Amazon Slaughter & Curse of the Ninja

329 Pages·2016·1.18 MB·English

by  Anthony Piers

Amazon Slaughter
&
Curse Of The Ninja

Jason Striker
Martial Arts Series
Volume III

Piers Anthony
&
Roberto Fuentes
Copyright © 1976, 2001
ISBN: 1-4010-3353-9
CONTENTS

BOOK 1: AMAZON SLAUGHTER
Chapter 1 Feeding the Fish
Chapter 2 Fun in Rio
Chapter 3 Gift of Tongues
Chapter 4 Mirabal's Entertainments
Chapter 5 Spear in the Rear
Chapter 6 Wrath of the God
Chapter 7 March on the Black Castle
Chapter 8 The Love of Oba
Chapter 9 Animation of the Curse
Chapter 10 City of the Future
BOOK 2: CURSE OF THE NINJA AND OTHERS
INTRODUCTION
Chapter 1 Dream of Red and White
Chapter 2 Strange Conquests
Chapter 3 Sword and Stone
Chapter 4 Roofer's Affair
Chapter 5 Eighty Per Cent
Chapter 6 Two Pictures
SUMMARY OF THE REMAINDER
AUTHOR'S NOTE
KI
BEAST OF BETELGEUSE
KIAI! HOW IT BEGAN
WINDBREAKER
Chapter 1: Cry For Help
Chapter 2: Assignment
SUMMARY OF THE REMAINDER
SORCEX
BIOGRAPHY OF A TERRORIST
INTRODUCTION
Chapter 1 Return
Chapter 2 Three Misses
SUMMARY OF THE REMAINDER
BOOK 1:
AMAZON SLAUGHTER
Chapter 1
Feeding the Fish
They hung the captive ninja on a wooden frame in the jungle. He was stripped
to the waist, his arms spread-eagled, his legs securely fastened. All he could do
was scream—and he would not.
"Where is your leader?" the big bald giant demanded. He spoke in
Portuguese. He was six and a half feet tall, with the physique of a weight lifter,
and an ugly scar ran down his face. His neck was so thick it made his head look
shrunken. His whole aspect suggested brutal and fanatical strength.
The crucified ninja did not answer.
"I hoped that would be your attitude," the interrogator said. "I've never had
the chance to flay a Jap." He gestured. His assistants took small wooden mallets
and pounded on the ninja's skin. This was obviously painful, but hardly
excruciating, and the victim did not cry out. Instead, his face assumed an
expression of repose: he had invoked his ability to turn off pain no matter what
was done to him.
"Now while we undergo our preparatory massage," the giant said with a
twisted smile, "let us review the manner of our acquaintance. You will correct
me when I make an error in fact or speculation?"
Still the ninja ignored him. The men pounded the captive's skin all over,
methodically, going over each area again and again so as to miss no portion.
After a time they took him down and rehung him so as to have access to his
backside too. Then they proceeded to his legs, stripping off his remaining
clothing. The job took some time, but the interrogator merely paused in his
monologue to smoke an occasional cigarette and observe.
Eventually the skin had been so thoroughly pounded that it was bruised
purple, with blackish glints. The small blood vessels within it had been broken.
The entire body gradually became a single extensive bruise.
"First the introduction. I am Fernando Mirabal, of Spanish descent, but quite
satisfied to settle here in Brazil. In fact I am a member of the Brazilian
diplomatic corps, and my brother Ramiro is the Director of Petrobas, the
Brazilian Petroleum Company. You are an agent of the notorious Japanese
outlaw Fu Antos." He paused as though expecting agreement, but the ninja gave
no sign.
Now the blades came into play. The instruments used were not knives, but
Now the blades came into play. The instruments used were not knives, but
fine steel scalpels honed razor sharp. They sliced easily into the flesh.
"Thus it is scarcely surprising that we should meet," Mirabal continued
pleasantly. "When my brother asked my help in investigating the disturbances
occurring in our newly discovered oil fields, I thought at once of Fu Antos—and
I am pleased to verify that your ninja chief-scoundrel thought as readily of me."
He contemplated the victim, as though fascinated by every stage of the slow
torture. "I understand Fu Antos is old, extremely old. Four centuries, some
sources claim. Oh, yes, I have researched the matter; that is my job! And I admit
to being intrigued by the supernatural, though I can't claim to be able to practice
magic myself." He chuckled. "I hope Fu is not so ancient as to be an inadequate
adversary. I much prefer a genuine challenge."
They started on the extremities, slitting the softened skin carefully at the ends
of the fingers, proceeding down across the hands. They loosened the skin at the
base of each finger and pulled toward the ends, as though removing tight gloves.
Care had been taken that no bones were broken and no vital organs damaged, so
that the victim would not expire prematurely. The individual cuts were shallow,
performed with surgical precision, so that there would not be a disastrous
amount of bleeding. It was a bit like peeling an orange without letting any juice
leak.
The undersurfaces were raw, like hamburger, bleeding slowly. They applied a
special mixture of salt and vinegar to slow the bleeding further, rubbing it in.
The man's body writhed and strained at its restraining straps in these moments,
seeming almost ready to break its bonds. The pain was evidently excruciating,
despite the victim's self-control.
"But I digress. I came to the oil camp, then visited the nearby Pacifico, the
pacified Indian village." He laughed. "Not pacified enough, it seems! So I made
a token demonstration. The usual: shooting a few natives, taking some hostages,
borrowing a couple of the prettier maidens for passing entertainment, explaining
how readily such a village might burn if some accident occurred. I had hoped
someone would carry word to old Fu, and it seems I was not disappointed."
After the fingers, they turned the ninja over and worked on his back, the
easiest place. They tore great sheets of skin away, slowly, carefully. Then they
returned to the front, flaying the chest and abdomen. They did not touch his face
or neck, afraid he might die; instead they moved down. They stripped his arms
and legs, finally coming to the buttocks.
"Except in this: my little welcome was intended for the old Jap himself, not
his hireling. Oh, you sneaked in cleverly enough; had it not been for our special
