knew she couldn’t feel a thing.

But he couldn’t do it.

He hauled her out of the tub, a naked, dripping deadweight, and threw her over his shoulder. He didn’t know how much water she’d swallowed, only that it wasn’t enough to kill her. He tossed her on the bed, rifled through her drawers and grabbed whatever clothes seemed suitable. All black—she didn’t seem to own anything in color, including her underwear. He was about to dress her when he heard the noise outside. The Shirosama already knew he’d lost his quarry, and he’d sent new stooges after her.

Taka wrapped Summer’s unconscious body in the bedspread, tossing the dark clothes into the cocoon before he lifted her again. She was damn heavy; American women, no matter how thin, always seemed to weigh more than other women. Maybe they simply had bigger bones. Not that Summer Hawthorne was a delicate flower. He’d been working, but an important part of his job was observation, and Summer Hawthorne naked had a soft, curvy body, not his usual type of woman.

He shifted the weight, tossing her over his shoulder again, and a moment later he was gone into the night, as the white-robed brethren broke in the front door.

Summer was cold, wet, miserable and totally disoriented. She was immobilized, moving fast and she felt like she was choking, coughing up water. When she could finally catch her breath she tried to push the wet hair out of her face, only to find her arms trapped at her sides. She shook her head, realizing in sudden horror that she was back in that damn car with that damn man, hurtling through the night once more.

“What the hell …?” she said weakly, struggling. She was wrapped in her bedspread, her arms at her sides, the seat belt strapped around her, and the man driving didn’t even glance at her.

“You had some unwanted visitors. I figured you were better off with me than the holy brothers.”

She tried to speak, coughing instead, the spasms racking her body. “They must have tried to kill me,” she managed to choke out. “How did you know?”

“I was keeping an eye on things. I didn’t think they’d give up that easily.”

She was silent for a moment. “How many of them did you kill?”

He glanced over at her. “You think I’m a cold-blooded killer?”

“I have no idea who or what you are.”

“Takashi O’Brien. I work for the Japanese Department of Antiquities. We’ve been looking for the Hayashi Urn for a long, long time.”

She blinked. He didn’t exactly fit her idea of a Japanese bureaucrat, but then, nothing was fitting her preconceived notions today. “Why didn’t you just come to the Sansone and ask if we knew anything?”

“We had no interest in drawing the attention of the True Realization Fellowship. We needed to secure it before they could get their hands on it.”

“Why?” Her teeth were chattering. He reached over and switched on the heat, and she glanced at the dashboard clock. It was just after 1:00 a.m. It had been less than three hours since she’d left the museum. Three hours to change a lifetime.

“You can worry about that later. In the meantime we need to get you someplace safe and warm.”

“And dry,” she said. “And dressed,” she added in sudden horror. “I’m not wearing anything under this, am I?”

“Since you don’t make it a habit to bathe in your clothes, then yes, you’re naked. I grabbed some clothes for you when I got you out of there—they’re tucked somewhere between you and the bedspread.”

She wasn’t cold now, she was hot. For reasons she didn’t want to think about she tended to be extremely inhibited, more so since her mother had always made it a practice to prance her perfect body around the house in various stages of undress, particularly if there happened to be men around. And the thought of this exquisite, enigmatic man hauling her own wet, naked body around was enough to make Summer wish those monsters had ended up drowning her, after all.

Except then she would have been naked and floating in her tub. Please, God, if I’m going to die, could I at least do it with my clothes on? she begged. Particularly if the oddly named Takashi O’Brien was going to be there.

Though if he were around, chances were she wasn’t going to die. He’d saved her twice. Whether he admitted it or not, he was her guardian angel, and she was going to have to get over the fact that he’d seen her naked.

“Okay,” she said in a hollow voice. He was once more driving like a bat out of hell, and she had no choice but to hang on. “Where are we going?”

“My hotel.”

He was protecting her, she reminded herself, squashing down the needless additional panic. “And I’m supposed to walk in wearing only a bedspread?” she said.

“I told you, I brought some clothes. You can get dressed while I drive.”

She glanced behind her, but there was no back seat in this tiny sports car. “I don’t think so,” she said. “Take me outside the city and I’ll go change in the bushes.”

“I’ve already seen you, Summer,” he said in a bored voice. Unfortunately, that didn’t help.

“Then you know you’re not being deprived of anything spectacular. Find me a darkened street and some bushes and I’ll be fine.”

He glanced over at her, and for a moment she thought he was about to argue. She was going to forestall him when she started coughing again, finally leaning back against the leather seat, exhausted.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll find you some bushes.” She must have imagined the odd note of guilt in his soft, emotionless voice.

What did he have to feel guilty about? He’d saved her, again.

Hadn’t he?




4


His holiness, the Shirosama of the True Realization Fellowship, sat in meditation, considering his options. His practice was a far cry from the traditional forms. When he freed his mind the visions would come, the plans would form and true enlightenment would beckon like a bright white light.

