Stunned and half blinded from blood flowing from his cut head, he still had the tenacity to reach for the machine gun. He got it, but as he was turning toward her, she picked up the ice pick and sent it sailing through the air. The point entered his ear and penetrated his brain.
A difficult shot; only her proficiency with the kung fu shuriken, the miniature throwing knives, enabled her to do it. That and her Kill-13 high, that multiplied her power and accuracy.
The thug beside her, amazingly, still hadn't given up. He had crushed balls, a doubly broken jaw, and a shattered arm, yet he tried to grab her. He was a monster, six and a half feet tall, 300 pounds; perhaps his pain threshhold was high. She crushed his throat with her heel, and finally he succumbed.
Just as well. She did not want to leave anyone alive behind her, both because of her fury at their attack on Danny, and her need to conceal her whereabouts from Blakrev.
There was one positive aspect: now she had a car. She half-carried Danny to it and laid him on the back seat. She had no driver's license and had done little driving, but this was an emergency. She could make do.
She drove to the doctor's house, circuitously to be sure she wasn't being tailed. She stalled the car several times in traffic before she got the hang of it. Apparently she had now eliminated Blakrev's backup party. But she would have to keep moving.
The doctor was amenable. He had no concern with Ilunga's mind or conscience; it was her body he appreciated. And it was an excellent body; she was at pains to keep it in shape. He put Danny under sedation, fished out the bullet, gave him plasma, and took Ilunga into a locked office for payment. She was so glad to have Danny taken care of that for once in her life she didn't really mind the act. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine it was Jason Striker—and then was furious at herself for that effort. What was Striker to her? A honky, the Man...
Yet there had been a time. He had just learned of the kidnapping of his Chinese fiancée, and perhaps had known in that moment that the girl would never be released alive. Ilunga had comforted him, giving of herself in a fashion she had not before realized was possible, and somehow the ugliness of sex had become transformed. Was this what it was to love a man?
But a white man! How was it possible?
Afterward, the doctor asked: "Am I the first to have you—and not get kicked?"
"Yes," she said. It was a lie, but not much of one. Few men had any sexual life after her, and she had done her best to make it none. But there had been two occasions of rape, and she had never run down all the men involved in those. Too, upon occasion she had had to buy favors, as now. Since it was obviously important to the doctor, and since she wanted Danny to have the best care, she told the lie and agreed with him.
"Your brother should not be moved for twenty-four hours," the doctor said, satisfied as much by her statement as her body. "I'll keep him here. But tomorrow you'll have to take him." Take him where? Her apartment was a disaster; she could not go near it now. She had always kept her Kill-13 supply with her, so at least she could survive, but everything else was lost. She had no money.
She had only one day to come up with a safe, cheap, secret place for Danny to recuperate. Who would help her? Who could help her, without Blakrev finding out?
In her desperation, she could think of only one man; Jason Striker.
Locating him was a problem, but at last she tracked him down: in the mansion of a millionaire, doing bodyguard duty. The house was mostly dark. An older man, evidently the proprietor, sat before a blazing fire in one lighted room with a drink of some sort in his hand. His head was bandaged. She entered silently, avoiding that room, not wanting to advertise her whereabouts unnecessarily, and finally heard Striker's voice coming from a darkened room. "Thera, I don't want to marry you!"
It was almost like a physical attack, the pang of raw jealousy she felt. She had no claim on the man, and wanted none. He was white. All she wanted was his help for Danny. And yet...
"I promised myself I'd have you!" the girl's voice said. Then there was only the sound of bodies in clandestine motion. Obviously, Striker was having at some rich white bitch—and Ilunga couldn't stand it. She fumbled for the light switch, determined to expose them.
"Now we're being coy!" Striker said.
Ilunga paused, for an instant imagining that he was addressing her. But that was impossible. She finally found the light and turned it on.
