Preview of the Sequel

The working title of the Sequel is "The Devil's Grudge". I have decided to post a brief preview of the beginning of the novel and a possible front cover and would appreciate any feedback?

PROLOGUE

Japan 1581

“Kill them all. Exterminate them,” Oda Nobunaga, the most powerful warlord in Japan, coldly instructed his five most trusted generals.

They sat grimly in a circle around their master, knowing what this order meant: the genocide of an entire people, the Shinobi of Iga Province.

The Shinobi, or “Secret Ones” of Iga, had long been a thorn in Nobunaga’s side. Assassins, spies, bandits, thieves - they had carried out raids into the territory controlled by Oda Nobunaga. In an attempt to impress him, Oda Nobukatsu, his foolish son, had marched an army into the mountainous region of Iga and was badly defeated in a disastrous campaign. This could not be allowed to go unpunished, or it might invite other rebellions against Nobunaga’s rule.

One general had a problem: Tokugawa Ieyasu. Ieyasu was a brilliant strategist, a deep thinker, and a flawless planner. He had a retainer called Hattori Hanso. Hanso was fiercely loyal to Ieyasu and an excellent warrior and leader. Some years earlier, he had rescued Ieyasu’s wife and son from the clutches of another warlord who had kidnapped them. Unfortunately, he was also from Iga. He was Shinobi, or what is now sometimes called Ninja.

Ieyasu’s face gave no hint of the turmoil going on in his head. He knew that Hanso would want to protect his family and immediate clan. He risked losing his most valuable retainer if he didn’t warn him and assist him in extricating his family from the coming bloodshed. He was in no doubt that Nobunaga, the most feared and ruthless military mastermind in Japan, would carry out his decision with brutal efficiency. Everyone in Iga would die.

“You will attack from five different directions at the same time,” Nobunaga was saying. “For now, prepare your armies. I will discuss this with you in more detail a week from today before we commence.” The five men stood, bowed low to their lord, and left the room.

As they walked down the corridor, one of the generals, Hideyoshi Toyotomi, remarked thoughtfully, “That was quick. Eh? Why did our lord not go through the plan with us?”

“He was thirsty,” replied Akechi Mitsuhide scornfully. Ieyasu said nothing, thinking to himself that Mitsuhide had changed since Nobunaga carried out the massacre of thousands of Buddhists on Mount Hiei some years earlier. Mitsuhide was a devout Buddhist. Ieyasu felt that the man was less respectful of Nobunaga than before.

Each of them departed Kyoto to return to their respective armies and prepare for the coming battle.

The entire trip home, Ieyasu wrestled with his dilemma. He could not speak of Nobunaga’s battle plans to Hanso as this would betray his lord, yet he could not allow Hanso and his clan to be destroyed.

He finally came up with an idea. He would invite Hanso’s immediate family to Okazaki Castle, his stronghold in Mikawa. At the same time, he would send two of Hanso’s lieutenants to Iga with men and carts. They would inform the remainder of Hanso’s clan that Lord Tokugawa had granted Kiriyama Castle to Hanso. All of the clan members were to leave immediately and secretly to occupy the castle, which was situated in an isolated part of the northern coast of Japan near the hamlet of Tajiri. Once this part of his plan was in progress, he would then order Hanso to undertake a long journey alone on some pretext or other. By the time he returned, the attack on Iga should be over.

Ieyasu and Hanso worked tirelessly for six days preparing their army for the upcoming campaign. He had ignored Hanso’s initial questions about who they would be fighting until, on the evening of the sixth day, an exhausted messenger rode into Okazaki Castle to report to his lord on the success of the first part of his stratagem. Hanso’s clan and retainers were on their way to Kiriyama Castle.

The following morning, Hanso awaited Ieyasu in his private chambers. Ieyasu came in and sat opposite him. He sighed heavily, regarding Hanso with a stone face.

“You will not accompany the army on this campaign.”

“Lord?” Hanso was surprised.