American starlight amplifiers we would not have seen you in your black suit.
American starlight amplifiers we would not have seen you in your black suit.
But I hardly expected you to be so readily deceived by the ploy of placing an
aide in my own bunk. You stabbed your knife into an innocent employee! But
his death was not in vain, for we surrounded that tent, employed the floodlights,
and now we have you. Beg pardon?"
For now at last the ninja screamed, as they skinned his penis and testicles, by
applying a combination pull and slice. Mirabal smiled, seeing the victim's
amazing control breaking down at last. "It was touchy for a moment, I admit.
You very nearly did succeed in killing yourself, after you disemboweled one of
mine and split the throat of another. But again, you had not anticipated our
anesthetic dart-guns. And the delay entailed in cutting off the victim's head—that
was foolish. I realize old Fu has a fetish about collecting the heads of his
enemies, but you had the wrong head." Mirabal touched his own head with a
gesture of pride. "No, I'm afraid you were a disappointment to me. I expected
more subtlety."
The ninja subsided as the flaying was completed. He was now a strange
looking creature, but still alive and conscious. "Now I can still kill you quickly,"
the torturer said. He held up his pistol, a Spanish Astra 8-shot 9mm able to fire
every type of 9mm and 38 automatic round. He aimed it at the victim's head.
"Your pain will be over, if you talk. Otherwise—well, I think we have several
hours work, yet. There is still the head: a more delicate operation, fraught with
risks to your sensory apparatus, but surely worth the effort. After that we might
begin to disconnect the muscles. I have always been a student of anatomy, and
there are distinct advantages in working with living material. Don't you agree?"
Suddenly an arrow swished over Mirabal's shoulder and struck the ninja in
the chest. He was dead instantly; the shot was through the heart.
Mirabal whirled and dropped to the ground, pointing his Astra back the way
the arrow had come. But there was nothing. His three cohorts scrambled for
cover.
There was silence. "Bugger must have slipped out while his arrow was
airborne," Mirabal said disgustedly. "Wonder why he didn't aim for me?" He got
up, brushing himself off. The others rose with him.
Then one screamed and fell forward. An arrow protruded from his back. It
was a very fine bamboo shaft a yard long with a stone arrowhead and black
feathers. Mirabal whirled again, getting off a shot, but again there was nothing.
"Get under cover, and stay there!" Mirabal rasped. "It's an ambush, and the
bastard wants to play. I'll signal the camp for reinforcements."
He reached for his walkie-talkie—and a third arrow struck it just as his hand
He reached for his walkie-talkie—and a third arrow struck it just as his hand
touched it. He jerked his arm back. "Cono!" he swore. "We're exposed here; they
can pick us off at will." He reached out and snatched the third arrow. "Black
obsidian head with a glasslike edge," he murmured. "Excellent craftsmanship,
not local. It seems our ninja villain has arrived." Then he raised his voice:
"When I give the signal, we'll make a break for better cover. Right?"
There was no answer. Irritated, he looked across, and saw the reason. His
companion had an arrow sticking out of his eye. He was dead. The third man had
disappeared, and was presumably dead too.
Now Mirabal was alone. He jumped up, grabbed the other man's body, and
slung it over himself as a shield. He had a limp, but was so powerful that the
added weight was unimportant. He ran for cover.
Panting, he flung himself behind a huge rubber tree. "Made it!" he gasped.
"Congratulations."
Mirabal whirled again, dropping his burden as he raised his gun. But all he
saw was a boy. "Who the hell are you?"
"I am he whom you seek."
Mirabal's bark of laughter resounded through the jungle. "Well, then; here's
death for you!" He pointed his gun—and stopped. The boy wasn't there.
Mirabal strode forward, peering around the tree. Suddenly a cord looped his
hand, jerking the gun away. The boy stood behind him, holding the weapon. "As
you have done to my man, so shall I do to you," the lad said.
The man aimed a mighty kick at him, a savage shot to the head. But suddenly
the boy was gone again. The foot passed through empty air, and then the lad's
hands caught the heel of the boot and pushed upwards. Mirabal, offbalance, tried
to hop back, but the boy's toe snaked forward and hooked that other ankle,
anchoring the foot. The torturer took a brutal fall on his back. The air whooshed
out of him and for a moment his consciousness faded.
When he opened his eyes, the boy was staring down at him. "Now," the boy
said, "I will question you." His eyes seemed to become huge, and his fingers
moved in a disconcerting way. Suddenly Mirabal recognized the pattern: it was
the notorious ninja kuji-kiri finger-hypnosis.
Mirabal tried to get up, but his body was frozen in place. Those eyes, those
devil fingers were sapping his willpower, taking over his mind. Now he
believed: this was indeed Fu Antos, lord of the ninjas!
Fernando Mirabal tried to fight. He concentrated in an effort to break the
hypnotic hold. Sweat ran in rivulets down his body, and he felt he was winning.
He moved his head a fraction of an inch, slowly tearing his eyes away from that
devil's gaze. Now he knew his antagonist, and was on guard; once he regained
devil's gaze. Now he knew his antagonist, and was on guard; once he regained
his feet...
The sound of gunshots passed through the jungle. The distant birds became
quiet, the wild animals paused. Even the river alligators and caimans seemed to
listen. What was happening? Fu Antos clenched his small fist and bared his teeth
in a momentary display of fury. "I told them to wait!" he gritted.
Mirabal was abruptly freed from the compulsion. "You were going to ambush
our camp, and those rascally Indians attacked prematurely!" he said gleefully. "I
could have told you that would happen. Those savages have no discipline at all."
But he was speaking to air. Fu Antos was gone.