Suddenly she could see; she suffered no blindness because her night vision was so poor that her eyes did not adapt. Her expectations were fully confirmed. Striker stood there, pants down beside a full-bodied white siren.
Striker was a Nordic giant, about thirty years old, clean-shaven with a crewcut He was not extremely tall—perhaps six feet one inch-but he weighed about 225 pounds without an ounce of fat. All his muscles were etched on him, from his wide shoulders to his heavy calves. He had a narrow waist, but rather wide hips—not at all effeminate, but essential for power. His neck would have been grotesque in a less developed man: a stout column of gristle and sinew that made his bead look small. He had high cheekbones, bronzed by the sun; a prominent cleft chin; and a large nose that had been broken and reset more than once. There were a number of old scars on his face and body—and several fresh ones, including one hell of a love-bite on the junction of his neck and shoulder. And one side of his head was bandaged.
Striker jumped clumsily out of his trousers, almost taking a tumble, and staggered toward Ilunga. He limped slightly, unconsciously favoring his right knee, which had probably been often injured. Without effort she put the flat of her foot in his belly, overcoming the temptation to hit him in the crotch, and shoved him back. She needed his help; she couldn't let emotion get in the way.
"Ilunga!" he cried foolishly.
Then the white whore came up, shaking everything she had. There was something intriguing about it despite the color. Again, Ilunga didn't want to get sidetracked; she had to talk to Striker and enlist his help in a hurry, and squabbling with his buxom playmate of the hour was a waste of time.
"Get your black ass out of here!" the floozy demanded.
"Who is this girl?" Ilunga asked Striker imperturbably.
"Thera Drummond, judo novice," he said, embarrassed.
But the girl wanted to quarrel, so Ilunga had to oblige her. It was the only way to eliminate the distraction so she could talk to Striker.
She kicked the bitch cleanly on the bouncy posterior. The girl actually tried to grab Ilunga's foot, attempting a clumsy throw. Ilunga refrained from laughing; it was necessary to make allowance for the inexperience of the pretty child. No need to hurt her. Let her try a few grips, then break the holds easily. Black cat playing with white mouse.
But Ilunga was not a play-combatant, and soon tired of the game. She landed a foot in the girl's stomach, calculated to do no damage, then got on top of her. With one hand Ilunga pinched a white nipple, with the other she put pressure on the most sensitive area of the genital. A double pain-hold when fully exerted. However, this was not fully exerted, just a token. Shame to destroy a body like this. White it was, but well formed; there was a certain pleasure in handling it. Even the silky hair falling over Ilunga's arm had its qualities; cut short, it would never hold an Afro, yet the texture was pleasant.
The girl screamed. Ilunga let her go; the hold could not have been that harsh. Then she realized. It had not been pain that made the girl react, but pleasure. That body was made for one purpose, but this was not the time. Not in front of a man.
The white girl got out, leaving Ilunga with little more than the memory of the feel of that lush body under her hands. God, there were times when she was tempted...
Actually, the girl had not been a bad fighter, and she had performed cleanly. What form would the encounter have taken if there hadn't been a man watching?
But now to business. Quickly she sketched her encounter with Danny and the Blakrev thugs. As she described Danny's condition she felt ridiculous tears coming to her eyes. Wh
at shame, to plead before this honky—but it had to be done.
"I can't help you," he said.
And there it was. She had broken up his liaison with the white tart, and sent the girl packing, and now he was getting back at her. Why hadn't she waited? The rate he had been going, another minute would have abated his lust and he would have been ready to talk. Now it had to be the hard way.
"Once you were in need," she said, "and I helped you. This is all I'll ever ask of you. I never asked anything of a white man before." It galled her like hell, but she could still picture Danny, bleeding.
"I want to help you," he said. "It's just that I'm backlogged on prior commitments. I'd have to have your brother in my apartment and stand guard over him for weeks—and I'm going to be out of the country in that time. I can't call my trip off. There's no explanation I could make that wouldn't arouse suspicion and betray your brother's whereabouts. Students are in and out all the time. It just wouldn't work."