“You will travel north to Hokkaido. You must go alone and in secret. No one must know where you are going. You must speak with no one. Everyone here must believe you have left Mikawa with our army. I want you to give this letter to Lord Matsumae Yoshihiro. Do not wait for a reply. Once you have delivered it, return to Mikawa. Come straight to my chambers. Do not speak with anyone, including your family. Wait there for me until I return. Then I will explain what is going on.”

“Yes, Lord.” Hanso bowed low. Ieyasu stood and handed him the letter.

“Leave now, but do not hurry. Take your time. The letter must not arrive too soon. It would not suit me.”

“Yes, Lord.” Hanso bowed again and left.

Ieyasu stood at the window looking out. He waited until he saw Hanso mount his horse and ride away. Then he called his servants and put on his armour.

The armies of Oda Nobunaga killed every living soul they encountered in Iga.

When he realized how his lord had risked the anger of Nobunaga in order to protect him and those he loved, Hattori Hanso was overcome with gratitude. On Ieyasu’s suggestion, he also took the unprecedented step of changing the clan name to Sato. He repaid Ieyasu several times over, most notably during the chaos following Nobunaga's assassination, when he led his lord across Japan to safety in Mikawa with a small retinue of other Shinobi warriors.

Since then, Kiriyama Castle was apparently destroyed on more than one occasion and is just a collection of ruins dotted here and there on the top of a steep wooded mountain. Still, it is rumoured that the same clan have lived there for over four hundred years, since 1581.

Chapter One

Whittaker Frost looked out the window at the little boat far below, steering erratically back and forth across the bay.

They have their life vests on. Good, he thought. But I wish Tiberius was with them.

It had taken multiple entreaties from Goddy over breakfast that morning to secure permission for them to take the little dinghy out. She whined, pleaded, cajoled, wheedled, displayed a range of winning smiles, and even tried pouring his coffee and buttering his toast.

“I love you so much, Pops!” she declared at one point. “And this would show that you love me just as much. That you trust me, and Raynie,” she added casually.

“My concern isn’t about your skill levels, darling. It’s about the possibility that you two will start quarrelling out there on the water and do something you’ll regret or not do something you should.”

“That won’t happen ‘cause we’re getting on so well these days, aren’t we, Rayne?” Godiva turned to her older sister for support.

“Yeah. That’s true, Pops,” Rayne said, surprising even Godiva with her support.

Tiberius was wolfing down his larger-than-normal breakfast. He had been instructed to put on some weight by the high school football coach and approached it with the serious intent he afforded anything important. A passive bystander to the passion play at the far end of the table, he grinned, figuring Godiva would luck out once again.

Every summer, Godiva developed a passion. A goal. And this summer, her big deal was to be allowed to sail the dinghy on her own. It had become clear that this was not going to happen until she was older and more competent, so she had settled for having Rayne accompany her. However, up to now, the two girls had always sailed with Tiberius. It was one of their father’s stipulations when he purchased it for them.

Tiberius figured that Rayne could sail it solo without a problem. She was good at just about every sport and pursuit she tried. Goddy, however, was another thing altogether. She was gawky and awkward. All elbows, angles, and long slender limbs fuelled by massive enthusiasms and passion. Her bedroom had been plastered with every conceivable photo and drawing of the pop star Justin Bieber for a year until he got the first of many tattoos. The Bieber shrine was then dismantled and consigned to the dustbin, punctuated with a loud “Ewww” every few minutes. Rayne and Tiberius had disappeared into the nearby town, abandoning their poor father and the staff to deal with the disappointed ex-Belieber.

Godiva looked down the table at her adored big brother and gave him an entreating look, silently begging him to weigh in on her behalf. Tiberius sighed and said, “Dad, Raynie is a good sailor. Probably better than me at this stage.”

Their father rubbed his chin, musing aloud, “True. She is pretty good.”

“She’s great, Dad. Mr. Tibbs just said it. She’s better than him.” Godiva’s pet name for Tiberius was Mr. Tibbs.

