"Van Lustbader, Eric - Zero(eng)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Van Lustbader Eric)

Then he was tumbling, tumbling. In his mind's eye, he saw that face again. That haunting face! And for the first time today, he put a name to it: Zero.
A moment later, the Mustang screamed as if it were a living thing. Flames blew through the passenger compartment, igniting the world.
Hiroshi Taki lay bare to the waist. The sliding screens out to the garden were open so that the cool night air could caress his flesh.
There was an old man, Hiroshi thought, with untold power. And now he is dead.
Three days ago, Hiroshi had watched the last several moments of his father's life. He had seen the knowledge that he desired most in all the world in his father's eyes. It was the knowledge of the decades. There were many men within JapanЧpowerful, wealthy, influential menЧwho would certainly divest themselves of the trappings of their exalted station in life to be the recipient of that knowledge.
Yet it was Hiroshi Taki, eldest son of Wataro Taki, who was to be the recipient of this invaluable treasure trove of information that had helped build one of the most powerful shadow empires in the world.
Or so Hiroshi believed. Then a stroke had paralyzed the left side of his father's bodyЧand mind. The knowledge was still there, to be sure. Hiroshi could sense it, a dark and deadly fish in the sea of pain that filled Wataro Taki's eyes.
It was not fair, Hiroshi had thought, for a human being like his father to endure such pain and frustration. Just as it was unfair for a man such as himself to be denied his birthright. It was not fair. But it was their karma, father and eldest son.
Of his brothers, Joji and Masashi, Hiroshi Taki had no thoughts at all. They were irrelevant. The birthright, the heritage of information was to be his. And now, with every moment, it was sinking further and further away from him. Until he was consumed with the desire to reach down inside his father's mind and extract the precious knowledge.
Wataro Taki's death three days ago had robbed Hiroshi of everything. It had taken away the awful pain. And it had obliterated everything of value within the old man's head.
I have been cheated, Hiroshi thought now in the darkness and silence of the night.
Unconsciously, his fists clenched at his side, brushing the flesh, dusky as smoke, of the slim girl who lay naked beside him. She stirred, her sleep momentarily disturbed, and Hiroshi made a soothing sound until she quietened.
I am the new oyabun of the Taki-gumi. I must take over the mantle of godfather of the Yakuza clans that my father fought for thirty years to obtain and maintain. And he has left me defenseless. Enemies abound all around me. Now that he is gone, they will be like vultures, circling in for the kill. I must protect the family, the clan, the power. But how? I do not even know whom I can trust.
Hiroshi Taki lay atop his futon and watched the parade of shadows marching across the beamed ceiling.
Outside, a figure was using the trees, never for a moment putting feet to ground. On the roof, the figure crossed the house, swinging down into one of the darkened formal rooms.
The figure, dressed in matte black, was hooded. Where a band of flesh appeared at the level of the eyes, it had been smeared with charcoal. The backs of the hands were similarly coated. The feet were covered in thin, crepe-soled shoes.
Still, the house was far from deserted, and the figure had to be extremely careful. Well-trained Yakuza, as the kobunЧ or soldiersЧof the Taki-gumi were, had to be considered a precious commodity.
As a shadow, the figure passed through the formal rooms, the semiformal, the informal ones. Until it had made its way into the intimate rooms. The figure was comfortable in them all, feeling their space, the differing aspects of quietude which, as much as the architecture, defined them. The shadow had seen several kobun, but they had not seen it. Aware of their approaching presence, the shadow clung to the dark places where the other shadows abided. By closing off its spirit, it simply ceased to be, and they passed it by.
Hiroshi Taki turned to the girl lying beside him. He watched the even breathing, the soft rise and fall of her firm breasts. He thought not of her name but, rather, of the pleasure she gave him. It seemed now the only constant in his uncertain world.
