Killer of Killers

by Mark M. DeRobertis

  Trent scowled again. “Who do I have to be?”

  Soriah leaned back. “I like that. You are special, aren’t you?” Once more he seemed to expect some kind of a response, but after another silent moment, he asked, “What would you say if I told you it could very well be true that you may have saved my life?”

  “How’s that?”

  “I have a business partner, you see. His name is Karl Manoukian. You may have heard of him. He has taken a distrust of me, I’m afraid, and he did an unfortunate thing. He recruited a man to kill me, but you killed him first. Isn’t that simply grand?”

  “You mean Stiles?”

  “Yes.”

  “The coroner’s report said Stiles died of natural causes, as I understand it. So how are you so sure I killed him?”

  “Mr. Smith, I arranged for the coroner’s office to report his death as natural, so Mr. Manoukian wouldn’t conclude I was privy to his mischief.” Soriah kept his gaze fixed on Trent. “If he knew that you killed Stiles, he would probably think you work for me. Since I know that you don’t, I would feel so much better to learn exactly who you do work for.”

  “I told you I work for no one, and that’s the way I like it.”

  “I see.” Soriah nodded and crumpled his brow. “You work for no one, and that’s the way you like it.”

  “Right.”

  “That’s really too bad. I could use a man with your extraordinary skills.”

  “If you want Manoukian killed, you don’t need me to do it.”

  “No, Mr. Smith, I have better ways to deal with my disillusioned partner.” Soriah’s eyes seemed to peer straight into Trent’s brain. “I have something else in mind. Would you be interested?”

  “No.”

  Soriah’s face soured, and he paused again, as if carefully considering his next question. “If you don’t want to work for me,” he said, “would you at least be willing to work with me? I can make it worth your while. Would you be interested in hearing what I have to offer?”

  Trent thought for a moment. He figured it wouldn’t hurt to listen before he walked. Besides, he still didn’t know how Susie Q and the Global Girls fit into all of this. “Okay, what do you have to offer?”

  Soriah’s face beamed. “First, I want to see you in action for myself.” He flipped a switch on his desktop, and the section of floor on which Trent sat fell straight to the level below. Reacting instantly, Trent leaped just in time to catch the edge of the rift. Before he could pull himself out, however, the black guard on Soriah’s left sprang forth. With a kick to Trent’s chest, he knocked Trent back into the pit.

  Being as skilled in falling as he was in fighting, Trent landed uninjured, rolling to his feet. Next, the sofa on which he had been sitting lowered, and a sliding platform filled the resulting gap. Trent stood in a bare and flat square in which he felt quite at home.

  Soriah walked to the rim. “Welcome to my private arena, Mr. Smith. It is the same size as a fighting ring, as I’m sure you have noticed. But there is one difference. Instead of ropes, what this ring has is electrified walls. Be sure not to touch them, or you will receive a good jolt.” He smiled, giving Trent the impression that he was actually looking forward to the shocking event.

  With brazen zeal, the aged magnate snapped his fingers, and the guard who kicked Trent responded by leaping into the chasm with the grace of a jaguar. He approached Trent with extended arms and open hands. It was clear he had martial arts training of his own.

  Trent dismissed the starting bow and assumed his Kokutsu-Dachi stance. The guard initiated a series of arm swings, hatchet chops, straight, forward, and reverse punches, roundhouses and uppercuts. With every strike, Trent was able to duck and dodge, deflect or block the blows.

  Without pause, Soriah’s man launched a series of combinations, but Trent continued to evade the multiple attacks. Then the guard resorted to a flurry of kicks. They were front kicks, jump kicks, and reverse kicks. He didn’t let up for a second, yet Trent remained unscathed.

  Appearing frustrated, the guard feinted to his right, but fired a punch from his left. With an instant reaction, Trent pinned the incoming fist over his right shoulder, locked the elbow, and wrenched him downward in an arm bar.

  Forced to his knees and wincing in pain, the man tried to free himself by aiming a strike at Trent’s groin. Trent kicked the punch awry and answered the dirty effort with a vindictive twist of the locked appendage. Soriah’s man let out a chilling scream, after which Trent released the arm bent awkward and useless, its elbow disjointed.