When Whittaker had taken Rayne with him to visit their mother in hospital in Boston a few weeks ago, Godiva had refused to accompany them, preferring to remain in California rather than endure the histrionics and drama that would inevitably infest any meeting with their eccentric, estranged mother. Whittaker asked Tiberius to remain with his youngest, and the pair had cocooned together in the TV room, binge-watching old movies. The films included the Sidney Poitier trilogy about an intellectual, polymath detective whose primary motivation is the pursuit of justice. By the end of the first film, In the Heat of the Night, Tiberius said in a thoughtful tone, “I’d like to be like him.”

“Black?” teased Goddy.

“No, a policeman. Solving crimes. Getting justice for the innocent,” Tiberius answered quietly and got up to get more cereal from the kitchen. Their father had given the domestic staff the weekend off, leaving just the security guards in situ at the gates and around the perimeter of the grounds, so the pair had unfettered access to the kitchen. When he returned with two bowls of cereal, she smiled at him and said brightly, “Thank you, Mr. Tibbs.” Tiberius just grinned and flicked on the next film, They Call Me Mr. Tibbs! And so, it stuck.

Rayne was unaccountably annoyed when she returned after a fraught visit to their artist mother, who, they were informed, had suffered a mild overdose but what turned out to be just another attempt to get her ex-husband’s attention and some of his money. She could see that her siblings had enjoyed a great weekend while she had endured hours stuck in a room with the wild and erratic emotional storm that was her mother.

Her father, a kind and good-hearted, gentle soul, was, as always, deeply affected by his ex-wife’s cutting remarks and casual verbal cruelty, which always emerged once it became clear she wasn’t going to get her way. The evening after the visit to the hospital and the trip back from Boston to the West Coast had become quite lonely for Rayne, as her father reflected on his disastrous marriage and his perceived failings as a spouse, lover, and parent.

Lost in the emotional webs of guilt and remorse, Whittaker did not realize that his opportunity to give comfort to an increasingly miserable and angry teenager was slipping through his fingers. It was an error he would regret. By the time they arrived back at the house, Rayne was tight-lipped and full of anger at her father, her mother, and everything.

When Goddy came bouncing out the front door hugging and kissing them both, Rayne was taken aback, only smiling when Tiberius followed and took her bag. Putting his other arm around her, he asked softly, “You OK, Sis? How was it?”

“It was shit!” she hissed, watching Goddy hanging off their father as they walked ahead up the steps to the front door.

“She did the usual stuff?”

“She is a nutbag, Tiber! It was all just a con job to get him to her bedside, and he was like, monolithic all the way home. Not a word,” Rayne vented.

Tiberius said nothing, just hugged her closely as they walked. By the time they got to the kitchen, her body had softened somewhat, so he asked, “Pancakes, Raynie?”

“Please,” she slumped onto a high stool at the island in the middle of the kitchen.

Tiberius busied himself preparing and cooking what he knew was her favourite dish. Silently, he handed them on a plate to her and made them both coffees. After a few moments with her head down munching, Rayne sat up and sighed. “Well, that’s two days out of my life that I’ll never get back.” She paused and then continued, “Seriously, Tiber, I kind of hoped that she might have changed. That such an extreme event like a potential OD would shake her up, but it was all just a sham. Do you know what she did at the end of the visit?” Rayne added some more syrup to her remaining pancakes. Tiberius shook his head, silently encouraging her to talk. To get it all off her chest.

“She hit him up for money! I reckon that’s what this was really all about. She has spent her allowance and then some, so she’s in debt. She asked for us all to be there so that she could embarrass him in front of us and just bully him into giving her dough. She was a bit disappointed when it was just me with him,” Rayne added bitterly.

“What did he do?”

“He showed some backbone for once. He said no. Of course, then she let loose. Wow! She’s a vicious bitch, even if she is our mother,” Rayne said.

“I’ve seen her in action,” Tiberius commented over his coffee.

“More than us, I guess,” Rayne admitted.