He knew what he had to do to attain that permanent state, and the thousands of faithful were well trained, well organized to follow in his ways. He had the best scientists, the best doctors, the best soldiers, and the supplies were stockpiled, ready to be used. Awaiting his signal.

The blindness was increasing, a sure sign that all would soon be ready. His eyes were a milky brown—he still needed the contact lenses, but not for long. His colorless skin had needed no ritual treatment, and he hadn’t had to bleach his hair for months. It had stopped growing, and what remained was the pure white he’d managed to achieve. His transformation was almost complete.

It was really all very clear to him. A simple matter of various forces coming into play, and he had learned to be patient over the years.

He knew his destiny. Karma had brought him to this place and time. It was his task to reunite people with their lost souls, reintegrate them into a new life past pain, suffering and need. He would bring them all to that place of white-light purity, leading the way, a beacon of truth and retribution. The more they suffered in the task of being set free, the greater the reward, and flinching from what needed to be done was unacceptable.

Pain and death were merely transitory states, to be moved through with as little fuss as possible, and those who weren’t willing to embrace the change would be helped along by his army of followers. The gift he offered was of immeasurable value—the gift of a cleansed soul and a new life in a new world.

His needs were simple, and had been met by divine providence. He needed followers, true believers who never questioned. He needed the strong and the young, the old and the wise. He needed disciples of unflinching character who would do what he asked, and never consider it morally repugnant. There were times when delivering death was the greatest gift of all, helping someone past his or her current state of greed and passion, into the next life of pure thought.

The Shirosama had the disciples. He had the tools, the toxins and the gases that would render the subway systems and train stations in every part of this world into instruments of disease and death. This method had been tried before and failed, due to the weakness of the followers, the lack of vision.

Or perhaps it would simply be his time. The others had tried, for all the wrong reasons, the wrong faith.

The hour was almost right. The Lunar New Year was fast approaching, and he knew that time was finally right. Year after year had passed, but now things were finally falling into place as it was ordained. He had the followers, the weapons, the plan.

All he needed now was the Hayashi Urn, the ice blue ceramic bowl that had been in the care of his family for hundreds of years. The urn that had once held the bones and ashes of his ancestor.

The year 1663 had been a time of upheaval in Edo period Japan. Amid the warring clans, the daimyos and their armies of samurai, and the battling priests, there had been one man, one god. The original Shirosama; the White Lord—the half-blind albino child of the Hayashi clan, first considered a demon and later recognized as a seer and a savior. He’d foretold the disasters that had befallen the modern world, the terrifying eclipse of power and the new worship of greed and possessions. But he had been too powerful, his vision too pure, and in the end he’d committed ritual suicide by order of the shogun. His body had been burned, his bones and ashes placed in the ice blue urn and set in the remains of his temple up in the mountains, guarded by members of the Hayashi clan.

The steps were clear, laid out by the original Shiro-sama in the scrolls kept hidden by his family. The bones and ashes would be reunited with the urn at the place of his death, and his spirit would enter a new vessel. His descendant.

And that would signal the conflagration that would cleanse the world. Armageddon, where only the pure souls would survive.

There were too many stumbling blocks. For years the present Shirosama had no idea what that crazy old woman had done with the family treasure, and once he found out that an American had it, it was proving almost impossible to get his hands on it.

He could blame the disastrous war that had ravaged his country and his family. Only the oldest male member of the Hayashi family knew the location of the ancient temple, and he’d died without passing that knowledge on to anyone but his young daughter. In an effort to safeguard the treasure, the bones and ashes had been removed from the urn and hidden in the family home, and Hana Hayashi had been sent to the country of their enemies with the priceless urn and the location of the temple ruins.

He knew it was one last test to prove his worth, and he accepted it with humility. Once his followers were able to bring him the woman and the urn, there was still the problem of locating the ruins of the original shrine. At least he had the bones and ashes of his ancestor. For the last seven years he’d been mixing the ashes with his tea, to ensure his transformation, but the chunks of whitened bones were still complete, and when they were placed in the urn and set at the site of his ancestor’s sacrifice, all would become as it should be. Even the original Shiro-sama had been a test run. It was his destiny to finish what his ancestor had started.

He sat, and let his let his eyes roll upward in his head, ignoring the scrape of the contact lenses against them. Soon.

In the end, Takashi O’Brien had settled for a small park in a run-down neighborhood, pulling the car off to the side of the road. There were probably addicts roaming around, looking for a score, and maybe gangbangers, but they’d be much more interested in his very expensive car than a woman sneaking off into the bushes. If by any chance they found Summer more interesting he could take care of that as well.

Because, of course, he watched. She shuffled into the bushes, the bedspread clutched around her, and made him solemnly promise not to look. Was she really that naive? So far she’d taken him at face value, and he could back up the Ministry of Antiquities story quite easily. He was very good at convincing people who and what he was—he often went undercover as Hispanic, Italian, Russian, Native American and any Asian background. Being a mongrel, or ainoko, as his grandfather would have termed him, gave Taka advantages. He looked different, but he could shift those differences to mirror any number of ethnic groups.