  Cradling his injury, the guard backed off, hunched over in obvious agony. He raised his face to Soriah above. Looking resolved, the white-haired mogul snapped his fingers to the other black man who responded by leaping into the pit, as did the first.

  The second guard launched himself straight at Trent with a burst of punches and kicks, alternating both arms and both legs. Trent easily dodged and parried the strikes until his backward motion brought him near the wall. Remembering Soriah’s warning, he swerved his way along the perimeter, keeping his eyes on the nonstop barrage.

  Trent’s circular path backed him closer to the first man, who was trying in vain to reposition his elbow. He ran at Trent from behind and launched himself with a flying double kick. Sensing the human missile approaching his blindside, Trent turned and caught the soaring legs in midair and, using the hurdler’s momentum, swung him into the other man closing in.

  The impact knocked both of Soriah’s men into the wall, causing electric shocks to bolt through their bodies. Loud and uneven crackling filled the air, as did the stench of burning flesh.

  A dismayed Soriah hurried back to his desk and shut off the power. He also hit the switch raising the square to its normal level. Once the platform secured, the sofa reappeared. Standing straight with his arms at his sides, Trent glared at the man behind the desk. To his surprise, there were two new bodyguards positioned as before, but this time they were Caucasian giants.

  Before anyone could say anything, a team of medics hustled into the room, placed the unconscious men onto gurneys, and carted them away.

  “Please,” Soriah began, as he gestured to the couch.

  “I don’t think so,” Trent sneered.

  “Oh, don’t be indignant,” the old man said. “I wanted to see you in action, and I must say, I was right to be impressed with you. After all, you just defeated my two best fighters without throwing a single punch.”

  Trent remained silent. To him, this Soriah character was a typical self-centered brat, just like movie stars.

  Soriah spoke again. “Please, Mr. Smith, won’t you sit down? We still have a lot to discuss.”

  Trent pointed at the sofa. “If you think I’m sitting in that thing again...”

  “No, Mr. Smith, here.”

  Soriah flipped another switch, and a much smaller section of floor slid open in front of his desk, and only inches from its center. Up came a single seat chair, not unlike the one Soriah enjoyed.

  “So what does this one do, drop into an Iron Maiden?”

  “Mr. Smith, surely you’re joking.”

  Trent wasn’t sure at all, but he was sure he wouldn’t be sitting anywhere in this office again. Not with the old man at the controls. He approached the desk and examined the two bodyguards. Like their Negroid counterparts, they were each six feet, six and athletically built. Both men kept their eyes fixed directly ahead and their hands clasped in front of their respective belts.

  Trent was losing his patience. “Are you going to sic them on me, too?”

  “No, Mr. Smith, you easily defeated my first team, why would I expect a different result with my second?”

  As Soriah was speaking, Trent noticed the designs on his tie were the same as those he observed on the medallions. Remembering the one he put in his pocket, he patted the outside of his jeans. It was no longer there.

  Trent’s patience expired. “Look, Mr. Soriah, it’s been fun. But it’s time you told me what it is y
ou want from me.”

  “Mr. Smith, may I call you Trent?”

  “Why not?”

  “Trent...” Soriah smiled, but his face remained sullen. “I have been around for a long time, and I have seen and accomplished more than I have time to describe. Suffice it to say, I strive to be the best at what I do, at everything I do. And I have succeeded.”

  Trent shrugged. “So what?”

  “So I have a dream...”

  “So did Martin Luther King.”

  “Mister, uh, Trent, please bear with me. You have no idea of the scope of what you have stumbled into. What if I told you we have developed a medicine that can heal injuries twice as fast as normal? Or ten times as fast as normal? What would you say?”

  “I’d say you would become even richer than you are already.”

  “You wouldn’t think that it would be something wonderful?”

  “What does it have to do with me?”

  “For one thing,” Soriah answered, “there is the issue of my Eternals.”