He sighed deep in his throat, pressed his lips against hers. Her warmth transferred itself into him and he felt himself relaxing. There was a way through the awful maze confronting him. There was always a way. Wasn't that something his father had taught himЧinstilled in all his sonsЧyears ago? Yes. Even enemies could, under the proper conditions, be recruited. Hadn't his father told them of the very man who had come to kill him many years ago and had stayed to save his life? Hiroshi had actually met that man. Such a miracle could be repeated, Hiroshi decided. Perhaps he could recruit that same man. He had saved Wataro Taki's life; could he do any less for his eldest son?
Yes, Hiroshi decided. That was just what he was going toЧ
The crash, like a clap of thunder inside the room, jerked him up.
"WhatЧ?"
The roof beams, shattering, rained shards of wood, plaster, tiles, down upon him. Moonlight canting in like a spotlight. And something following it down, glinting and hard. Impaling itself in the center of the sleeping girl's breast.
The poor thing coughed, arched up. Her eyes opened wide, a rictus suffused her face even as she reached futilely for Hiroshi.
A shape seemed to have leaped down the ethereal shaft of moonlight.
Hiroshi, squinting into the looming shadows, said, "WhoЧ?"
A little laugh, low and dark as obsidian.
"Zero."
Hiroshi felt his stomach heave. He was abruptly dizzy. Zero! The assassin who for years had been terrorizing the
Yakuza ranks. Why was he here? Who had sent him? And who was he? Someone who was ultimate with the Yakuza, it was rumored. Yet none could identify him.
He could hear the girl's last gurglings, reminding him of his own mortality; they filled up the room with death.
Hiroshi Taki, his right hand buried beneath the futon on which he sat, whipped it free of the covering and brandished a jitte. It was the traditional dagger first used by policemen at the end of Japan's feudal era. Between the hilt and the blade was a guard with a pair of steel horns jutting forward on either side. Hiroshi Taki was a master of this weapon.
Now, as the blade of Zero's longsword swept down upon him, Hiroshi drove the jitte upward so that the sword was caught between the dagger's own blade and one of its side horns. He twisted, and the longsword blade buried itself in the futon beside him.
Immediately he disengaged, trying to slam the side of the jitte into the assailant's throat. Zero struck his wrist a numbing blow, jerked the katana free and, with the same motion, brought the blade singing in toward Hiroshi's face.
Hiroshi, prepared for the strategy, used the jitte in the same manner as he had before. He employed the anvil, in an attempt to break the katana in two with the jitte. But Zero maneuvered the longsword so that the dagger clanged harmlessly against the blade. Hiroshi sliced desperately upward, sure that he would cut into the man's throat and end this threat forever.
But in a countermove too swift for even Hiroshi to follow, Zero deflected the jitte, twisted the longsword so that it lifted Hiroshi's weapon out of his grip, flung it clattering across the room.
Now Hiroshi watched with fevered eyes as Zero's gleaming longsword crossed the plane of the moonlight. A cold fire leaped through the room. When it reached the longsword's tip, the weapon blurred and Hiroshi cried out.
The first of one hundred small but deep wounds opened beneath the expert, surgeon's blade. Blood spurted. Hiroshi screamed, staring into the shrouded face. He struggled to free himself, but Zero had pinioned his arm with a superhuman strength.
Hiroshi heaved with the power of desperation and bit his lip as the pain lashed through him. Through his tears, he could see the bone popped unnaturally from its socket and knew that he had dislocated his shoulder.
"Who are you? Who are you?" he gasped.
He reached upward with his free hand, bloodying it on the longsword. Got a grip on the shirtfront. Peering, trying to pierce the darkness. "Who are you?" At the point of death, needing to know the secret. Because he thought he recognized . . .
That laugh again, chilling him.
"Zero."
In other parts of the estate, Hiroshi's men were awake, grabbing for their weapons, running toward his quarters. But by the time they arrived, there were only two corpses staring sightlessly into the silver brightness pouring through the hole in the rooftop. And it seemed to the stupefied onlookers that this place had been visited by the judgment of Buddha.

BOOK ONE
INKA
TO CATCH FIRE