From that day forward, he just went by Stone.

  Stone went to base to get his next set of orders when his contact, a man he only knew as Griff, gave him a warning. A report said that Dozer had killed his commanding officer and was persona non grata.

  “You want to stay in the network, stay away from Dozer,” Griff said.

  “Why?” Stone asked. “What happened?”

  “The official story or what really happened?”

  “Duh,” Stone replied.

  “A month before Dozer checks out, his unit gets called to Afghanistan. It’s a two-year tour. We both know that wasn’t in Dozer’s plan. He shows up drunk during commander’s call, says a few choice words about the commanding officer’s mother. The CO busted him to E-nothing, and gave him his walking papers. But before his unit deploys, some idiot murdered the CO.”

  “Dozer?”

  “No way, he was almost out,” Griff said. “Someone took advantage of the timing.”

  “If he’s innocent, why’s he being blackballed?”

  “We don’t need heat, kid,” Griff said.

  “Dozer got me this job,” Stone mused.

  “I’m ordering you to stay away from him. Will that be a problem?”

  “No, sir,” Stone said and the subject never came up again.

  On Stone’s next mission, he met his father. No matter how he had imagined meeting him as an orphan, he could never have dreamed it would be this way. At first, Remo Williams looked too young to be his father, but Stone forgot all about that after he saw the things Remo could do.

  That was because his father was a Master of Sinanju, the greatest of all martial arts. Long before kung fu, before karate, before ninjit-su, there was Sinanju. Every martial art was based off a tiny beam of light from the sun that was Sinanju. The small Korean village of Sinanju had been the source of the greatest assassins in the world throughout its five-thousand-year history, and the skills of the Masters of Sinanju were the stuff of legend.

  Masters of Sinanju did not use their fists as meat mallets to strike like other martial arts; they were delicate enough to manipulate an enemy’s nerves to take control of their bodies and hard enough to liquefy steel and turn solid rock into dust.

  His father told Stone that he had a grandfather named Sunny Joe, who was the chief of a tribe in Arizona, Stone decided to take some time off and find out about his roots. Stone quickly learned that the tribe in Arizona was an offshoot of the Korean House of Sinanju. Many centuries earlier, a blind Master had trained both his twin sons in the art of Sinanju. Because it was forbidden to train more than one pupil, Kojong, the elder of the twins, left his homeland and set sail across the Great Sea, settling in what would eventually be known as America.

  The reservation was where Stone first met his half-sister, Freya. She was born from a different mother and was much younger than he was, but Stone quickly found out that she was not a pushover. She had been raised a half-world away and had been breathing properly for her entire life, and took to their grandfather’s Sinanju training much easier than Stone. Breathing and diet were the first keys to fully unlocking Sinanju, but Stone was still trying to quit smoking, and was still known for his love of meat and pastries.

  Stone’s Sinanju training was more difficult than anything he had encountered in the military, but it was not long before he was able to do things that he would have believed to be impossible. He learned that a human could dodge a bullet and score metal with his fingernails. Yet, despite his new skills, Stone knew that he was just starting out on the path of Sinanju.

  He and Freya had volunteered to work for a secret organization, helping to secure America’s borders as a lethal response team. Though most of their missions had been a success, Stone knew that luck had been just as much of a factor as their Sinanju abilities, and both Stone and Freya realized that they needed more training.

  That is what worried him.

  Freya was further advanced in her Sinanju training, and had recently undergone “The Night of Salt,” and her body was permanently changed to better function. She had become inhumanly strong and fast, but her digestive system had become so focused and efficient that it processed every single molecule of nutrient in her food. As a consequence, she was restricted to a strict diet consisting almost entirely of rice and fish. Eating a hamburger or pizza would put her in a coma—or worse.

  Seeing how much Freya’s life had changed from her Sinanju training made Stone question whether or not he wished to stay on the path. Once you went far enough in Sinanju, there was no turning back.

