DEATH (The Justice Cycle Book 1) by J Kiefer (best classic books to read TXT) 📗

for!” he growled, caressing his injured jaw. “It is the truth, mon ami, and you know it!”

Furious, the Shogun lashed out with his sword. Their blades clashed again, as they had done countless times before.

Four

Amanda managed to reach the river, but the hope that had so recently been in her heart had faded. All that remained was an icy cold numbness. She had reached the river and had nowhere left to run. She closed her eyes and exhaled, taking in the sounds and smells around her as she resigned herself to the inevitable.

She could hear the Stalker’s heavy breathing as he drew closer. Still in his frenzied state, he tore and fumed through the trees like a wild animal. He broke through the tree line and found her quietly waiting.

He smiled, and she couldn’t help noticing that he was handsome. Why she thought of this now was a mystery to her. In a few minutes, it wouldn’t matter anyway.

It was then that it hit her. She did know him.

“Why?” she asked incredulously.

He cocked his head to the side, as if considering her question. “Because I can,” he answered.

The Shogun saw all that was happening to Amanda and hated himself for his lack of vigilance. In the past he never would have been waylaid by such an obvious trap, but for the last few years, he’d felt his connection to Tzedakah wavering. To the rest of the universe, it was imperceptible, but to him, it was glaring. It was a true sign that the end was near. Deep down, he longed for that end.

He deflected a strike from the Musketeer and followed it up with a few of his own. The dance continued on with neither man able to gain an advantage over the other. The Musketeer swiftly lunged at him, and he parried the attack to the left while continuing his momentum into a downward slash. The Musketeer planted his feet and lifted his blade up, deflecting the blow.

The Shogun hacked repeatedly at the Musketeer’s blade, each blow driving his opponent farther and farther down toward the ground. He was not thinking, just reacting, and in his fury, he had left his stomach open. The Musketeer noticed his vulnerability, and before the Shogun could correct it, the Musketeer impaled him with a fierce jab from his rapier.

The Shogun, ignoring the pain, struck down, his blade cutting deeply into the Musketeer’s shoulder. Grimacing from the fiery pain in his shoulder, the Musketeer leaned into his own blade, driving it deeper into the Shogun’s stomach.

Exerting all his will, the Shogun planted his foot on the Musketeer’s chest and shoved him backward, forcefully dislodging both weapons. They both lost their balance and tumbled over.

“Why do you fight on so?” asked the Musketeer. “You are near the end. Soon none of this will matter.”

“It matters to Amanda,” replied the Shogun.

“Oh, spare me the sentimental hero nonsense!” he spat back, rising to his feet. “She is nothing but a passing flicker in the inferno of life. What does it matter how she is extinguished?”

“It matters.” The Shogun got to his feet as well.

“Not anymore.” The Musketeer smirked. “I will enjoy ending you, Shogun, but now is not the time for such diversions. I have other matters to attend to.”

With that, he walked away, melting into the waiting shadows. “Until next we meet,” came his ghostly whisper.

The Shogun could have followed him if he wanted, for there was no place the Musketeer could go that he could not follow. He just did not have the heart for it. Instead, he walked to the river and sat down on its muddy bank. The rain had stopped, and the horizon was beginning to brighten with the coming of day.

The current was strong from the storm, and the water rushed past him carrying a wet bundle on its hurried trek downstream. The river rolled it over and over, battering it cruelly. It struck a large rock not far from where the Shogun sat and hung up there.

It was the broken body of Amanda Pratt. His shoulders slumped and he bowed his head. Death was a part of life, and the Shogun had seen his share of it, innocent as well as wicked. In fact, he had grown cold to it over the years. However, something about this tragic event touched a long-forgotten chord hidden deep within his soul, and he did something he had not done for centuries. He wept.

Five

The silver Chevy Malibu sped down the highway, weaving in out of traffic like it was on the last stretch of the Indianapolis 500. The window was down, and the throb of the radio’s bass created a dissonance bubble that could be heard three cars away. The music vibrated through the driver, unlocking some primal instinct that was lying dormant. He pressed his foot down on the gas pedal harder.

Twenty-eight and already a detective on the police force, Jared Caddret had no worries of ever getting a speeding ticket. Even if some rookie didn’t recognize his car and happened to pull him over, he would just flash his badge, and all would be well. Being a cop certainly had its perks.

God, I love being a cop! Jared thought as he passed a brand spanking new BMW convertible that was going eighty. He waved to the driver and winked as he flew by. The red face of the yuppie driving the beamer gave him warm fuzzy feelings inside.

His pastor, who just happened to be his father, told him he still had “issues” which needed to be resolved. Something about harboring hatred toward those kids who used to pick on him when he was in school. Jared, after careful self-examination, came to the realization that his dad was right. He still felt like he was twelve every time he was near someone who fit that adolescent mold of popularity.

That’s probably one of the reasons why I became a police officer,