The Grey Pilgrim by J.M. Hayes Page B

suspected. One of the bodies they’d attributed to him was not his, though it was offset by more than a dozen others still undiscovered. He was surprised they suspected as much as they did, but he didn’t let it frighten him. Mr. Kira wouldn’t have wasted so much time and effort if he intended to follow the dossier’s first recommendation.
    ***
    The Apache sprinted up the hill, ducking through the dogwoods and maples. He was fast, but the enemy had longer legs, was steadily gaining. He could hear the footsteps, even over the voices. Not much farther.
    The Apache knew the place. He had been here before. He ducked around a thick stand of young oaks and threw himself into the dense laurels that lined the trail, worming his way to where he could no longer be seen from behind but could watch the trail ahead. He made it, but only just.
    The enemy hurtled by. A few steps closer and he would have seen the Apache leave the trail.
    The enemy slowed as he realized the Apache was no longer ahead of him. But his momentum was enough. He screeched, a high, almost girlish sound, as he sprung the trap and the noose closed around his leg. The sapling straightened and left him dangling, his head just bouncing on the mossy soil. The Apache of Virginia was surprised. He hadn’t thought it would work even that well.
    “God damn it, Sasaki,” the enemy bawled. “You better come let me down if you know what’s good for you.”
    Sasaki, the Apache, crawled out of the laurels and went to examine his handiwork. He stayed well out of the reach of Todd Walters’ flailing hands.
    “If I know what’s good for me?” he mocked. “You were going to beat the shit out of me. Now I should let you go so we can get on with it?”
    “If you don’t let me down, you little half-breed Jap bastard, I’m gonna kill you.”
    Todd Walters, as head bully of Sasaki’s class at the Fenster Hill Academy of Arlington, Virginia, had been “killing” Sasaki little by little for years. The Indians—Sasaki was always an Indian because of his eyes and his skin color—had always lost to Todd’s Cowboys. Usually, they lost painfully. He and Todd hadn’t played Cowboys and Indians for years, until today, though only Sasaki was aware of it so far. There were lots of new games for the always bigger and stronger Todd to beat Sasaki at, and up, in the process.
    Sasaki decided the rope would hold. He went over and got the blanket full of tools he’d cached in the hollow trunk of a dead oak nearby.
    “What’re you doing?” Walters demanded. “My buddies are gonna whale on your scrawny yellow ass as soon as they catch up.”
    “You don’t have any buddies,” Sasaki told him. “Not really. And they gave up half a mile ago. They’re probably back down in the dorm by now.”
    Todd didn’t argue. He knew he had followers because he was tougher than anybody else. He didn’t really have friends. “What have you got there?”
    Sasaki had, among other things, another rope. He tossed it over the limb of a mature maple, made a lasso out of one end, and began trying to secure Todd’s other leg. He wasn’t very good at roping, but no matter how much the other boy flailed and yelled, it was just a matter of time.
    “Listen, Kozo. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean all that stuff,” Walters pleaded as Sasaki began to haul on the second rope. Strain as he might, he only managed to raise Todd another foot or two in the air.
    “Of course you meant it,” Kozo Sasaki said as he secured the second rope and went for a third. “But you probably are sorry, at least right now. Of course you’ll still whip me again, every time you get the chance, if I let you go.”
    “No, really I won’t.” Todd grabbed at the next rope Sasaki threw and succeeded only in getting both his hands caught by this lasso the first time it was thrown.
    Sasaki yanked it tight, carried the other end of the rope back down the trail to another limb, and hauled on it until Walters was suspended, face