He was going to need to make a decision, fast, before the Fellowship made its move. Once he finished this job he could get the hell out of here, back to the tattered shreds of the normal life his interfering family was assembling for him. The proper Japanese bride, the proper future.

People who worked for the Committee didn’t live a normal life, though he could hardly explain that to his disapproving grandfather. His mother’s uncle, his mentor, had some idea that Takashi O’Brien’s work entailed more than his involvement with the Yakuza, Japan’s organized crime family, but he wisely never asked. As long as Taka completed the occasional duties assigned to him, no one asked questions, not even his crazy cousin Reno. Particularly when his great-uncle was head of one of the largest Yakuza families in Tokyo, a fact that filled his industrialist grandfather with horror.

Not that it mattered. Takashi could never find favor in his grandfather’s eyes no matter what he did. His blood was tainted by his American father and the eventual suicide of his beautiful, self-absorbed mother, and Shintaro Oda would never look upon his only descendent with anything but contempt.

Summer Hawthorne was heading back toward the car, her long hair dripping wet on her shoulders. He didn’t want to think about why he didn’t finish the job he’d started. He had an instinctive revulsion for drowning, even if she’d been unconscious at the time, and it could have raised unpleasant attention. That was the second tenet of working for the Committee. Do what had to be done, without flinching, without moral qualms or second-guessing. And do it discreetly.

She was shivering when she climbed back into the car, the bedspread clutched in her hands. He should have told her to toss it, but that might have given her a clue that she wasn’t going to be returning to her little bungalow anytime soon. If at all.

“I don’t suppose you brought shoes,” she said, not looking at him as she began to braid her long wet hair.

“Behind the seat.”

She reached around for them, brushing against him in the cramped front seat of the car, and something odd shivered through him. A tiny bit of awareness, which was impossible. He liked statuesque American women with endless legs, he liked delicate Japanese women with tiny breasts, he liked athletic English women and inventive French women. He liked beauty, and the drowned rat sitting beside him, even when she was done up for a museum reception, was never going to be a classic beauty.

Besides, she was a job, and he was adept at compartmentalizing his life. He did what needed to be done, and some of the things he’d had to do would make her shrink in revulsion. And he would do those things again, without question. To her.

“What’s next?” He could hear the strain in her voice, and he wondered when she’d break. He’d been expecting noisy tears anytime now, but she’d remained strangely stoic.

“My hotel in Little Tokyo, where you can sleep and I can decide what to do next.”

“Little Tokyo? Isn’t that the first place the Shirosama would be looking for you?”

“They’re not looking for me. They don’t know I exist.”

“But you’ve rescued me twice …” Her voice trailed off, suddenly uneasy, and he realized he had to calm her fears.

“The two men in the limo died in the crash—they never saw me. And I got you out of your house without anyone noticing.” That was highly unlikely if they’d been the ones who’d tried to drown her, but he was counting on her being too worn-out to put things together. By the time she was more rested he’d come up with a plausible answer. In the meantime he needed to stash her someplace safe where he didn’t have to think about her, and the small bungalow he rented inside the grounds of the hotel was as good a place as any.

“Besides, Little Tokyo is much too obvious a place to hide someone with a connection to a Japanese cultural treasure. It’s the last place they’d think to look, and no one’s going to know you’re there.”

She said nothing, simply nodded and leaned back in the leather seat. He expected her passivity was only going to last so long. He’d better be ready to move when she started asking the unanswerable questions.

The Matsura Hotel was a Los Angeles landmark. The entry was through a security laden torii gate; the landscaping was minimalist and yet preserving of everyone’s privacy. He made his unwitting hostage duck down when he drove past the security cameras, but once he’d parked the car behind the bungalow, no one had any chance of seeing her. He ushered her into the two-room building, trying not to think about how he was going to get her out again.

She stood in the middle of the living room, and he could see the raw edges of shock begin to close in on her. He wasn’t in the mood for noisy tears or awkward questions, so he simply took her arm and led her into the bedroom, ignoring her panicked start when he touched her. “You need to sleep,” he said.

She looked at him, the wary expression in her eyes like that of a cornered fox. Pretty blue eyes, he thought absently. She was past words, but he knew what she was thinking.

“I’ll be in the living room. I can sleep on the couch, but I’ll wake up if I hear even the slightest noise. You’ll be safe.” For now.

She still didn’t move, and he took her shoulders and turned her toward the bed. He didn’t want to start undressing her—she’d probably jump to the wrong conclusion and that would only make things more difficult. He had no interest in her soft, curvy body or her lush, vulnerable mouth. He just needed her to go to sleep and let him think.

“Yes,” she said in a rusty voice, reaching for the hem of the black sweatshirt he’d grabbed for her. It was huge—he assumed it had probably belonged to a former boyfriend, even though their intel had only come up with one, years prior—and she started pulling it over her head. The T-shirt came with it, which was his signal to leave before she was standing there in her underwear, with that same dazed look on her face.

“Call me if you need anything,” he said, getting the hell out of the room and closing the door before she could respond.