He was protesting too much. What was the use? There was no help here. Honkies didn't help blacks.
"But I can tell you who could do just as good a job. He paused. "No, I forgot, he's in Japan. Let's see. Ah, I know! A black man, and a martial artist. I can call him—"
Hope dawned. "Who?"
"Mustapha."
She looked up, surprised. "The Mustapha? You know him?"
He nodded "I met him in a tournament. We aren't close, but I think we understand each other. I think he'd like you."
That again. He'd take one look at her ass, and want it. Striker himself was the only man who wasn't that way. He liked sex, but it was second or third among his priorities, instead of first. With a black woman, at any rate. That white siren... "Most men do like me. I don't like them."
"I know. But he has merit under his braggadocio, and a kind of heart. If any man is worth—"
"Don't tell me my business!" she snapped. "Make the call."
Now Striker was pimping for a black man. Where would it end? There was a phone in the library. Striker called. There was some static with a secretary or someone else running interference, but he bulled through. "Jason Striker. S-T-R-I-K-E-R. Just give him the name. I'll hang on."
He hadn't been bluffing. In less than a minute Mustapha himself was evidently on the line. "Yes, it was some time, down in Nicaragua!" Striker said. "Remember that banquet? I know, I threw up too!"
At last he got down to business. "Look, I have a woman here. She saved my life, and now she needs help. I'm tied up. Well, it's her brother. He got shot by a black militant outfit. I know you're militant yourself. So is Ilunga—one of the best. I-L-U-N-G-A. But her brother couldn't take it. He tried to drop out, and they sent an extermination crew after him. Blakrev. Yes, but you know this sort of thing only damages your cause. We all want equality, but the white racists pounce on every episode, play it up big. All she wants is a safe place for him while he recovers. Thanks, Mustapha! I knew you'd understand. You'll like her; she's some woman. Karate. Equivalent to fourth dan, I'd say. And kung fu. Probably can beat the bejesus out of most of the self-styled sifus around. One thing, though; she's an addict. But it's not anything that gets in her way. Kill-13. Okay, I'll put her on."
He handed the phone to Ilunga. "Hello," she said shortly. Mustapha's familiar voice came through loud and clear. "Listen babe, I know you. I'm a fan of yours from way back. But you kicked one of my sparring partners once..."
"I don't kick black men unless they push their luck."
"Like walking in the park? He's a honky. 'S'okay, small loss. But I don't want anything like that happening to me, see?"
"Understood." She knew what was coming next.
"It's going to be some trouble, if I help your brother."
"Understood," she repeated. There had never been any question but that it would come to this; she had no other coin. She did know how to make a man happy, when she had to. It was part of knowing how to make a man unhappy.
"Every day he's here." He had big ideas.
"Yes." All things considered, it was a fair bargain. No one would suspect a ranking boxer like Mustapha.
"I'll send a friend for him. Where is he?"
She told him. She had to chance it, at this point.
"You come straight to my place. Now," he said.
"Yes." She hung up, disgusted.
"I'm sorry," Striker said. "It would not have been this way with Hiroshi, my Japanese friend. He's an old man. If there had been any way do it myself—"
"I know. That's why I came to you." She could have prostituted herself to Striker and justified it to herself on the grounds of helping Danny. And Striker would have helped without demanding such payment. Now she'd really have to do it, with no personal satisfaction whatever. She shrugged. "So I pay. It's worth it, this one time. Thanks."
"I still owe you," he said. "Some other time."
Some other time... She left without further comment.
Mustapha was like the doctor, only worse. He had bigger appetites and much more stamina. He wanted to talk at her in that mile a minute way he had, then make love, then talk some more.
Evidently his knowledge that she was the castrator of men was highly stimulating to him, so long as he was assured she would not practice her art on him.
But Danny was brought safely, ensconced in Mustapha's large apartment, and treated well. That was what counted.
