Sharon Edgar ran to her father and wrapped her arms around him. McBride dragged Clayton’s body back into the house and closed the door, “We need to get out of here before the police arrive. You two get as far away as possible and try to forget this”
Alan Edgar hugged his daughter and kissed her on the forehead, “You saved our lives. If there’s anything I can do…just name it.”
McBride smiled at the girl, “Let’s just call it quits.”
BIO:
Les Morris is an author with a lifelong love of books and storytelling that he developed as a child.
After a career in the Royal Navy, which spanned most of the 80s and 90s, he now lives in Cumbria, with his wife and children, and writes at every opportunity.
Recently he started to concentrate on writing thrillers and his short story, 'Blood on Their Hands', was published in Matt Hilton's anthology 'ACTION: Pulse Pounding Tales Volume 1'.
Les also has work published online and was recently featured on the Thrillers, Killers and Chillers website with his story, 'Meltdown'.
He now has two tales ‘An Eye For An Eye’ and ‘Blood On Their Hands’ available as eBooks, and is working on his first novel.
KOKORO By Andrew Scorah
Jerryko Jones knew he had walked into a world of hurt the moment the big hairy biker’s fist slammed into his face, launching him over a bottle-filled table, the floor near the toilets breaking his fall.
“C’mon man, I haven’t got any time to tango with no Eskimo.” He tested his jaw to see if it was still attached to his head.
The man roared like a primeval beast leaving the swamp to look for food. Hairy biker moved fast for his size, pushing tables out the way as he approached.
Take the job, Fat Joe had said, sweet deal, he had said.
Well Fat Joe could go screw himself, after this job he wanted out.
He met Fat Joe after doing time in Pelican Bay. Jones had been one of the best Cat Burglars in the world; the few people who knew him, said he could steal a Nun’s underwear without her knowing. His father had been a Colonel in the US Marines, stationed at Pearl Harbour; he grew up in and around Pearl City, Hawaii. His mother was a doctor at the base hospital, this meant for much of the time he was on his own at their mansion in the hills above Pearl. A nannie, and a Japanese gardener, was his only company in the big house. Jones could not be sure if the gardener spoke any English; the few times he had heard the man speak to his father it had been in Japanese. His mother and father were out at work as usual; he was sitting reading a book at a table on the patio behind the house, occasionally looking up at the gardener raking leaves off the lawn.
It always amazed him how the gardener appeared to flow on a cushion of air when he moved. To Jones the man looked a hundred years old, wiry with skin like leather.
The man glanced over to him and smiled. He walked over and poured himself a glass of juice from the pitcher on the table. He patted Jones on the head and said something in Japanese before laughing. Jones smiled shyly at him.
A noise from the corner of the house made him turn in his seat. Two men dressed all in black, rounded the corner; both armed with machetes. Three more emerged from the patio doors.
The gardener, seeming without effort picked him up by his shirt and threw him down to the lawn. Like a ballet dancer, he flowed down the steps, placing himself between Jones and the interlopers.
He watched in awe and fear as the men formed a semi-circle in front of the gardener. The rake was at his feet. He slipped a black-toed foot under the handle and flipped it up in the air. Catching it in his right hand, the handle braced against his back, the rake end held out to his side.
With his left hand, he signalled them to attack. As one they screamed, machetes held high, as they complied. The gardener became a blur. Moving between the attackers, he used the rake to sweep feet, hit stomachs, or deliver bone-jarring strikes to the attackers’ heads. Within seconds, three lay unconscious on the grass.
The two remaining attackers were more cautious. They began to circle the gardener. They ignored Jones. He was too scared to move.
One of the attackers shuffled towards the gardener, swinging his machete in figure eights, every now and again feinting at him. The other had manoeuvred behind him, taking advantage of his friend’s distraction. Without a sound, he attacked. The machete coming down to split the gardener’s skull. Just as it looked as if the machete would hit its mark the gardener raised the rake, blocking the machete; he bent over, and kicked back, catching the rear attacker in the groin. The other dashed forward; the gardener sidestepped and hit him in the temple with the metal-pronged rake. He finished the other one with a hard blow to the face.
The gardener came over to Jones, and knelt next to him.
“Are you okay, Jones San?”
He looked at him, mouth-catching flies. The gardener had never spoken English before. It was at that moment he realised there was more to this strange old man, than that of a simple gardener.
Jerryko Jones cat flipped to his feet, and braced himself as the biker came towards him. A knurled ham-like hand reached out to grab him. He caught it in his left hand, twisted as he stepped in. Jones dropped to one knee, the biker flipped in the air, and came crashing down to the floor. The wind taken out of his sails. Jones delivered an Atemi strike to the cervical nerve plexus on the side of his beefy neck, the man was out cold.
One down, the rest of the bar to go.
Jennifer Delaney was the daughter of Senator Tom Delaney, multimillionaire owner of Delaney Electronics, a Silicon Valley Microchip Company. She was taken from her University campus in the dead of night. When no ransom demand was forthcoming, her father called in Fat Joe’s company.
Fat Joe was a Bail Bondsman, one of the best in the business. His firm had many arms, skip tracing, fugitive retrieval and kidnap intervention. He passed the job to Jones who did not want to take it; it had been a week with no contact from the kidnappers. He thought the woman would probably be dead by now, but Fat Joe managed to persuade him, as he always did when Jones dug his heels in over a job. The fact that Jennifer Delaney was a stunner of Playboy proportions helped sweeten the deal.
He looked around at the other Denizens of the dimly lit spit and sawdust bar. For a moment, the black-hearted patrons were frozen in shock at the speed with which he had dispatched their pal.
A little oriental guy, who came towards him, a Pool cue in his hand, broke the moment.
“You are not going to leave this bar alive.” He cracked the cue over his knee, breaking it in two, motioning with one section at the floored biker. “He was my friend, now you’re gonna pay.”
The other scum-sucking sons of venereal bitches egged him on as he went into a set of movements from the Filipino martial art of Kali, twirling the sticks in a display that would have made Bruce Lee proud.
It looked as if reaching the upper floors of the bar would be harder than Jones had anticipated. Jimmy Chew must have dropped a dime to let them know he was on the way.
He edged around to his right until his back was up against the pool table.
“Okay, Sticks, you wanna shoot some pool?”
Jones palmed a ball as the little Oriental came at him, the sticks a blur in front of his body. Jones kicked him in his nut sack; he woofed as the air exploded from his lungs. Bringing his hand from behind his back, Jones smashed the pool ball down on his head. Son of Bruce crashed out of the game.