LEGACY Book 1: Forgotten Son Read online

  The door opened, but Sunny Joe knew who was on the other side before it opened. He would recognize the frantic heartbeat of his tribal caretaker Dale Barker anywhere.

  “What are they telling you now, Dale?” Sunny Joe asked.

  “Sunny Joe,” he greeted, removing his ever-present cowboy hat as he entered. Dale was shorter than Sunny Joe, but just as thin. The harsh tan line running across his forehead revealed that he had spent more time outside than in.

  “They said they would give the tribe five thousand dollars to set up a college fund. All we have to do is say this woman is a member of our tribe.”

  “You told them no,” Sunny Joe assumed out loud.

  “Well, Sunny Joe…five thousand dollars would help some kids who want to go to college.”

  “Sinanju isn’t for sale, Dale. You’re the tribal historian. You know that better’n I do.”

  “We’re not competing with the House, Sunny Joe. You know I’d never do that. I’m just thinking of the kids it could help.”

  “Answer’s no.”

  “I told her you’d say no, but she insisted that I ask,” Dale said sheepishly. “Said she wants to visit to see if she can change your mind.”

  “Politicians coming to visit?” Sunny Joe shook his head. “God help us all.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Freya centered her breathing while lying in the trunk of Ben’s rental car. Her weight was perfectly distributed. She could easily hear Stone’s breathing from where she lay. Sunny Joe would be embarrassed. It was unseemly to breathe like that in front of an outsider.

  Ben said that they had a twenty-six hour drive to a place called Champaign, Illinois. Freya adjusted her body to a more comfortable position, careful to remain silent. The temperature in the trunk quickly rose past one hundred and thirty degrees, but Freya altered her body temperature to accommodate the stifling heat, sipping small wisps of cool air that leaked through the back seats.

  In the stillness of the trunk, Freya’s mind wandered as it did just before she went to sleep.

  And in the stillness, her senses expanded.

  She was able to filter out the subtle knock of the engine caused by cheap gas and the slight vibration in the rear axle which caused an unnecessary bump every time it struck a line in the pavement.

  Freya could tell that Ben was a good driver. Even while talking to Stone, he was paying attention to the road. That showed discipline.

  Had she made the right decision, stowing away like this? Stone was right about one thing. This wasn’t some kind of kid’s camp, but Freya wasn’t a kid.

  She never had been, not really.

  Freya unconsciously frowned as she thought of her childhood. Would her mother Jilda be proud? Jilda was killed when Freya was only eleven, leaving so many unanswered questions.

  Her father and mother had only known each other for a short time during the Masters’ Trials. Opponents sworn to fight to the death, both were masters in their respective arts. They only survived because Jilda declined to continue the Trials, upsetting centuries of order.

  Though he was the current master of the Korean House, Freya’s father carried the decidedly non-Korean name of Remo. As daughter of the reigning Master of the House of Sinanju, this made Freya mistress of both the House of Sinanju and the Tribe of Sinanju. She would make Sunny Joe proud of her. She could tell that he had big things in mind for her. Even his Sinanju training couldn’t keep the prideful smile from breaking his stern face when she learned a new movement perfectly.

  Freya never had to ask if she had performed her moves properly. Her body knew. She didn’t remember when she first started breathing correctly, for she had always remembered breathing this way. She remembered running through the forests of Eastern Europe, escaping one mob after another, connecting with nature, living off the land, being an integral part of the universe in a way that even her mother never understood.

  Then her mother was killed.

  And the one man on the face of the Earth who did understand how she felt, who should be with her to help answer the questions she had — her father — had just dropped her off at Sunny Joe’s as if she were a piece of luggage. He visited every year for her birthday, and she assumed he would be here for her birthday this year as well. But it always felt more obligatory than familial.

  And that was something that proper breathing could never replace. Sunny Joe told her that her father, Remo, was a good man doing good things and he missed his daughter terribly, but that work for his country always had to come first. She hoped that was true.

  Then the car stopped. They were still in the desert; perhaps she had inadvertently made a noise.

  Had she been discovered?

  Chapter Twelve

  “So who do we work for?” Stone asked.

  “People who don’t like to be named,” Ben replied. “Have you read over your mission brief?”

  “It’s why I signed up. Cartels have been sending more and more smugglers through our border in the past couple of weeks. They’re up to something big.”

  “This is something even bigger,” Ben said. “Our intel says they’re getting ready to move something really important. I don’t know what it is, nuclear or biological, but we’re going to stop them.”

  “Why is it coming from Mexico?” Stone asked.

  “I don’t know. Whatever it is might have been manufactured in Mexico. If you want to do something criminal, go to a country that has no tradition of enforcing any laws. That’s Mexico. You know, if they’re coming across the border, your people may want to consider allowing our government access just long enough to place security fences on your southern border.”

  “Sunny Joe isn’t gonna let a single soldier on tribal land. Don’t get him worked up. He’s a nice guy, but you don’t want to be on his bad side.”

  “But doesn’t he realize that your people are in the most danger from this package?”

  “They have to get through me first and that’s not going to happen.”