He stretched out on the sofa, closing his eyes and wishing to Christ he could afford to have something to drink. It had been a rough twenty-four hours, but he couldn’t take even the slightest of chances, not when things were so fucked. When this was over he could down a whole bottle of single malt Scotch, his drug of choice. And he suspected that was exactly what he was going to want to do.

He was going to have to face Madame Lambert sooner or later. He’d been ignoring her messages on his übermobile phone, but he couldn’t put it off for much longer. She was going to want to know why Summer Hawthorne wasn’t dead yet, and she wasn’t likely to accept any excuses. Nothing ever touched Isobel Lambert, marred the perfection of her beautiful face or clear, emotionless eyes. She was the epitome of what they all strived for—ruthless practicality and no weakness. She would have put a samurai to shame.

Taka wasn’t sure if it was wisdom or weakness that had stopped him tonight. He could hear Summer coughing behind the door to the bedroom. She’d swallowed more water in the hot tub than he’d thought, but he couldn’t very well have taken the time to do mouth to mouth on her with the Shirosama’s goons closing in. In the ordinary world he’d have taken her to a hospital, rather than risk a lung infection of some sort. In this world it was the best-case scenario—if she got some virulent pneumonia from her near drowning it would no longer be his job to … finish her.

Things were stable for the moment. The true Hayashi Urn was currently out of reach, though he was going to have to find out where, and damn soon. He had no idea how good a copy the urn at the Sansone was. If the brethren decided to go for it, then all hell might break loose.

Taka groaned, shoving a hand through his hair. They were going to want to know in London why he hadn’t taken care of things, and he wasn’t sure what he could give them for an answer when he didn’t know himself. He closed his eyes, listening to the sounds around him, identifying and then dismissing each noise—the traffic beyond the thick vegetation that surrounded the hotel; the sound of her breathing behind the closed door, slow and steady as she slept; the murmur of the wind; the steady beat of his own heart. He lay perfectly still, aware of absolutely everything. And then he let go, for a brief moment of respite.

Isobel Lambert stood in the window of her office, staring out into the breaking sunrise over London, a cigarette in one hand, a cell phone in the other. It was going to be another bleak, gray day, with a cold, biting rain that stung the skin and felt like ice. She hated January. But then, right now she hated everything.

She hated the small, elegant office in Kensington that she’d coveted for so long. She hated the cigarette in her hand. She hated London, but most of all she hated the Committee and the choices she had to make.

For that matter, she hated Peter Madsen. Her second in command was home in bed with his wife. He had someone to turn to to help wash away the stench of death and merciless decisions. A wife who knew too damn much, but there was nothing to be done about that. If Isobel needed Madsen—and she did—then Genevieve Spenser came with the bargain. And if Peter had complete faith in her, then so did Isobel, because Peter had complete faith in very few things.

She turned and stubbed out her cigarette, then cracked the window to try to air out the office before Peter got there. She hated smoking, had tried to quit a hundred times, but days like yesterday would send her right back. It could be worse, she supposed. People she’d started out with had turned to drink or drugs, or the kind of soulless abuse of power that Harry Thomason had wielded. It was a good thing her soul ached. The feeling proved she was still human beneath the hard shell she’d perfected.

The bitter wind swirled through her office, and she shivered, but made no attempt to close the window. She was ice inside; the temperature made no difference.

They’d argued about the girl, she and Peter, but in the end they both knew there was no choice in the matter. The young woman in Los Angeles was a liability of catastrophic proportions, and when hard choices had to be made, Madame Lambert could make them. Summer Hawthorne had no idea why she was so dangerous, and she’d have no idea why she had to die. It wouldn’t have made a bit of difference if she did.

Hana Hayashi had left the urn with her, and the knowledge of where the ancient ruins were located. The Shirosama needed both of those things to make his ritual complete. A crackpot ritual that would signal the onslaught of Armageddon, or as close to it as one powerful maniac and a hundred thousand followers could enact.

And history had already proved that that could be pretty bad.

They could trust Takashi O’Brien to do what needed to be done. He was just as much of a realist as the rest of them—you couldn’t survive in the twilight world of the Committee without being able to see things clearly, unemotionally, and make the hard choices. Summer Hawthorne was just one more in a history of hard choices, one that Taka would make without blinking.

These things took their toll eventually. Peter could no longer work in the field, while some operatives got deliberately careless, stepping in the way of a bullet. Others perfected their image as a cool, soulless automaton. No one—not even Peter Madsen—knew what roiled inside Isobel herself.

She smoothed her pale blond hair back from her perfect face. No one had any idea of her real age—in their line of work they used the best plastic surgeons—and she knew the image she presented to the outside world. A well-preserved beauty, anywhere between thirty-five and sixty, with the best face money could buy. If anyone saw her naked, her body would prove the lie, but no one ever did.

Right now she felt as if she were ninety years old, and as ugly as the turmoil inside her. She couldn’t go on like this. These decisions were part of her daily life; she couldn’t let them destroy her. Summer Hawthorne had to die—it was that simple.

