The Milestone Protocol Ernest Dempsey (best short novels of all time .txt) 📖

morning, however, he’d woken her in the early hours to let her know they would be going down into the manor’s bunker, where she’d trained so long ago at an early age.

These halls and cells had been a place of refuge for Adriana as her mother languished with cancer. The dojo and weight room here had been her outlet for rage, sadness, and honing herself into something stronger, a formidable weapon against any who would stand in her way.

For much of her life, Adriana wondered why her father had her spend so much time training, sharpening her skills, and sculpting her physique into a fine-tuned machine. She’d assumed, initially, that it had been for self-preservation. Perhaps that had played a small role, but through the years her doubts about that answer continued to mount. Self-defense classes, or martial arts, would have been enough to deal with most threats that could have threatened her as a young woman. But Adriana hadn’t done basic self-defense training. She’d been taught by one of the last of an ancient line of warriors in the forbidden arts of ninjutsu.

Initially, she’d wondered if she was having a strange dream. Even historians couldn’t fully agree on the mysterious past of the Ninja and their training regimen after the order drifted into the shadows during the seventeenth century. In the nineteenth century, the secret band of warriors was nothing more than the topic of legends and stories people told around the campfire or at the dinner table. They were a fascinating study, but had faded into obscurity.

That, Adriana knew, was only partly true.

She’d pressed her master for more information on the Ninja, or Shinobi as they were known in the old days. Adriana asked how many there were, where they were located or based, and why they’d kept their presence secret for so long.

Her master’s answer was as cryptic as the Shinobi history itself.

“We are everywhere and nowhere,” he’d explained. “It is best that we remain in the shadows, lest we once more corrupt ourselves with greed and lack of purpose.”

She surmised that he referred to their role as mercenaries, spies, and assassins for hire, though he never explained their origins, how they were formed, or where they came from. Adriana wondered on many occasions about the Shinobi’s purpose and how they had come to embrace greed and cast their moral codes into the abyss.

Being here in the tunnels again returned all those memories and questions to her mind. She hadn’t seen her master since her youth, but she figured the man had to be quite old by now. He was in his late fifties—she guessed—when he trained her. That was more than thirty years ago.

Her father seemed on a mission.

The man stalked through the halls like a wild animal on the hunt until he reached a dark oaken door set in an arched, stone doorway.

Adriana remembered the door. It was one of the few details about this subterranean area that stuck out in her mind.

Diego paused and looked over at his daughter. “What you are about to learn is deeply troubling, Adriana. I know that I didn’t offer many answers to you when you were younger, or even since you became an adult. Unfortunately, now you must learn the truth.”

She peered into his eyes, searching him for answers. “Truth?” she asked. “About what?”

He opened the heavy door. A thick scent of patchouli incense wafted out from inside. Light from dozens of candles within radiated brightly into the corridor, spilling onto the walls and floor and ceiling.

The interior of the dojo didn’t look like something that had originated in the Far East, save for a few banners hanging from the wall with Japanese characters written on them. The room featured a high domed ceiling with baroque-style beams and columns supporting it. The stone tile floor from the hall continued into the room, though it was topped with a training ring made from smooth oak, worn down through the ages by those who trained before Adriana.

A hooded figure cloaked in a black robe stood in the center of the ring. The person faced the far wall, unmoving.

Diego led the way into the enormous room and closed the door behind Adriana once she was inside. The door hit the sill with a booming thud that echoed throughout the chamber for what seemed like a minute.

“We are ready,” Diego said.

Adriana watched as the figure remained motionless. The only hint of movement came from slow, deliberate breaths that caused the person’s shoulders to rise slightly and drop again with each exhale.

“Are you?” the raspy voice cracked, its echo rippling off the stone walls and floor, dancing into the ceiling until it faded.

“Master?” Adriana asked and dared a step forward.

The figure inhaled a long, slow breath before turning slowly to meet her gaze. His face remained in the hood’s shadows, the light unwilling to risk touching his eyes or cheeks.

The old man pulled back the hood, revealing a face that seemed unharmed by the ravages of time. He had to be in his late seventies by now, slightly older than Adriana’s father, but his skin remained smooth. Only the corners of his eyes betrayed his age, with long crow’s-feet that stretched across to the temples.

“Hello, Adriana. It has been a long time.”

“Yes,” she said, pressing her hands together and leaning over at the hips in the bow greeting she’d learned as a child.

He returned the gesture, though only bending half as much as she.

“I am certain you have many questions for me, my child,” the master said, his words slipping from his lips in a near whisper. “Where have I been? What have I been up to? That sort of thing.”

She cracked a smile. Despite the man’s utterly serious nature, he had a sense of humor that never ceased to catch her off guard and make her laugh.

“Along with,” he added, “why we are all here now.”

“Yes,” she said, rising to meet his gaze once more.

Diego remained silent, merely observing the reunion of