Fighter

By Kenneth Guthrie

The Hiba: They are lurking in the smoke, waiting, readying - hoping for a chance to take our lives. We wait. These ninja are strong and have stronger allies. This will be the fight of our lives. The first blade in this three book series has been thrown. One young ninja will fight to protect his family against powerful opponents or die fighting on the gritty streets of the ghetto.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lunatic Ink Publishing
• Release date: Dec 28, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311543431

Kenneth Guthrie

Kenneth Guthrie is a writer of sci-fi, fantasy and crime novels.Profile image credit: Vincent Gerbouin at Pexels.com

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Fighter

Real Ninja Series Book 1

Kenneth Guthrie

Copyright 2013 Lunatic Ink Publishing

Find more at Kenneth Guthrie's Book List

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

The Opening Assault

It's hard visiting a dead person.

The graveyard stands silent, solemn and darkening in the late evening light. Most people think of black as the color of death, but they are wrong: It's tombstone gray.

I still miss her, I say solemnly.

Granddad stands still without an answer. He has never said a word in front of this particular gravestone and probably never will.

A low wind slowly makes its way past us, chilling my skin - making me think about living and how much better it is than being dead; especially when you are in our business: The business of giving death.

Boy, granddad says quietly, Are you ready for them?

I reach into the rear pocket of my blue faded jeans, the one's with the rips on the right hand knee that I thought looked so stylish on my thin frame, but comes in handy for other reasons. The cold steel of the switch blade tingles my skin. It is reassuring - a sense that I'm still alive and can remain so, perhaps.

The silenced gunshot hammers into the gravestone right above the A in my mum's name. If I was still standing there, I'd be dead. However, I'm not and it's because I'm sprinting low across the mowed lawn along a line of tombstones with my heart beating so fast that I can barely count the beats and the blade out and to my side, hanging long down my arm.

More bullets litter the place. Everyone thinks that ninja use knives and weird blades and stuff. We do sometimes, but guns are a heck of a lot faster, cleaner and easier. The shooters won't be coming out anytime soon.

Granddad pops the smoke bomb that he had hidden in his bag and the place goes black. I whip up the red scarf I always wear and cover my eyes as toxic chemicals burn cold against my skin.

Smoke parts; I come rushing through.

Left, boy, a shout comes.

I spin left and hammer my blade into a man dressed in a city graveyard workers uniform's chest. The blood spraying from the wound as I rip it out sets me on edge. We are close here. I saw - at least - 10 ninja hiding. That means there are many more. Maybe granddad might know exactly how many, but I suspect a lot.

Granddad, are we leaving? I yell.

Bullets trace where I was standing. I yank myself to my feet from where I hit the dirt hard and sprint ahead.

A shape forms next to me.

No. Stay here.

I stab it in the neck and run on. So they can imitate other people's voices. That's a nice trick. If any survive, I'll beat out of them how they do that.

You stabbed me. Why?

I dodge. A massive cut tree log hurtles over my head. My eyes strain to follow its movement, but the owner lets it go. I can't track him or her. They are smart too.

Another smoke bomb goes off and I pull my scarf up again. Pushing my back to a tombstone, I wait. 10 seconds. I don't breathe; holding, waiting, waiting, holding - pain in my stomach. How long? How much longer?

Someone slips down next to me. I grasp at hands that push something over my face.

Hold still, boy. I'm saving your life.

It's my grandfather. No one else calls me boy but him.

The proud owner of a modified smoke mask that is ultra small and has multiple visional settings, I finally get a handle on the scene.

Granddad is next to me. Blood is flowing down from a large shoulder wound that he has stemmed with a large piece of cloth (not from his own clothing it would seem). Around us I can make out six 'shapes' closing in as I flick through to the heat signature setting. They are good. Are they decoys or the remains of the ninja attacking us?

To my left a shooter stands and starts moving in. I realize he can see me. Shifting my shoulders around the side of the stone to avoid getting shot takes a few seconds as I do it very slowly. Granddad moves one stone over, pointing to his shoulder to make sure I know he is bleeding to death and to hurry.

The men get close. Silence spills over the scene as we all wait. The first to move, the first to die, we are waiting to see who is more foolish; who will pull the trigger or not pull it and die because of that.

A light wind rustles through the nearby trees. Smoke shifts. The world becomes less hazy. I hold position. There's sweat pouring down my brow. I'm not hot; I'm scared - very, very scared. Never have I been attacked by this many of our kind at once. A clan has taken a disliking to us. If we survive we get to find out who.

My searching shooter comes in with gun raised in front. The sacrificial lamb, my latest problem and the one who will die first, but not in vain, enters the fray ready. He is not prepared for the shadow of movement that is my grandfather's walking stick. It penetrates his left eye socket and he hits the ground hard.

With the game on a ninja jumps over my tombstone in a tight spin, hoping to stab me with the extendable sword he has. Unfortunately, I saw him coming and throw a harsh uppercut into his jaw before grabbing his shirt to slam him down head first into the ground.