Madame Isobel Lambert reached once more for her cigarettes, dry-eyed, practical, cool-headed. And if her hand shook slightly there was no one to see.

Summer never thought she would sleep, but she had, soundly. She had no idea what time it was when she woke up—her watch was somewhere back at her house and the darkened bedroom had no clock. Light was coming in from the clerestory windows overhead, muted, shadowy, and she didn’t know whether that had to do with the weather or the time of day. Her sense of reality was astonishing. It could be any time from five in the morning to five at night, and her body was giving her no signals whatsoever.

She pushed the sheets aside and climbed out of bed. She’d slept in her underwear, which in retrospect seemed ridiculous. She should have just stayed in her clothes—the baggy black T-shirt and jeans he’d brought from her house. At least he’d brought the fat jeans. She kept three sizes: fat jeans, which were miles too big for her, regular jeans and skinny ones. If he’d brought the skinny ones she would have been miserable; she needed to be ten pounds lighter to even begin to be comfortable in them. The fat jeans were way too loose, but right now she liked the extra folds of fabric around her, and she could have slept in them quite comfortably.

She didn’t remember when he’d left her in the room. Had he helped her get undressed? She didn’t think so; she’d remember if he put his hands on her. She wasn’t used to being touched by beautiful men. She wasn’t used to being touched at all, and she preferred it that way. She could remember almost nothing. At one point she’d been in his car, wrapped in her bedspread, in the next she was lying in her underwear in his bed.

She couldn’t say much for his taste in clothing, at least as far as she was concerned. While he was elegant bordering on fashion model, the clothes he’d brought her were baggy and too big, including the plain black granny panties and industrial bra circa the time she’d been on the pill and gone from a thirty-four C to a thirty-six D, thanks to hormones. He must have taken one look at her and decided she was a sloppy pudge. That shouldn’t bother her at all, given the circumstances. But it did.

A far more overriding concern was how absolutely famished she was. She hadn’t had time for dinner last night; she’d been too busy working on last-minute details for the museum reception. And during the party she’d been too caught up in circulating and trying to keep away from her mother’s slimy guru to eat. And of course, things had gone to hell in a handbasket right afterward, and she had sincerely thought she would never want to eat again.

Now she was starving.

She pulled on the baggy clothes, looking around for her shoes, then remembered she’d taken them off outside the bungalow. She needed those shoes.

The more Summer thought about it, the more she knew that getting away from her companion was as important as getting away from the Shirosama and his followers. She had no reason to doubt that it was His Plumpness who was after her, but she didn’t have any particular reason to trust her guardian angel, either. He might have snatched her from the jaws of death a couple of times, but she still couldn’t bring herself to put her life in his hands. Why would a Japanese bureaucrat appear out of nowhere like James Bond and rescue a hapless museum curator? It didn’t make sense.

The first thing she needed to do was get the hell away from him. But she couldn’t go back to her house, and she couldn’t turn to her beautiful, brainless mother, who’d probably just hand her over to her beloved master. Her stepfather, Ralph, let Lianne do whatever she wanted as long as it didn’t interfere with Summer’s half sister, Jilly. Summer had learned to take care of herself long before Lianne had met her third husband, and Summer’s mother and stepfather were hardly people to depend on. The best place was the house on Bainbridge Island—she could probably hide out there without anyone noticing until the Fellowship either stole the fake urn and disappeared, or gave up. She really didn’t care which, as long as the real ceramic bowl stayed hidden, out of greedy hands.

Summer had no purse, no identification, no money, which made escape a bit problematic. But not impossible. Once she got away from her rescuer there were a number of people she could contact. The head of the Sansone Museum, William Chatsworth, was a shameless glad-hander and publicity hound, but he would jump at the chance to get rid of her, including forking over money with no questions asked. And there was her assistant and best friend, Micah, who was more reliable. Her passport was in the desk drawer in her office, it was all the ID she’d need unless she wanted to rent a car.

If that failed, she could turn to her half sister, but that was a last resort. Sixteen-year-old Jilly Lovitz was a smart, cynical kid who loved her older sister unconditionally and harbored grave doubts about her mother’s good sense, but Summer didn’t want to put her in the middle of things or draw any attention to her. Last night with its danger and its violence didn’t seem quite real, but it was, and dragging her baby sister into this mess was the last thing Summer wanted to do. No, there had to be some other way.

But Micah would help her with no questions asked. And she didn’t need to worry about Jilly. Summer’s stepfather paid little attention to his wife’s enthusiasms, but he wouldn’t let anything happen to his teenage daughter, and Lianne probably knew that. She could offer up Summer without a qualm, but Jilly would be untouchable, thank God. And that was the most important thing in the world because Jilly was all that mattered.

She needed answers. What was so damn important about her porcelain bowl that people were willing to kidnap and kill for it? What exactly was the Hayashi Urn? And what the hell was going on?