  “Because of your Sinanju training? Look, kid, I know you’re a pro. You don’t become a SEAL without being one of the best, but right now, you’re sounding awfully naïve.”

  “There are about forty guys who tried to come through our border who would disagree with you if they were still alive. Sinanju isn’t a martial art. At least, not like you understand the term.”

  “Yeah, about that. I’m not sure I believe in the whole bullet dodging thing,” Ben mused.

  “Dodging bullets is simple compared to some of the stuff Sunny Joe can do,” Stone sighed. “You know how good a karate master is?”

  “I hold a fourth degree black belt in Isshin-ryu,” Ben said. “We’re not overly impressed with Karate.”

  “Sinanju’s even less impressed with Isshin-ryu,” Stone said, allowing a prideful grin. “Pull over.”

  Ben pulled the car to the side of the road. They exited and almost immediately started sweating in the Arizona heat.

  “Grandpa…Sunny Joe…says sweating is a sign of weakness,” Stone said. “I haven’t gotten that far in training yet. My sister Freya would be making fun of me right now. She’s a natural.”

  Freya allowed herself a smile as she lay still in the trunk. Stone would never compliment her to her face. She huffed just once to continue regulating her body temperature, but did so against the back of the seat to muffle the sound. Stone would be able to regulate his body temperature if he would just stop smoking and put more effort into Sunny Joe’s training.

  “Your sister, she’s trained in Sinanju?”

  “Yeah, but she’s been training since she was a baby,” Stone said with a bit of pride coming into his voice. “If she were older, you would probably want her for the job, not me.”

  “Okay, now what?” Ben asked.

  Stone walked until he was twenty feet from Ben and then held his hands out to his side. “Shoot.”

  “Bullet dodging,” Ben mused, pulling his Beretta from his jacket pocket and aiming it at Stone.
“You realize that if this is some kind of magic trick, you’re dead. You can’t fool me with jerky movements. I’m a trained sniper from childhood.”

  “Unless you can somehow bend the trajectory of a bullet, I’m more than…”

  Ben pulled the trigger in the middle of the sentence, to catch Stone off-guard. He aimed for the shoulder. No need for a mortal wound.

  Stone had time to smile before the bullet reached him.

  Though he wasn’t in control of his body when Sinanju took over, when the shot was expected, the roller coaster turned into a ride. As he started to say the word “ready” the bullet came at him and he felt the sudden surge of power to his frame as it moved him to the side, allowing the bullet to pass harmlessly by.

  Ben blinked, but Stone was no longer standing where he was before. He was standing slightly to the right of where he had been. The move was timed so perfectly that it seemed to Ben that the act of pulling the trigger had caused Stone to appear elsewhere.

  The moment was so surreal that Ben looked at his gun. If he had not felt the kick of his custom hand-loaded bullets, he would have thought he was firing blanks.

  Stone moved two steps closer and bowed.

  Clutching his pistol with both hands and spreading his stance, Ben steadied his aim. There was no way he could miss at fifteen feet, no matter how fast Stone was. There simply wasn’t time for the neurons in his brain to react to a bullet being fired this closely.

  So he fired again. And again. And again.

  And again and again and again, the bullets missed their target.

  “Impossible!” Ben cried out, unable to accept what his own eyes were showing him.

  He reached into his pocket for his backup pistol, but in the second it took to reach his weapon, Stone was standing directly in front of him. Ben brought the gun up, firing as he did, but Stone was already beside him and when Ben turned to look where he stood, Stone was holding both of his pistols.

  A sly smile stretched across Stone’s face.

  “I’m not fully trained yet or I would have done something fancy,” Stone said, handing back the pistols. “Sunny Joe does this thing where he grabs a pistol, unloading it at the same time. The bullets fly out like popcorn.”

  “That’s not…I don’t…” Ben stammered. “What kind of trick is this?”

  “I’ve been trying to tell you, it’s not a trick,” Stone explained, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s Sinanju.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The media had all but destroyed Liz Worn’s claims to a Native American heritage. Everywhere she looked, another newspaper or television station was attacking her. Late night comedians were starting to call her ‘Liz Worn Out.’ Local television anchors, who had all but endorsed her before the controversy, were now all but calling her a liar for claiming she was Native American to get a job.

  “Okay, maybe it was eight jobs,” Liz thought out loud. “But they’re still blowing it out of proportion!”

  It was worse than her pre-Harvard days when one of the local New York papers — the Times — criticized her 1981 study that conclusively proved that all men were homosexual. The only consistent difference between heterosexuals and homosexuals that the $4.2 million study could find after a painstaking three days of research was that the heterosexual men were attracted to women.

  That was the only difference!

  Liz grimaced. The establishment. They were always trying to find some way to keep the minority down. And she was a double minority! Female and 1/64th Sinjan…Sunjanoa…whoever they were!

  Liz was going to settle this issue once and for all. She accepted a live interview from one of the local television morning show hosts. Liz booked the interview in front of a food bank to show the little people that she cared about them.

  The interview would take the heat off of Liz’s Native American claims. Liz would use the interview to break the story about her rival’s high school cheating scandal. The television crew arrived and was setting up their equipment when a middle aged lady walked up to Liz unbidden.

