Free Blood Soaked and Contagious by James Crawford Page A

know anything beyond the general details of a mission he wasn’t involved with. Sure, he was a veteran who came home in one piece, but he certainly wasn’t trained for recon.
    I decided to let it slide.
    “For our next magical trick, I sense you want to tell me how many layers there are between your average Joe Zombie and Warren Hightower,” I intoned with great gravitas and mysterious arm motions.
    “You are one sick fucker. You’re enjoying this!” His tone was both surprised and accusatory.
    “In point of actual fact, Jerome, I am not enjoying myself. My idea of a good time is much like yours. I like to paint pictures of cute baby animals, but my real passion is flower arrangement. Now answer the question or I’ll make butter inside your knee here.”
    “Four bodyguards, and he doesn’t socialize with anyone but group commanders and team managers.”
    I wondered at the flat tone of voice he was using to tell me that. It wasn’t quite bored, but it was questionable. In that quiet space, I found myself wishing I had a stun gun. A stun gun and a kabob skewer would make an impression.
    “How many layers of people was that?” Asking a second time wouldn’t hurt.
    “I already told you, you’ve got managers, commanders and the other guys.”
    He was using a flat tone of voice, but it came off as just a little exasperated.
    “Three layers, right?”
    “Yes. Three layers.”
    “How many people in each layer to contend with?”
    Jerry answered, “Three or four bodyguards. Three commanders. Something like nine group leaders,” but he definitely sounded annoyed with the answer.
    “That’s three bodyguards?”
    “Fuck! Yes! Three goddamned bodyguards!”
    Butter time.
    I admit, I stirred the wreckage of his kneecap around like sugar cubes in tea. I will also report that his screaming and cursing was some of the most intense that I’ve ever heard in either category. To repeat the cursing, just the cursing, would probably cause the Pope’s eyebrows to spontaneously burst into flame.
    “How many bodyguards? Really? Be honest, because you do not want me to escalate this. I’ve only got a Swiss Army knife, more skewers, and two kitchen knives to work with. My options are limited, but they all involve piercing or involuntary amputations.” I leaned over, looked him dead in the eyes, and said, “Things would have gone much faster if they’d had a little cooking torch. Then I could have used the skewers to keep one of your eyes open while I roasted it in its socket.”
    I smiled. He went rigid, and from the look in his eyes I was fairly certain he understood the depth of shit that he was in.
    Very quietly, he said, “There are four bodyguards. Three of them are ninjas. The fourth used to work for him when he owned his company. Vice President, or something.”
    “Ninjas? You’re shitting me, Jer. Let me mix your knee a little... ”
    “NO!” He cut me off. “The guys say they’re ninjas! They’re always jumping around and balancing on strange shit like parking meters!”
    There was a ring of truth to that. Ninjitsu is big on balance, especially in odd places and situations. You can’t be “Death from the Trees” if you can’t walk around on a limb. In the urban jungle, a parking meter could be a reasonable tool to exercise with. As for the jumping around, even Silent Shadow-san likes to have a good time.
    Ninjitsu is like Parkour, but with death.
    “Thank you, Jerry. That’s very helpful, and I mean that from the bottom of my heart. I like ninja; they’re crunchy in milk.”
    “Fuck me,” he said, and I just shook my head.
    “Necrophilia is not on my list of joyful pastimes. There’s also the small problem of you being a guy.”
    “Look, can you just keep asking me questions so we can be done with this and I can get out of here? You’re fucking insane and it is really starting to freak me out!”
    Got him.
    “You guys got any superheroes or secret weapons over there?” I asked, grinning down