But given the choice between getting out of there and getting answers, escape seemed the wiser choice. She really didn’t want to see her so-called rescuer again if she could help it. He stirred irrational things inside her, things she didn’t want to think about. She needed to get lost, fast, because too many people were out to get her.

And she had no guarantees that Mr. Takashi O’Brien, if that was really his name, wasn’t one of them.




5


His holiness tossed down the last of his Fresca, settled his white robes more sedately around his body and walked into the meeting room of the tabernacle on the edge of Little Tokyo, his head lowered in a prayerful attitude. The contact lenses were an annoyance—his eyes were dry and itchy, and all the artificial drops in the world didn’t seem to help. It would have been easier if he had blue eyes—going from dull brown to a colorless pink shade was more stressful on the eyes—but it was a price he paid willingly.

It didn’t matter; he didn’t have to be able to see that well. As long as he was in control he had others to do the seeing for him. His vision was clear where it counted: his divine mission to cleanse the world.

The innermost circle was already in attendance, kneeling around the edges of the room, heads bowed so low they touched the floor as he made his stately entrance, his bare feet light on the straw mat. His followers were particularly penitent today, a good thing, since they’d failed him most dismally. Two of their brethren were dead, and if he had his way the other four would follow them.

He took his seat, folding gracefully into a kneeling position despite his weight, and lowered his head in corresponding respect, keeping his expression blank.

“Who wishes to tell me of the disasters that have passed this night?” he intoned.

The one known as Brother Heinrich spoke up. He was one of the Shirosama’s favorites—a former East German gang member who’d found salvation in the True Realization Fellowship. He could be counted on to carry out the most ruthless of disciplinary actions, all without question, but this time even he had failed.

“We have no idea where she is, Master,” Brother Heinrich said in a low voice. “The car was forced off the road and the two brothers were dead inside, and she was nowhere to be seen.”

“How did Brother Samuel and Brother Kaga die?”

“They both had broken necks. Presumably from the force of the crash. They must have hit the windshield—there was blood everywhere.”

“How convenient.” He allowed some of his acidity to seep into his voice. “And the girl managed to get herself out of the trunk on her own? Do limousines come with an interior latch?”

Brother Heinrich looked confused. “I don’t know …”

“They don’t,” the Shirosama informed his follower. “And the two brothers most certainly didn’t die from the accident. Someone must have been following them, following the girl, when I told them to be extremely careful there were no witnesses.”

Brother Heinrich lowered his head further in an attitude of abject shame. He was only twenty-two, and he’d managed to kill at least seven people in his short life, three of them in the service of the Shirosama. It would be a pity to dispense with his services; very few followers had the blind dedication combined with experience to meet such special needs.

“So we can only assume someone helped Miss Hawthorne to leave our protection,” the Shirosama confirmed. “You went back to her house to see if she was there?”

“We did, your holiness,” Brother Jaipur said, sounding equally miserable. He was more dispensable than Brother Heinrich, and this wasn’t the first time he’d failed him. Maybe the Shirosama could make an example of him. “The house was empty, but clearly she’d just been there. There was water surrounding her bath and her bedroom was in shambles.”

“If a woman is running from what she mistakenly perceives as danger, she doesn’t stop to take a bath. Someone else must have been involved. I am afraid Dr. Hawthorne is in very grave peril. It is our solemn duty to find her and bring her under our protection,” he intoned. “If any harm comes to her then we should bear the blame.” He allowed his milky gaze to rest on the four miscreants, one by one, making it clear that the “we” was only a figure of speech.

Brother Jaipur was foolish enough to speak up. “Shouldn’t we just retrieve the Hayashi Urn and let the girl fend for herself? Do we really need her?”

The Shirosama turned to look at him, his long, silent gaze a reproach that turned Brother Jaipur’s dark complexion pale. “We must care for all those unfortunates who have not yet seen the light. We need to lead her to paradise any way we can. There are no accidents. She was placed as the caretaker of the Hayashi Urn for a reason, and we must honor that.” He wasn’t about to share why he needed to get her under his control—that knowledge was his alone. As far as his followers knew, the Shirosama’s wisdom was infallible. The plan had indeed come to him in a vision, but that vision had left out a crucial element. Where the final ascendance was to take place.

But he knew who held the answer. And he would bleed and burn it out of her if he must, once he got his hands on her.

“Then her escape would have been preordained,” Brother Jaipur said.

The Shirosama’s pale, bleached hands were hidden beneath the folds of his white robe and no one could see his clenched fists. His expression remained serene. “Brother Jaipur, it was hardly an escape when we only meant to protect her,” he chided him gently. Brother Heinrich could strangle him—he’d taught the young German that squeezing the traitorous breath from doubters was an act of generosity, helping them escape their karma and move on to the next level. And Brother Heinrich enjoyed using his hands. “We make no mistakes, but unworthy and incompetent followers can be deluded by the snares of evil and allow the forces of the unrighteous to triumph. And if that happens, we must redeem the unworthy.”