A fist appears out of nowhere in front of me - dead between the eyes - and pummels me in the nose. Lead weights in the knuckles send a swirl of blood from it. Granddad grabs the arm from where he is kicking a man in the groin and pulls him over me. I ignore the agony and ram my knife into the ninja's gut, twisting, turning and ripping it out.

The fourth man jumps on me as I come forward. He pushes me down. I gasp for air and let out a little cry. The man rips away my mask and my eyes instantly blur with tears.

No... I get out.

His knife is right under my left eye. It glitters with poison, green deadly poison that will take my life in seconds. I grab his arm and push it away with all my strength. We struggle there, him with one hand around my neck and the other on the knife, and me with both hands pressing against his much stronger one.

Closer, closer, it comes. Its point is so sharp; it is going to pierce me. Somewhere I recognize that even if he doesn't stab me, his friends will. I'm a sitting duck.

Granddad rolls over my attempted murderer's back and whips out with a sword he got from somewhere on the down fall to cut the man straight across the back of the knees. I don't even watch the ninja fall. It's the mask; I HAVE TO HAVE IT.

Closing my hand on it, I spin and do a short jumping roll, even though my body is telling me that I don't have the strength left for it.

One-two-three. Over and over I roll. When I hit four, my feet push me up and I elbow a ninja in the neck, using the momentum to throw him back. The man slams into a tree and I get a hold of his silenced pistol. The thing is small, compact and loaded. I throw it up to shoot his friend in the side of the head as he stands to do the same to me.

Behind me there is a loud cracking sound. My ears ring and I hit the ground. Some idiot just used a flash bang. I can barely think; pain is lancing through my head. I have to move.

I stumble forward and shoot someone in the stomach six times. They are not much better off, but because I was facing away from the flash, I can still see fairly well. My training with granddad has allowed me to overcome things like this and make the necessary corrections needed. All those hours with a bucket on my head and the local kids hammering it with sticks every time I came to have paid off finally.

My grandfather grabs me by the shoulder and charges straight ahead through the small stand of trees. I follow along behind. My head is so messed up that the next few seconds are a blur, but suddenly we are back out in the dark. He spins and throws a knife into the ninja chasing us and falls to the ground to rip the mask he is wearing off and breathe.

Are you hurt? he asks calmly after awhile as he lies on his back and coughs a little.

I shake my head. NO. My nose is probably broken and my lungs are burning.

The old man drags himself up and kneels next to me. His hands ruffle through my pockets. My peez dispenser: The ultimate ninja medical kit.

Two green and one red pill go down. I vomit them up and have to force them back in. It is very unpleasant, but it's a choice between meeting my good old ma or staying in the land of the living and I know which I'm going to take.

Granddad--- shoulder? I cough out.

His eyes are closed. Out cold. This is not good.

Damn, what a birthday...

Getting up is not easy to do, not at all, but I'm not saying goodbye to another loved one. No way, no how and definitely not on my birthday of all days.

With the old man on my back, I trudge towards the car. This has not been the best of days.

Ninja: The Real Deal

Two dark shapes stand looking down at the body. It's still dark. The sky is clouded and everything is a light gray.

Hiba Clan. They didn't try to hide it either.

The short slim man with brown fluffy hair and tape covering his nose nods. His white endless summer t-shirt has blood all over it. The youth's long legged, gangly look makes him look a little clownish compared to the shorter, bent man leaning heavily on his walking cane.

What does this mean, granddad? the younger man asks uncertainly.

It means that someone has marked us for death. Hiba might be small, but they are skilled. They don't come unless someone is paying and paying good.

Bending gingerly, the young man, barely more than a grown kid, fluffs the dead body's shirt a little. There are a bunch of bloody wounds in his chest - most likely bullet wounds by the size and shape.

He sits there in silence, staring, probably thinking: Contemplating what he doesn't know; what he does; and what - if anything - it means.

What do we do now? he asks finally, looking up to the older man watching him.

Nothing. Nothing at all.

They hobble away after more silence. The watcher slips from the darkness and walks over to the dead body. He could have intervened and perhaps killed the two, but that was not his job, nor his desire after watching the two of them fight.

Bending, just as the kid did before, he closes his brother's eyes. Another death in the family; another day. Looking up, he promises that the two walking away will be next, if the clan head wills it. Those two WILL die.

James Henry II: Young Ninja

The air is a little damp, but it's a gorgeous ghetto day for a bit of acrobatic fun. My running feet hammer the ground in a quick tempo. I hit air, 10 seconds of glorious empty blue sky, before landing toe first on the brownish, aging neighboring building 10 feet away.

Six pounding steps and I hammer down on the edge of the outer railing of the fire escape of a grey building several stories up from the quiet afternoon street. I spin, flip over backwards, observe an old man combing his hair in his bathroom and grab a hold of the third story rung of the ladder to come up on a window sill just to the left before leaping like a cat reaching for a far off tree to the side of the building, ramming a small set of claws into the wall to help me to climb upwards as if I was born doing so, which I almost was.

10 stories up, I crouch down and catch my breath. It's a great day to be out. No work because I'm supposed to be sick; my granddad out of my hair due to a doctor's visit about his 'stress' problem, which is where most of the medicines that we use to create our tools come from - thank you, Prozac, you are more than you know; and a big blue sky to