* * * *
Charles watched his aging mentor with increased discomfort. He knew Abraham was right. The sudden appearance of Trent Smith posed a possible threat to their plans. He set his mind to work on just how he might ‘neutralize’ him. But his concern was not for Trent Smith. It was for the man he knew most of his life. The man who was like a father to him.
Chapter Six
Don’t You Want to Live Forever?
It was a gangbanger’s fiesta, or so he perceived it, but Amman Bey was not one of the celebrants. He was there on business, and he had just provided a sample of the product he wanted to sell. He minded his patience as Rico Rodriguez, the gang’s scrawny leader, waved the syringe over his head.
Rico was slight in stature but heavily armed with handguns and knives stuck into his belt. Long black hair, parted on the side, fell tangled about his cheeks and over the cushions of the couch where he sat. “Oooohhhhweeeee,” he cried after pushing the needle into his bicep. Enthusiastic cronies shouted in glee as he pulled it free of his arm.
But Amman wasn’t shouting, and his patience was spent. Garbed in his black suit and tie, he wanted to spend as little time as possible in the company of the loud and ragged collection of rabble that followed the man whose money he sought. While the gathered delinquents held beer cans and cigarettes, he held a black leather bag. “So vaht do you think?”
“Yeah, dass da sheet,” Rico claimed in a gruff Spanish accent. He looked to the arm that received the shot amidst multiple tattoos. A pinhead of scarlet oozed from the puncture. “What do you call dees, anyway?”
“Like you sade, izz the shit,” Amman answered with an accent of his own.
“Ha! Da sheet, ay? Well, pop unodder wun.”
“I told you only vunce a day,” Amman replied in a tone decisive yet cautious. Though much larger than the youths crowded about, he knew he would have no better chance against this ruffian horde than an alley cat swarmed by ravenous rats.
“I don’ mean for me,” Rico clarified. He turned his head to a hefty man nearby. “Alfredo, check diz out.”
The scowling brute swaggered forward. With the exception of Amman, he was the heaviest man in the room. He asked, “You sure dees sheet is cool?” His accent was even thicker than Rico’s and just as gruff.
“Hey, I’m yur Numero Uno,” the jovial leader reminded him. “You truss me, right? Vaminos.”
“Si, I truss you,” Alfredo said, “but how do we know we can truss dees Gringo?”
Rico glared at Alfredo. “Because I said we can truss him, dat’s how.” He moved his glare to Amman. “Go ahead, spleet dat bag.”
Amman took another syringe from the black leather bag but awaited Alfredo’s consent before putting the point to his arm.
The rangy gang boss again eyed his leery compadre. “Wassa mattah? Don’ you wanna leev forever?”
Alfredo nodded, after which Amman plunged the needle into his deltoid. “Oh, yeah,” he gushed. “Dees dah sheet.” His eyes rolled back, and his round, unshaved face blushed to deep red.
Rico slapped Alfredo’s back. “Yeah, eez good, ay?”
Observing their faces, Amman grinned. Rico was a man convinced what he heard was no lie. A drug to make him a god was now in his possession, and Amman doubted the gang leader was willing to share it with anyone else.
Viewing the minions huddled around him, Rico’s face turned grim. “What are you fools looking at? You want some of dees, you got to earn it. Vallanse!”
The group dispersed, seemingly content with the contraband already in their possession. They diverted their attention to the raven-haired beauties awaiting them in the expanded room.
Rico asked Alfredo, “You got deh cash?”
Alfredo reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope. He handed it to Rico who then scrutinized Amman. “You ain’t no Gringo,” he said with certainty. “And with a scar like that? Where you from, anyway?”
Amman instinctively put his hand on the scar that spanned his left cheek. “I’m from Turkey,” he replied.
“Yeah, and dees is deh gravy,” Rico joked. He turned his head to view Alfredo’s approval, and again to Amman, he added, “You put it on your delivery list, Turkey Bro. Leave it to you to find sum-tin else to sell me.”
