Read Online Namaste by Sean Platt, Realm, Sands, Johnny B. Truant - Free Book Online Page A
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anger inside. Others, like the abbot, would have you meditate until that anger was buried or gone. I do not agree. We must summon anger when we fight. We are taught to spar as machines, but a fist cannot move as fast as it sometimes must without a modicum of anger. The Sri have long denied emotion in this context, but a warrior with passionate strikes will always defeat a highly skilled automaton. But it still must be controlled, Amit. You must tuck it deep like a seed beneath the soil. You must learn to control its blooming by giving it only sunlight allowed by you. Your anger and hatred have the potential to be a tremendous asset, but only if you learn where and when to use them. Do not deny your anger. Let it fill you like a hot core when you practice your disciplines, and give it expression with each strike. Your hands will become harder. Your placements will become more precise. Because unlike so many of the others here, if you learn to channel your rage you will always be able to summon a reason to fight.”
The boy looked up at Woo, then after 30 long seconds nodded slowly.
“You understand.”
Another five seconds. The boy was again in control, practicing what the order had taught him: To always think, to never react without thinking actions out in advance — a failure that had so recently risked his presence at the compound.
“I understand.”
“Good,” said Woo. “Now, we meditate.”
Chapter 9
P RESENT D AY
“H E KNOWS , YOU know.”
The enormous black man in the bright-white T-shirt was well over 6 and a half feet tall, towering over Amit’s 5’9”, and twice as wide. His bare arms were a mural of tattoos, but his skin was dark enough that they vanished into scribbles. He held an automatic gun, and while it wasn’t trained on Amit, it wasn’t pointing toward the ground. From where he stood, Amit could see that the safety was off. One of the man’s big black fingers was over the trigger guard, an inch from firing position. Amit was fast, but could never reach the man before getting cut down.
“What does he know?” Amit asked.
“About the Right Hand. That Mr. Hayes is dead. Killed by a monk in blue robes.”
Amit looked down. He’d returned to his rented room and had changed into a new robe and sash, because the other was too bloody. He’d been drawing stares, and a shaved-headed monk in robes attracted enough glances under ordinary circumstances.
“It was not me. Perhaps it was another monk in blue robes.”
The big black man nodded. “We get a lot of them. Worse than trick-or-treaters.”
Amit gave the man a genuine smile. He felt good. He had erased the squad who had ended Nisha’s life, filling a war chest of eyes for her eye, and karmically correcting the wrong actions of the man who had issued the order. It was a beautiful day, and the sun was shining. Now he had this charming conversation to be thankful for.
“Do the police wonder why men stand outside this house with illegal weapons?”
The big man ignored Amit’s implication, but didn’t contradict the suggestion of the weapons’ illegality — something which Amit, who’d never trained much with firearms, wasn’t sure of. “Nope.”
Amit was 30 feet down an enormous driveway. A massive, decorative gate loomed slightly uphill. The guard engaging him had a booming voice, so Amit had no trouble hearing every nuance of his words. Amit’s own voice was soft and conversational, but the guard seemed to have no trouble hearing him. He hadn’t smiled, and was wearing sunglasses, but seemed friendly enough. The kind of man Amit might like to have a cup of tea with under different circumstances — although Amit was gregarious and enjoyed sharing tea with most anyone.
He’d been at the gate outside the Right Hand’s boss’s house for 10 minutes. The guards (Amit counted six, two of them in small guard towers) either didn’t see him as a threat or were friendly,
The boy looked up at Woo, then after 30 long seconds nodded slowly.
“You understand.”
Another five seconds. The boy was again in control, practicing what the order had taught him: To always think, to never react without thinking actions out in advance — a failure that had so recently risked his presence at the compound.
“I understand.”
“Good,” said Woo. “Now, we meditate.”
Chapter 9
P RESENT D AY
“H E KNOWS , YOU know.”
The enormous black man in the bright-white T-shirt was well over 6 and a half feet tall, towering over Amit’s 5’9”, and twice as wide. His bare arms were a mural of tattoos, but his skin was dark enough that they vanished into scribbles. He held an automatic gun, and while it wasn’t trained on Amit, it wasn’t pointing toward the ground. From where he stood, Amit could see that the safety was off. One of the man’s big black fingers was over the trigger guard, an inch from firing position. Amit was fast, but could never reach the man before getting cut down.
“What does he know?” Amit asked.
“About the Right Hand. That Mr. Hayes is dead. Killed by a monk in blue robes.”
Amit looked down. He’d returned to his rented room and had changed into a new robe and sash, because the other was too bloody. He’d been drawing stares, and a shaved-headed monk in robes attracted enough glances under ordinary circumstances.
“It was not me. Perhaps it was another monk in blue robes.”
The big black man nodded. “We get a lot of them. Worse than trick-or-treaters.”
Amit gave the man a genuine smile. He felt good. He had erased the squad who had ended Nisha’s life, filling a war chest of eyes for her eye, and karmically correcting the wrong actions of the man who had issued the order. It was a beautiful day, and the sun was shining. Now he had this charming conversation to be thankful for.
“Do the police wonder why men stand outside this house with illegal weapons?”
The big man ignored Amit’s implication, but didn’t contradict the suggestion of the weapons’ illegality — something which Amit, who’d never trained much with firearms, wasn’t sure of. “Nope.”
Amit was 30 feet down an enormous driveway. A massive, decorative gate loomed slightly uphill. The guard engaging him had a booming voice, so Amit had no trouble hearing every nuance of his words. Amit’s own voice was soft and conversational, but the guard seemed to have no trouble hearing him. He hadn’t smiled, and was wearing sunglasses, but seemed friendly enough. The kind of man Amit might like to have a cup of tea with under different circumstances — although Amit was gregarious and enjoyed sharing tea with most anyone.
He’d been at the gate outside the Right Hand’s boss’s house for 10 minutes. The guards (Amit counted six, two of them in small guard towers) either didn’t see him as a threat or were friendly,
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