  Stone walked to their training hut and noticed that the south wall had still not been repaired. Freya had accidentally damaged it during the Night of Salt and Sunny Joe told her to fix it. She was normally strong enough to do such work herself. In fact, she normally could have done the job better than Stone, but she had recently broken her ribs by saving them both from an explosion. When she came to ask for his help rebuilding the south wall of the hut, she had not purposely given him sad puppy-dog eyes—at least Stone did not think she had—but there was no way he could refuse.

  “Doesn’t grandpa own a hammer?” Stone asked as he dug through the pile of wood. “I thought he was kidding when he told you to hammer the nails in with your finger.”

  The young blonde-haired girl sitting on top of the large boulder at the front of the hut smiled.

  “Grandfather wanted me to drive the nails in with my fingertips as an exercise in focus,” she said. “Would you like to try it?”

  “No way,” Stone said. “I’m not ready for that stuff yet.”

  He continued looking around the back of the damaged hut, but there was no hammer in sight. He closed his eyes in frustration. “Okay, fine. What do I do?”

  “It’s not hard, really,” Freya said cheerfully, trying to reassure him. “It just takes focus. Center yourself and then see yourself pushing your finger through the board, but be careful. If you strike it too hard or the nail will bend.”

  “That’s it?” Stone asked. He set a board against the wall and held a nail in front of it.

  “Breathe deeply,” Freya said, trying to mimic a deep breath. A sharp and ragged coughing session told both her and Stone that she was not able to breathe properly, much less center herself. For someone whose body had remained perfectly centered the majority of her life, Stone knew that had to be incredibly frustrating for her.

  “Stop,” Stone said, holding up a hand. “I’ll do it.”

  Freya concentrated on the nail with Stone, as if their combined mental might would help the nail to go through more easily.

  Stone drew in a deep breath to center his body, and the world around him seemed to slow to a halt. As his senses expanded, he was able to detect a small spider moving at the edge of the windowsill. His mind mapped each dust particle as they danced lazily around him. Then he turned his attention to the nail he held with his left hand.

  Stone turned his focus inward until the nail was all he could see. He could sense the strength of the steel that the nail was constructed of just as surely as if he had chemically measured it, recognizing the small areas of impurity, which told him what angle to strike. He drew his fist back, holding out his index finger.

  And then Stone struck the nail.

  He felt the soft tissue at the end of his fingertip make contact with the nail, followed quickly by the bone behind it. The small bursa sacs between each joint compressed, but it was not until Stone felt the pressure reach his knuckle that he realized that he had struck with too much speed and too little force.

  His finger ricocheted off the nail and Stone reflexively brought his hand to his chest. He jumped around the hut, flinging curses around like confetti.

  Freya jumped off the boulder and started to reach for him.

  “Are you okay?”

  “No!” Stone yelled. “I jammed my finger back into my frickin’ wrist!”

  Freya took one look at the dark bruise already forming and ran from the hut.

  “I will find a hammer!” she yelled back.

  Chapter 3

  The only reason anyone would know the Sinanju tribe existed while driving west on Arizona’s Guadalupe Canyon Road was a small green sign. The words “Entering Sinanju Indian Reservation” were set in a thick, white font next to a golden trapezoid that was bisected with two slashes. The narrow dirt road that led to the reservation was almost hidden between the sign and a single-story maroon building that served as the only motel between Douglas and the New Mexico border.

  The state tourism board had constructed eight motels in the fifties to attract tourism dollars. Each was built in a remote area of the state to encourage tourists to “Experience All of Arizona” but the only tourist site in southeastern Arizona was the Geronimo Surrender Monument. The twenty-foot-tall stone turret was constructed in 1934 with New Deal money, but was more of a pit stop than destination.

  Over the first decade, very few people used the motels, opting to stay in nearby towns and the state began to realize that building motels in remote parts of the state might not have been such a good idea. During the first twelve years, Arizona lost four million dollars in salaries and maintenance. They stopped funding the motels in 1968, and abandoned the Motel Sinanju to the tribe in order to save demolition charges.