All four of the fallen monks hung their heads in shame. They wouldn’t resist their punishment; the quickest path to paradise was to be cleansed by the Shirosama’s judgment. But while Brother Jaipur was dispensable, both Brother Sammo and Brother Telef were brilliant chemists with unquestioning devotion. The death of Jaipur would merely sharpen their focus.

“We must find the poor girl,” the Shirosama murmured, using his most hypnotic voice. “Look for guidance—our way will be made clear. I will visit her mother and see if the girl has been in touch, and I will meet with the younger sister as well. She could prove helpful in persuading Dr. Hawthorne of our sincerity. In the meantime, the rest of you must find out who helped her and where she is hiding. We can’t allow anything to come in the way of the True Ascension.”

The men rose to their feet, and he could feel the palpable relief in the room as they began to back away from his presence in abject humility. He savored the moment, until his quarry had almost reached the door.

“Brother Jaipur,” he said in the most gentle of voices. “You stay.”

No one looked at the hapless Brother Jaipur as they shuffled out—he had already left them on his trip to paradise. Brother Heinrich, without a word or a sign, moved to one side, knowing he would be needed. No, the Shirosama couldn’t dispense with Heinrich. Not yet. In his own way he was just as valuable as the chemists. Who would have thought the same calling would attract German street thugs and brilliant scientists? Once the Shirosama reached ascendancy all would be made clear. Until then he would simply have to make do.

The last acolyte closed the door, leaving the room silent, with only the Shirosama and his two followers inside.

“Brother Heinrich,” he said gently.

Brother Jaipur didn’t scream, accepting his fate, going to his heavenly reward with the blissful assurance that all was well, and the excruciating pain would cleanse him.

Brother Heinrich met his master’s eyes over his brother’s corpse, looking for approval like a stray dog. The Shirosama nodded benevolently.

“Find the girl, Brother Heinrich,” he said. “Bring her to the loving safety of our community. And kill anyone with her.”

“Yes, your holiness.”

The Shirosama nudged Brother Jaipur’s body with his bare foot. “And get some of the brothers to dispose of this mess, would you? His soul is already in paradise—get rid of the garbage left behind.”

He was really quite cross, when he shouldn’t allow himself to be. Now that they’d located the urn he was getting impatient. There were only a few short days until the onset of the Lunar New Year. He needed the girl as well, to complete the ritual and perform the ascendancy.

He was getting tired of waiting.

Summer opened the door to the bedroom very slowly, as silently as she could, not wanting to attract any attention in case her rescuer was asleep. The front room was empty; in fact, there was no sign of him anywhere. The pillows on the sofa looked untouched, so either he hadn’t slept there or he was very neat. It was dark outside, with a light rain falling, and her best guess was that it was late afternoon, and Takashi O’Brien was nowhere to be found.

She didn’t hesitate, sprinting across the living room in her bare feet and grabbing her shoes, which were set neatly by the door. His weren’t there, which meant he was gone, or so she hoped. But how far away was he, and for how long?

She opened the front door, peering out into the rain. She had no earthly idea where she should go. She could always make it out onto the street and see if she could find a cop, though L.A.’s finest were never there when you needed them. She could try to hitchhike, but that might be even worse than getting kidnapped by the Shirosama. Maybe she could just walk until she found a pay phone that had survived urban blight. Better than trying to find the main building of this rambling hotel complex. She didn’t want to risk running into Takashi O’Brien.

She hadn’t spent much time in Little Tokyo, but if it was anything like Chinatown it would be relatively safe, well-lit and well-preserved. Unfortunately, the True Realization Fellowship had their headquarters somewhere within this relatively small neighborhood, and the last thing she wanted was to run into one of them.

But she couldn’t stay here and do nothing. The more she thought about it the less likely her rescuer’s story seemed. How had he found her in the first place? How had he managed to save her without being seen by the Shirosama’s men? And why in the world would anybody want to harm her? While Lianne and Ralph Lovitz were about as powerful and wealthy as anyone in L.A. society, most people had no idea of her connection to them. She herself had nothing of value—apart from an obscure Japanese bowl that was now ostensibly out of her reach.

No, scratch that. She’d foolishly told her rescuer that it wasn’t the real one. Which meant he needed her to find it, and chances were he could be just as lethal as her mother’s guru. More so, in fact. The True Realization Fellowship simply wanted her; as far as she knew they didn’t actually want to harm her. But her companion had killed. And he sounded as if he had no objection to killing again if need be.

She couldn’t afford to hesitate. She took off down the winding drive, keeping as close to the carefully planted vegetation as she could, skirting the other bungalows until she made it to the front entrance, guarded by the bright red Japanese torii gate. The city traffic was heavy, as always, but she crossed at the first intersection, heading toward the row of tiny shops and restaurants. Someone would either let her use the house phone or tell her where a pay phone was.

The one asset she still had with her was her brain—she’d memorized her phone card numbers. She could call Micah at the museum—he was probably wondering where the hell she was—and get him to pick her up, bring her passport and even front her some money and drive her car over. She had a second set of keys in her desk, and with any luck the Volvo was still sitting in the parking lot up in the Santa Monica Mountains.