Mustapha was a big man, taller than Striker, well muscled and handsome. He had been a contender for the world heavyweight championship in boxing, but had been denied his actual shot at the title because of his militant beliefs. The denial had been illegal; he had gone to court and won his case. But by that time his best years were past; younger men had come up, and Mustapha's chance was gone. He had reason to be bitter.
Still, he seemed to live well, and he was still a fine black figure of a man. His facial injuries had had the attention of a plastic surgeon. He dressed in flashy clothes and spent money freely, too freely. He was often reputed to be in debt.
Next morning, weary from a workout fully as rigorous as any karate program, she went in to see Danny—and he was gone. The bed was empty.
Mustapha entered behind her. "He's okay," he said. "He's being taken care of. But his future depends on you."
Ilunga stood motionless, realizing that she had been betrayed—again. While she submitted to this man's revels, her brother had been quietly taken away. But she could not act.
"I want you to know," Mustapha said, "that I don't like this part."
"I don't like your black ass either!" she snapped. "You try to touch me again—!"
He stepped back, guarding his crotch. "That's not what I meant. I'm with Blakrev, of course. But Striker was my friend, close as a honky can count, and I had to lie to him. When he said you could deliver your brother, I had to do it. Or I'd be dead tomorrow."
Not to mention the ass he would have passed up! But what could she do? They had Danny. But she grasped at one straw. "Striker didn't know?"
"He didn't know. Honkies are naive about these things. Keep him that way, and he won't get hurt."
White Striker had not betrayed her, but black Mustapha had. After having his night with her. That was what she called a royal fuck! Striker was not the only one who had been naive! Now she was helpless. One act of vengeance against one Blakrev agent, and Danny was dead. "I thought all you wanted was to kill Danny," she said dully.
"That was all," he agreed. "To make a real fine example of him, right in the street. Until yesterday morning, when you wiped out five Blakrevs in as many minutes. Then we wanted you. Your brother's small-fry; we can use someone else for the example."
And she had put herself right into their hands. Incredible coincidence—or was it? Mustapha had been at pains to exonerate Striker, which could mean that Striker was the real betrayer after all. They didn't want his cover blown, so they had arranged for Mustapha to take the rap. Good white agents for a black revolution must be hard to come by.
Mustapha had sa
id Striker was naive. But she remembered how Striker had taken on the Demon cult, fully as formidable as this Blakrev thing, and destroyed it in a few weeks. And they had had Striker's fiancée hostage. Naive? Like a mongoose among snakes. Blakrev had her. Why did they care what she know about Striker? If they intended to kill her, they could readily do so now.
"You're working it out, aren't you," Mustapha said. "You have talents, talents we can use. You killed five of ours. You'll kill twice that many working for us."
Yes, of course. She would be a good asset to such a movement. She would have to play along. Until she could rescue Danny. Meanwhile, she would learn all she could. If Striker was the one who had done this to her, there would be a reckoning.
"Big Banana wants to rap with you," Mustapha said. "Come with me and watch your tongue, woman. We'll see who gives the orders around here."
The leader of Blakrev? It had not taken her long to obtain audience with the top. But that, too, was suspicious.
She was taken in a black (naturally!) limousine. She sat in a back compartment, all to herself, like a rich bitch with a sealed-off chauffeur. Black curtains prevented her from seeing out. She took a deep breath as the car took off, glad to be rid of Mustapha at last, and the overpowering temptation to smash his arrogant balls—and realized too late that there was gas in here. Before she could even attempt to break out, she lost consciousness.
When she woke, she could not tell how long it had been; but her body said many hours. She was hungry, and her bladder was full. She needed a refreshment stop. They were zooming along a superhighway, by the sound of it.
She tapped on the glass partition that separated her from the chauffeur. The man looked around and nodded—and it was not the same driver. She couldn't even be certain it was the same car. A long trip, indeed!