  The motel quickly turned into an unofficial tribal storage facility, though two of the twenty rooms were kept open for the few travelers who wandered into the area. The only proof that the building was not abandoned was the dimly-blinking VACANCY sign on the front. Most of the people who stopped at the reservation were looking for a casino or cheap tobacco, neither of which existed on the Sinanju reservation. A few took advantage of the small Sinanju crafts that were featured in the lobby.

  Over the past fifty years, the Motel Sinanju had rented out rooms a total of eight times. For some members of the tribe, that was eight times too many. The Sinanju tribe prided themselves on their isolation from the outside world. So, when a hungry nineteen-year-old named Tekoa showed up at the council’s headquarters asking for sanctuary, people began talking.

  Some thought he was just a hippie looking for an experience, while others believed that he was a descendant of the original tribal leaders who had been banned from the reservation a century and a half earlier. Despite the objection of a few villagers, however, the council gave Tekoa a one-year lease in one of the motel rooms, citing an old tribal law that was designed to protect expatriates from other tribes. The council did this without notifying their chief Sunny Joe, so when he called for a meeting with Tekoa, the young man was nervous.

  Tekoa did not have to ask where Bill Roam’s office was. Everyone knew. It was a small building sandwiched next to the council chambers on a strip of buildings, reminiscent of an old western. He took one look at the door, grabbed a deep breath, and walked in.

  As soon as he entered, he was greeted by the smell of old magazines. Two steps in, he walked onto a floorboard that creaked so loudly that he thought his foot was going to fall through. An elderly man was sitting behind the counter, grinning at his misfortune.

  “Everyone thinks that board is gonna break,” Mick said. “But it’s desert ironwood. We’ll all be long gone before that thing breaks.”

  “You’re…Mick, right?” Tekoa asked, timidly.

  “Unless I’m late coming home,” Mick replied, offering a handshake. “Mick Walker. I’m the historian-slash-grunt around here.”

  “Tommy told me that Chief Bill wants to see me,” he said, accepting the handshake.

  “We call our chief ‘Sunny Joe,’ son. Never call him Bill.”

  “The council said I could stay a year,” Tekoa said, worried. “I still have a few months left.”

  “Though he rarely does it, Sunny Joe can veto the council, so don’t rile him,” Mick said. “Have a seat. I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  Tekoa sat on the cracked leather sofa against the wall of the small office. He grabbed one of the magazines from the end table. Though it looked unread, it was dated March 1981.

  Mick returned to the counter and lowered his head for a violent series of coughs. Tekoa tried to ignore the painful-looking outburst.

  “Sunny Joe said he’ll be with you in a minute,” he said. “You want something to drink?”

  “No, sir,” Tekoa said. “Am I in trouble?”

  “If you were in trouble with Sunny Joe, you wouldn’t still be here,” Mick said. “He just has a few questions.”

  Tekoa noticed as a tall, thin man appeared behind the counter. It was eerie. His feet made no sound as he walked across the dry wooden floor. And while Sunny Joe looked to be in his fifties, Tekoa knew he was much older.

  “This way,” Sunny Joe said, but Tekoa could not tell if he was angry.

  Sunny Joe sat behind a modest desk, which was far more organized than Tekoa would have assumed from the chaos of paperwork in the front office. He motioned for Tekoa to sit in one of the two chairs in front of his desk. Unlike the worn sofa out front, these chairs, like the rest of Sunny Joe’s office, had been well taken care of.

  “Let’s start at the beginning,” Sunny Joe said. “Where did you say you came from?”

  “The Coushatta in Texas,” Tekoa said.

  “I know Chief Mikko,” Sunny Joe said. “A bit dramatic, but he’s a pretty good guy. What brings you to Arizona?”

  Tekoa bent over just a bit before answering.

  “I need a new home,” he said quietly.

  “Your home is with the Coushatta,” Sunny Joe said. “The Sinanju are a closed tribe.”

  “I was banished from the Coushatta and my grandmother suggested that I might find a home here,” Tekoa said, taking a breath before continuing. “I’m…cursed.”

  “Cursed?” Sunny Joe asked. “What do you mean?”