  “Eternals?”

  “It’s a pet name that I’ve given to our test subjects. I’m referring to brave men who have volunteered—”

  “To be walking experiments?” Trent cut in, “like Stiles and Flint?”

  “Stiles and Flint were undergoing treatments,” Soriah explained, “and it is very important that these treatments are not interrupted.”

  “Not interrupted? I take it you mean it’s very important that your men aren’t killed.”

  Soriah wasn’t quick to reply. Instead, his eyes seemed to crystalize. “Well, yes,” he finally said, “generally speaking, I do need my people to stay alive. Otherwise, the term Eternals would not be applicable. I would hope that was obvious. Even to a man like you.”

  “What makes you think I’ll be killing more of your Eternals?” Just as Trent asked, he saw the truth. “These celebrity murderers... How many of them are walking free because of you? All of them?” He cursed himself for not seeing it sooner. “I take it your treatments have a side effect. It goes like this: without warning one of your so-called ‘Eternals’ will succumb to a sudden and uncontrollable homicidal rage.”

  Soriah closed his eyes. “Well, something like that.”

  “Something like that? This new ‘medicine’ of yours is just a new kind of anabolic steroid then. Or would you have me believe that it isn’t?”

  “Mr. Smith, we are getting off the point. I can promise you that we have every intention of keeping this problem under control.”

  “Intentions didn’t save the Bernstein family. And they didn’t prevent the murders of Mrs. Flint and her daughter. How many other innocent people are buried in the ground as a result of your drug?”

  Soriah glared at Trent, and he paused before answering. “It’s true we’ve had setbacks,” he admitted, “but what journey into the future hasn’t? When you learn the results of our research, I am confident you will understand why this program is worth the risks.”

  “Worth the risks?” Trent echoed with contempt. “I don’t give a rat’s ass if your athletes heal in time for their next meaningless playoff game. How do you justify paying for that with the lives of helpless innocents?”

  “You’d care if a child healed from third degree burns faster than normal, wouldn’t you?” Soriah straightened his back and squared his shoulders while waiting for what Trent knew was the only answer to that question.

  But Trent hesitated. He wasn’t sure any of this was true. Everything he heard could be nothing but lies. Nevertheless, he firmed his mouth and was sure to speak with an even voice. “Ideally,” he agreed. “But I don’t see you as an idealist. I see you selling this stuff to the people who can pay the most. Not to the average citizen. And I’m betting that I’m right.”

  “Indeed, you are right,” Soriah jeered, “about my partner, Mr. Manoukian. He is the one who is in it for the profit. And I... I...” His voice grew stronger as he pointed to his own chest. “I am the idealist!”

  “You’re an idealist like my dog’s an idealist,” Trent retorted. He actually never had a dog, but he thought it was an apt comparison. “You’re a benevolent industrialist who wants the world to be a better place? People like you want the world to be a better place, all right, but only for people like you. Making the world a better place for everyone... That takes people like me.”

  Once more, Soriah wasn’t quick to reply. Instead, he clasped his hands together and lowered his head as if considering the conversation in its entirety. Several seconds passed before he raised his head again, but when he did, his expression wasn’t pleasant. “Trent, you have proven to be nothing more than a rogue vigilante,” he said. “You’re someone who has seen our justice system go astray, and you have concluded you can do something about it. Yet your petty philosophies are nothing...nothing, I tell you, compared to what we have here. And I would suggest you heed me on this, because there is one thing of which I can assure you. I can’t let you interfere with it.”

  “Mr. Soriah, I have no intention of interfering with you or your program. But just so you know, there’s something of which I can assure you, also.”

  “Oh? Do tell.”

  “If I ever find myself in a position to make a difference, I will see to it that justice prevails.”

  Soriah grimaced. “And exactly what is justice, Trent, if you don’t mind my asking?” His voice was calm, but he spoke with a sneer.

  Trent glared deep into the cold, gray eyes of his host. “Justice is rendering each killer that which is his due.”