“I’m glad Pops was able to keep you two out of the divorce mess, and I know you weren’t happy in that prep school, but you were better off not at home in the run-up to it. It was,” Tiberius paused and then finished, half to himself, “not fun.” Rayne knew that meant it had been a nightmare for her older brother, who understated everything, always trying to turn mountains into molehills for his two sisters.

“Poor Pops is really upset,” came Godiva’s voice from behind them. She dragged a stool between them and climbed onto it, carelessly interrupting her elder siblings.

“Oh?” asked Rayne through narrowed eyes.

“Yep. He was telling me all about it,” answered Goddy blithely.

“He confided in you, did he?” said Rayne in a flat voice.

“Course he did. Poor Pops. Are you finished with those pancakes?” Goddy reached for Rayne’s plate.

Rayne stood, pushing the plate into the middle of the island beyond her sister’s reach, and said, “Yes, I’m done.” She quickly left the kitchen. Tiberius stared after his sister, judging whether or not to follow her and try to comfort her. He was tired after an intensive training session that day, so he just let it go. Instead, he said to Godiva, “Goddy, Rayne is pretty upset after that trip, so try to be a little bit sensitive to her, OK?”

“Mmm.” Godiva’s mouth was full of pancake. “No problem,” she said unconcerned.

For the next couple of days, Rayne avoided them all. The house was massive, and the estate grounds were huge, so it wasn’t difficult. She spent a lot of time in a wooded area looking out over the Pacific, up in a tree. She and Tiberius had tried constructing a wooden platform on top of the trunk when they were younger. The plan was to build a treehouse and have adventures, but they abandoned the project when their father engaged a carpenter to construct something safer and in view of the house. Unwilling to abandon their hard work, Rayne had dragged an easy chair, a table, and other bits and pieces to the tree, laboriously hoisted them up to the platform, and then nailed them to it, creating her own space. As time went on, the maturing tree’s green clothing obscured the platform from the ground, and her rope ladder was cleverly hidden. She came here when she wanted time alone.

One afternoon, she noticed their little dinghy out on the water. She looked through her binoculars and could see Tiberius and Godiva sailing back and forth.

Little bitch, Rayne thought, dropping the binoculars. Just like our darn mother. Totally selfish and spoiled. Goddy needs to be taught a lesson before she turns into another narcissistic, self-centred nutbag like her.

* * *

Chapter Two

Mr. Black couldn’t remember much. The slide down to the lake, the shock of the icy water—then nothing. Something banged into him, and a spike of pain jolted him awake. He was lying on his back at the far end of the lake, far from where he had fallen. It was dark, but he could see lights moving around high up on the slopes of El Corral del Diablo. He didn’t understand how he had ended up on this side of the lake. He should have drowned. Another bang. He nearly passed out from the terrible pain. He was caught in an increasing current. Must have pushed him across the lake. On his back?

He needed to get out of the water and figure out what to do. It was hard to think with the freezing cold and the pain. He reached below him, felt a rock, and levered himself toward the edge. More rocks, smaller ones. The wound in his chest began seeping blood. The cold must have slowed it down until now. Gritting his teeth, he rolled back into the icy water to reduce the flow while he sorted it out. Barely submerged, he fumbled in his hip pocket for a package. Chilled, clumsy fingers opened it after several attempts, and he took out a small aerosol can, awkwardly attaching a narrow tube to it. Slowly, he pulled himself out of the water, allowing it to drain from the wound, which immediately began to bleed. He tensed, then poked the tube into the wound and sprayed a foam that sealed it. From the package, he took a field dressing and applied it. It wouldn’t last long but would stop the blood until he could sort it out. He took a foil blister pack and popped out two pills, but they fell from his trembling fingers into the water. He pressed the blister pack against his mouth and popped two more pills directly into his mouth, scooping some icy water in to wash them down.

False energy and warmth flowed into him from the fast-acting drugs. He could count on an hour, give or take, before he would need another dose. He checked his upper back for the exit wound. The action of reaching behind him was excruciating. Finally finding the hole, he managed to use the aerosol again and stuck another field dressing over it under the cloth of his jacket. The dressings were designed to adhere to wet skin.