  “Good morning, Ms. Worn. I’m Megan. I manage the food bank,” the lady said, offering a handshake. Liz looked around, but the cameras were not set up yet, so she wouldn’t get credit for shaking one of the little people’s hands. Liz put on her professional smile and ignored the extended hand.

  “We’re so glad you could make it,” Megan said, ignoring the snub. “Donations have been down lately and we have more people to feed than ever. Would you and the camera crew care to share breakfast with us this morning?”

  “This isn’t about you,” Liz said, shooing away Megan as if she was diseased. “Go away, you fat little turd!”

  Megan tensed and then frowned. She turned and sadly walked away.

  “Hi, I’m Trish Hill,” a voice said behind Liz. “Who was that?”

  Liz turned and flashed her professional smile. “Who? Oh, that’s just a nobody.”

  Trish watched Megan walk away, shoulders down. Trish had seen and interviewed cocky politicians her entire career, but this took the cake. Trish narrowed her eyes for just a second before returning to her own professional smile.

  “Ms. Worn, please, have a seat over here. We will be live in a few seconds. You received our advance questions?”

  Liz winked at Trish. “I’m ready!” she said as the microphone was being pinned to the front of her blouse.

  A cameraman held his hand out, all five fingers splayed. Liz had been doing this long enough to know that meant a five second countdown. The fingers counted down to one, and then he pointed to Trish.

  “Good morning Boston! We are live at the Mercy Pantry food bank with Senatorial candidate Liz Worn. Good morning, Liz.”

  “Good morning! Doesn’t that food smell great?”

  “I hear that’s partially thanks to you?” Trish asked.

  “I’ve been a huge supporter of food ever since I was a small girl,” Liz admitted, smiling. “People have got to eat and what better way to eat than at a bank? My opponent only thinks about money when he hears the word bank!”

  Liz laughed at her little joke.

  A small crowd had gathered behind the two women. Trish was used to it. People naturally gathered whenever they saw a camera. Normally, her peripheral vision was cut off and reserved for her guest, but Trish could not help but see Megan sheepishly walk to the front of the group. Trish’s eyes narrowed.

  “What do you have to say about the controversy surrounding your Native American claims?” Trish asked.

  Liz’s eyes darted back and forth. That wasn’t on the list of approved questions.

  “And furthermore,” Liz said, ignoring the question. “To get back to the issue at hand, there are serious questions in this campaign that need to be addressed!”

  “That is what your opponent is saying about your claim. Are you or are you not a Native American?”

  Liz swallowed.

  The camera was live. There was no way out. She could see herself in the monitor, fidgeting. Liz blinked once and then regained control. She forced her professional smile back on and leaned forward, taking charge of the interview.

  “That’s because he wants to run from the issues that really matter in this election,” she said with a granite confidence chiseled in Harvard debate class.

  What’s this bimbo trying to pull? Liz wondered. After this interview’s over, you can kiss your career goodbye, sister!

  “You haven’t answered my question,” Trish continued, leaning in to match Liz’s move.

  Liz leaned in even closer. “I don’t understand the question,” she said, trying to keep the vein in her forehead from destroying years of expensive plastic surgery.

  Trish leaned in until the two were almost nose-to-nose. “It’s not rocket science. Several papers are reporting that you claimed to be 1/64th Sinanju to get a job at eight different Ivy League schools. What is your response?”

  “Look Trudy…”

  “It’s Trish.”

  Liz shuddered.
She wanted nothing more than to smack the smile off her happy face.

  “Trish, I’m here to connect with the people and talk about real issues. Serious issues. This distraction was engineered by my racist opponent. I’m extremely proud of my Saint Joe heritage, but the people of Massachusetts want to hear about serious issues, like what my opponent says about cheating on his high school chemistry project!”

  And just like that, it was out.

  Liz leaned back and smiled victoriously. Live television was her friend, Liz knew. If the reporter wanted to go off-topic, Liz would give her a new topic to scorch the headlines. Now she would have to address the true controversy in this election. Liz’s research team had verified that her opponent had been caught cheating on his junior year chemistry project and as a result was sent to summer school.

  “Ms. Worn,” the reporter continued, ignoring Liz’s triumphant smile. “You haven’t answered the question. Do you still claim to be Native American?”

  Liz froze.

  For the first time in her life, she did not know what to do. As one BBC reporter would later describe the scene, “You could almost hear the crickets chirping as her mind unsuccessfully tried to find a dignified way out.”

  So Liz slipped back into her friendly smile and panicked.

  “I gotta go pee.”

  And she unplugged her microphone and bolted for the lady’s room.

  The video went viral within minutes. Several websites had already turned Liz Worn’s video statement into a meme.

  Her voice was superimposed over any scene where a character turned to run.

  An action hero, reacting to a bomb blast in a movie, was overdubbed with Liz’s voice.

  “I gotta go pee!” he said as he turned and ran off camera.

  One bright user even matched it to Rhett’s exit speech in Gone With The Wind so when he stood at the door, he said, “Frankly my dear, I gotta go pee!”

  Chapter Fourteen