  Tekoa sat back and embarrassed, averted his eyes to the floor.

  “I’m an only child, and I was born under a bad sign. My parents always tried to protect me, but last year, we were in a wreck. It was bad; it killed both of my parents. I was lying near them, but I was unharmed. The chief said that I died, but my soul was not finished. I was a ‘Day Ghost,’ he said, and no longer welcomed as a part of the tribe. My grandmother gave me enough money to take a train.”

  “But why come here?” Sunny Joe asked. “The Coushatta are all the way on the other side of Texas.”

  “My grandmother told me of this place. “The Sinanju are magical warriors,” she said. “If anyone will accept a Day Ghost, it is the Sinanju.”

  “Your grandmother had no right to send you here.”

  “I know,” Tekoa said humbly. “But I have nowhere to go.”

  Sunny Joe looked at the boy. He was lying about something, but his anguish was real.

  “Against my advice, the council gave you a year to find another place,” Sunny Joe said. “Have you found work? The Sinanju believe that if you don’t work, you don’t eat.”

  “I’ve been helping out as everyone needs me.”

  “What happened at the basketball court?”

  “Tommy and Matt were yelling at Freya. I tried to keep him calm, but Tommy went too far. Called Freya a man and told her that she didn’t belong here.”

  “That all?”

  “Uh, well, Freya grabbed the basketball goal by the pole and smashed it to the ground,” Tekoa said. “It’s still hard to believe.”

  “And you had nothing to do with that?” Sunny Joe asked suspiciously.

  “No, sir!” Tekoa said defensively. “I’m just trying to make my peace here. In fact, I’d like to become a member of your tribe.”

  “Do you even know what Sinanju is?”

  “Your tribal martial art. The Coushatta say that the power of the old gods is in your blood. I have never seen anyone do what Freya did. I’d say Sinanju is pretty powerful, whatever it is.”

  “You should also know that it allows me to realize when someone is lying. You haven’t told the truth since you got here. My pop would’ve just squeezed you until you told the truth, but I’m going to do something worse: I’m going to hold off my recommendation for you to stay until you tell me what you’re lying about.”

  “But…I’m not lying,” Tekoa said, though his eyes were not as confident as his voice.

  Sunny Joe easily detected the slight pause in his breath, the quick jerk his eyes made to the left when he spoke as well as the increased heart rate and slight flush to his face.

  “Well, you’re not very good at lying, so you have that in your defense. Like I said, you have until the end of the year. After that, you’re gone,” Sunny Joe said in a manner that Tekoa knew that it was time for him to leave.

  Tekoa started to say something but then just said, “Thank you, Mr. Sunny Joe.”

  As he left, Mick came in and sat down in front of Sunny Joe’s desk. He looked tired, but Sunny Joe knew that look in his eye.

  “Don’t start on me, Mick,” Sunny Joe cautioned.

  “Ain’t often we get youngsters wanting to come to the reservation,” Mick said. “Sunny Joe, we can’t afford to turn people away!”

  “I understand, but…”

  “There’s no buts, Bill!” Mick interrupted. “We’re a dying tribe! Unless you find a way to make babies out of sand, we aren’t going to exist in the next hundred years!”

  Sunny Joe was not used to his friend interrupting him, but pain had caused Mick to be more agitated lately.

  “Careful, Mick. You’re starting to sound like Paul,” Sunny Joe said, referring to the head of the Sinanju tribal council.

  Ever since he became the head of the tribal council, Paul Moore had never agreed with Sunny Joe’s decisions. Whether the topic was federal rights or funding, Sunny Joe could always count on a fight from Paul Moore.

  “Then this would be the only time,” Mick said. “I’m nothing like Paul.”

  Mick knew why Paul and Sunny Joe did not get along, although he could never tell Sunny Joe. After Sunny Joe’s mother had died, his father Joseph had begun a relationship with Paul’s mother. When she became pregnant with Paul, Joseph moved her to the outskirts to avoid the stigma of producing a bastard child. No one would ever know who the father was.