He crawled slowly out of the shallow water and onto the hard ground. Painfully, at a glacial pace, he got to his hands and knees. Looking back along the lake at the slopes of the mountain, he could still see lights moving around up there. The cavalry had arrived, but hopefully that annoying Frost bugger had bled out by now. He had seen enough. Time to go. He didn’t know how much of a head start he had, but he needed to make it count. The lack of light would help. The key was to go in a direction no one would expect. First, he had to get out of the bowl where the lake was situated before someone spotted him.

He tried to marshal his thoughts as he gingerly picked his way along. He was heading north along the stream, which was fine for a little while, then he needed to head west and get over the steep ridge to his left and down into the next valley and another lake, Del Barco or something. That was about a kilometer away. There was a mountain refuge at the northern edge, so to avoid it, he would have to take the long way around and go south to get to the western slope. That would add another kilometer. Then it was a long nine-kilometer hike over the top of the western slope and down a narrow valley until he got to the outskirts of—what was its bloody name? Small town. About a thousand people there. Tornavacas! That was it. He didn’t know why, but he was pleased to have remembered the name.

Dawn was still an hour or two away when he stumbled across the ancient stone bridge into Tornavacas. He moved into the shadow of a house and dry swallowed another pill. He needed his wits about him now. Either he would steal a vehicle or somehow hitch a ride as soon as he could and head west towards Lisbon. He limped up along the silent, twisting narrow streets of the small town, hugging the shadows where possible. Finally, he reached his destination, the N-110 road. It was a straight four-and-a-half-hour drive across the border and on to Lisbon from here. Once he was satisfied that he was on his way, he would make a phone call to arrange things at the other end. First, he needed transport. Better not to steal something, as that might leave a trail for the Spanish police to follow. He needed to get out of here and leave no trace behind.

He moved carefully along the road, noting the trucks that passed him every now and then with interest. He stopped outside a closed shop with a bright yellow four-wheeled bin outside it on a short concrete slope down to the road. He found a piece of wood and tied a length of string that he had in a pocket of his outfit to it. Then he jammed it under the wheel of the bin and released the brakes. It held. He backed away about thirty or forty meters, checking around him all the time in case he was observed. Finally, he crouched down between two vans and waited. A grey cat appeared on top of the bin and sat, looking down at him from its perch.

A lorry trundled down the road towards him. As it passed under the streetlight, he could see the signs on it. German. No good. About ten or fifteen lorries passed, and dawn was approaching. He was considering abandoning his idea and just robbing one of the vans beside him when a white lorry with a canvas covering came into view. The sign said, “ROUX PROFESSIONAL” and underneath “FABRICA DE FARDAS.” It was a Lisbon-based clothing manufacturer. He waited until it was 100 meters from the bin and tugged on the cord. The wood popped free, and the bin rolled slowly into the road, its feline passenger leaping deftly off. The truck slowed and braked. As it passed him, he moved to the rear and quickly slit the fabric cover, flinging himself through the narrow gap into the interior. The impact was agony despite landing on something soft and yielding. Gritting his teeth, he waited, totally still, unmoving, silent, until he heard the truck speed up. Finally, he could relax. He checked his wounds and was relieved to find that they hadn’t started bleeding again. He unzipped an inside pocket in his jacket and took out a phone. The phone’s torch showed that he was lying on bundles of what looked like bags of sweaters. A bit of luck. He adjusted himself and found a more comfortable position. Mr. Black dialed a Portuguese number which answered after several rings. The man’s voice was sleepy. “Quem é?” he grunted. Who’s this? Mr. Black answered, “sua cor favorita” Your favorite color. “Preto?” Black?

“I’ll be there in five hours, and I’ll need medical help,” Mr. Black said in English.

“Sim.” OK.

The phone went dead. Mr. Black lay back on his unexpectedly comfortable bed, set the alarm on his phone, and slept.

* * *