She had no luck until the third restaurant, a tiny noodle shop, and by that time she was thoroughly soaked. The woman at the counter didn’t understand much English, but with a combination of pantomime and pleading Summer got what she wanted—a pay phone at the back of restaurant, just off the kitchen.

She was ready to faint with hunger—the smells were making her crazy—but she had no money. She’d simply have to wait. At least Micah answered his private phone line immediately, and after a few panicked questions he settled down to write a list, and promised to meet her as soon as he could get there, probably an hour, given that it was raining and rush hour. She had to be satisfied with that.

She didn’t think she was going to be able to explain to the proprietor that in an hour she’d have more than enough money to buy everything on the menu; their initial exchange had been difficult enough and the old lady had been reluctant. Summer ducked back behind the wall, into the shadows. People were coming in and out of the shop, the flow of Japanese and English incomprehensible from her spot, the smell of the food a torment that she had no choice but to endure till rescue came. She was so busy concentrating on the front of the shop that she didn’t hear the kitchen door open, and then it was too late.

“What’s up?” The cook was no more than a teenager, with several piercings, bleached hair and a friendly expression on his face. He sounded as if he’d grown up in the Valley, so at least with him the language difference wouldn’t be a factor.

“I’m waiting for someone,” Summer said. “Do you mind if I stay back here?”

“My mom would bust a gut if she caught you,” he said cheerfully, and Summer’s growling stomach tightened. “But she stays out by the counter—she doesn’t trust anyone except me, and that’s only sometimes. Go on in the kitchen. You can wait there.”

“Thank you!” Summer breathed. Being near all that food was going to be an even greater torment, but at least she’d be safely out of sight for the time being.

The kitchen, really nothing more than a prep table and a couple of huge stoves, was a mass of steam and smells, and Summer found a stool in a corner, as far away from temptation as she could manage. When the kid came back in he took one look at her, grinned and said, “You hungry?”

Pride demanded she say no, but after the last twenty-four hours pride had no place in her life. “Starving,” she said. “I have no money, but my friend is coming and he’ll pay …”

“No problem,” the kid said, dishing up a simmering bowl of noodles and squid and handing it to her, plus a pair of chopsticks. Summer didn’t hesitate. She’d spent her life trying to avoid tentacles, but at that moment she’d eat a live cow.

Her newest savior busied himself dishing up noodles, refilling her own bowl once she’d emptied it, this time with chicken, thank God. He made several trips in and out of the dining room, and Summer ate until she couldn’t move, then leaned back against the kitchen wall, feeling more human and hopeful than she had since this whole nightmare had begun. It had been close to an hour since she’d called. Micah should be there anytime, and she needed to be on the lookout for him.

The kid came back into the kitchen with a tray full of empty bowls, setting it by the sink, and she was just about to offer to work on the dishes when the door opened again.

“I’m sorry,” the teen said, sounding truly regretful, as two white-robed brethren headed toward her.

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.




6


If 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.

Or maybe both.

Isobel Lambert stubbed out her cigarette, hating the taste in her mouth, the smell on her fingers, hating everything. She needed to go back to the doctor, see if there was something new she could try. She’d already gone through the patch, gum, nasal spray, hypnosis, cognitive therapy, clove cigarettes, and everything else under the sun, but nothing had stuck. She’d manage a day, a week, even three months one time, then something would happen and she’d pick them up again.

Her therapist had a glib explanation: her job. Her life was all about death. The giving of it, the ordering of it. By smoking she could atone by seeking her own death in a slower, more insidious way.

Just so much bullshit, Madame Lambert had told the good doctor. If smoking made it easier to accept the hard choices she had to make, then she’d go up to two or three packs a day. But it didn’t. Smoking just kept her hands from shaking.

O’Brien hadn’t done his job, and the bodies were piling up. Some civilian had gone over a cliff in the girl’s car, and Takashi had had to take out God knows how many of that sicko Shirosama’s mindless goons. She’d asked Taka what the fuck he thought he was doing, but he’d been avoiding her messages, and in the end, it was up to him. He had experience and cool determination, and if he was keeping the girl alive there must be a good reason.

Maybe it had been too soon to put him out in the field again, but she hadn’t had much choice. O’Brien was tailor-made for the job—he could speak and read Japanese, he had the connections, the culture. No one else even came close. His body had pretty much recovered from some of the most advanced torture the modern world could devise, and his sangfroid had never been an issue. So why didn’t he finish the job? He must still think there was a way to salvage the situation, but from half a world away Isobel couldn’t see many signs of hope. But strategy, she knew. And the only way to stop a deluded megalomaniac, if you couldn’t get close enough to kill him, was to take away his toys.

Summer Hawthorne had no idea that’s all she was. A toy, a pawn in the hands of some very dangerous people, and both sides were deadly, experienced and ready to kill her before the other could get their hands on her.

Takashi must be convinced there was something to be gained from keeping her alive, or the situation would be done with and Isobel could finish whatever open pack of cigarettes she was rationing, go back to her elegant apartment and break something.





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