It galled Fu Antos to leave the butcher, but it would take time to deal with
him properly, and right now he had to get to the camp and untangle the mess the
Indians had made. The situation was certain to deteriorate in minutes without his
guidance. He should have used his skilled ninjas for the job, instead of the
poorly organized Indians. Well, those Indians would very quickly learn the
meaning of their exuberance. Firearms were tough opponents.
Meanwhile, he would have to see the chore through himself, using what he
had. There was no time to fetch his ninjas, who were widely scattered on other
missions. Maybe the first shock of failure would make the Indians realize the
importance of timing and caution.
Too bad he had not arrived in time to save his advance scout. But of course
the man had not talked, and at least he was out of his pain. Actually, he could
have killed his ninja earlier, or rescued him after only partial flaying. But he
could not abide carelessness or a bungled job, and so the ninja had deserved the
agony he had suffered. Had the man talked, Fu Antos would have tortured him
himself. And Mirabal's monologue had been of interest, as well as his skinning
technique. Fu Antos possessed a superior technique, but it was good to compare
styles.
He had been moving rapidly through the overflow forest, a region near the
river that became seasonally flooded. Here the trees were of medium size: palms
and wild rubber trees, with massive drooping vines that rooted in the ground to
become new trunks. His fast passage startled a flock of macaws that flew
screeching with their brightly colored plumage flashing. He breathed the
ambient odor of the jungle, savoring its naturalness. Once Japan had been
primitive like this, pleasant. Alas, no more.
Now he came to a bluff overlooking the camp. It was in a clearing beside the
great river: a cluster of tents, with a few palm-thatched and board-sided