  “Of course,” Soriah conceded. “But your brand of justice will catch up to you. You know that. I don’t advise you to cross that road alone, Mr. Trent. I could be a very powerful advocate. Why wouldn’t you take advantage of this opportunity?”

  “Because I go where I want to go, I do what I want to do, and I am beholden to no one.” Trent rose to leave, but stopped and peered one last time at Soriah’s frigid face. “And that’s the way I like it.”

  * * * *

  For several minutes, Abraham sat unmoving and alone, contemplating the undesired outcome of his brief encounter with Trent Smith. Then he leaned forward and manipulated his desktop controls. Moments later, a digital recorder replayed his departed visitor’s voice. “I go where I want to go, I do what I want to do, and I am beholden to no one.”

  Abraham smiled upon hearing it, and then he spoke with the playback when the last words sounded. “And that’s the way I like it.”

  An exceedingly tall black man entered the room. It was Charles, and he sat down in the single seat before the grand desk. Abraham perked up with anticipation. “Yes, Charles. Tell me about Trent Smith.”

  “It’s what we figured, Abe,” Charles began. “Trent Smith isn’t his real name, but he’s not ex-special forces like we thought. This guy spent over twenty years in Japan at the Shoji Tokyo Dojo. It’s the Harvard of martial arts academies. A martial arts graduate school, if you will, and they’re known to be awfully picky about who they accept. You have to be a top black belt—with references—just to be considered. And Trent Smith? He held the rank of a tenth degree master sensei.”

  “I see,” Abraham replied, hand on chin. “A tenth degree master sensei. That sounds impressive. But a master of what, exactly?”

  “Ju Jitsu. No, make that Budo Ju Jitsu. It’s more militaristic and extreme. He’s classified as an expert with a variety of weapons, but his preference—and his specialty—is empty hands.”

  “This is all very interesting,” Abraham said as he leaned back again into his chair. “Tell me more about Trent Smith.”

  “This Trent Smith, when it comes to martial arts, I’d say he’s the best right now. Over the last ten years he’s been the undefeated champion in Japan’s underground circuit. It’s a no holds barred competition and very brutal, but still it was only a sport. Now, he’s here, and he’s deadly serious, as we’ve seen.”

  “So what drives him?” Abraham asked. “What is his motivation? Has h
e suffered a devastating loss? A murdered father or brother, perhaps? A wife or child lost to crime?”

  “No,” Charles answered. “There’s no record of any tragedy affecting him his entire life. I don’t know why he’s doing this.”

  “I do,” Abraham said. “He loves the thrill of it. He’s found a reason to kill, and he’s justified it in his mind. You see, my friend, he is the righteous one. Nothing will ever change this perception he has of himself.”

  “You’re probably right,” Charles concurred.

  Abraham couldn’t suppress a grin. “I could use a man like that.”

  “He’s a free spirit,” Charles warned. “A wild card.”

  Abraham considered the opinion. “We can never be sure,” he said. “This man presents a possible clog in our machine. We’ll have to find a way to neutralize him.”

  “Neutralize him?”

  “Like on the hardwood, Charles. How many times have we learned that lesson? See to it, won’t you? In the meantime, keep an eye on him.”

  Charles nodded. “Okay.”

  With that, Abraham eyed again his desktop controls and played back another of Trent’s quotes. “I will see to it that justice prevails.”

  Like a broken record, Abraham replayed the last two words over and over. “...justice prevails...justice prevails...justice prevails.”

  Noticing the long expression on Charles’ face, Abraham commented, “You look worried. Is there any word on our West Coast leak? I’d feel much better, knowing it was under control.”

  “Not yet, but I expect a report any time.”

  “Good,” Abraham said. “I should think it’s even more important now than ever. And the one here in New York?”

  “It’s what we talked about. I’m sure of it now.”

  Abraham nodded. “Very well, Charles. I suppose it will be necessary to advise the good doctor. Let’s make that a priority on our next visit to Bemidji, shall we?”

  After a deep breath, Abraham returned his attention to the recorder at his fingertips. Once more he played back the words of Trent Smith. “Justice is rendering each killer that which is his due.”