“Remember, vunce a day,” Amman warned.
“Yeah, yeah, wonce a day, just like my vitamins.”
Rico handed him the envelope.
Amman reached into his coat, produced a glossy black stiletto, and sprang the shiny blade. He slipped the cutting edge across the folded paper and pulled out a clump of thousand dollar bills. “Beddy nice,” he grunted in a low voice. “I’ll be back next month.”
“Don’ forget to bring dis new sheet with the reg’lar stuff,” Rico said. “I’m countin’ on you, homes.”
“I never forget, Rico.”
Amman shoved the bills inside his coat and turned to see his way through the pack of revelers. Once outside, he thrust an open hand to the teenage lookout who filled it with his .45 caliber. Amman pocketed the weapon and strutted toward a parked limousine. After entering the vehicle, he said, “Let’s go,” to his cousin Malik in the driver’s seat. The words were Turkish, but the order wasn’t obeyed. He asked, “What’s wrong?”
Malik turned around, exposing a reddened face and furious eyes. “You are an idiot,” he jeered, also in the Turkish tongue.
“What are you talking about?”
“That,” Malik said, redirecting his stare through the rear window. Another limo was pulling up behind them.
Amman paled as two more of his cousins, Ali and Jamir, also garbed in black suits, opened simultaneously the opposite doors and sat astride him. Their girth exceeded his, and both glared eyes unsympathetic and cruel.
The words remained Turkish, as Ali, to Amman’s right, sneered, “Amman, Amman, you fool. What are you trying to do? Doesn’t our uncle pay you enough?” He produced a sheathed stiletto of his own, which spurted a blade against Amman’s trembling face. “What do you suppose, Amman? Must I find it necessary to cut this side, too?”
Jamir, to Amman’s left, also sprang a blade. “You disappoint all of us, and you make us ashamed.” He put his knife to Amman’s neck. “Maybe we slit your throat this time, you think?”
His jaw straddled by razor-edged steel, Amman lamented, “It’s true. I have made a terrible mistake.”
“Yes, you have,” Ali agreed. “And how do you propose to correct this terrible mistake?”
* * * *
Spanish tunes filled the rustic streets as Amman approached the sentry who stood at Rico’s door. He climbed the steps and said, “I need to see Rico again.” Once more he turned over his handgun.
The young Latino wedged the pistol into his belt. “Wait here.” He slipped inside the house. Emerging minutes later, he said, “Okay.”
Amman entered the main room and witnessed again the gangbangers celebrating nothing in particular, as it seemed to be a daily occurrence. Dancing girls threw their skirts up, and the many youths hooted and hollered. Amman sidestepped the puddles of beer on the floor, and ducked beneath the hovering smoke of tobacco and weed.
Seconds later, he faced Rico, who smiled and spread his arms in a mock welcome. “Hey, homes,” the gang leader crowed, “iss a fass month.”
Shaking his head, Amman said, “Vee have to talk in private.”
Rico’s smile deadened. “Alfredo comes or no talkin’, hombre.”
On cue, Alfredo stood up with his chest puffed out, and his chin jutted forward. He squared off with Amman, nearly matching him in bodily bulk.
Gritting his teeth behind tensed lips, Amman nodded.
Moments later, they gathered in a back room where Rico sat in a heavy chair. Alfredo stood next to him with his arms folded. Rico looked confused and asked, “So whas up?”
Amman narrowed his eyes. “I need the bag back.”
“Fuckin’ sheet!” Rico sneered. “You got my dough in yur coat, and now you want yur bag
back?” He burst into laughter so hard his eyes welled.
Alfredo wasn’t laughing. He reached into his shirt for what Amman knew would be a gun. Before he could bring it out, Amman sprang the blade from the stiletto hidden in the palm of his hand, and in a blinding slash, opened Alfredo’s throat.
Blood spattered over the seated gang leader, who watched in horror his compadre fall to the floor. He reached for a pistol in his belt, but Amman acted faster, putting the knife to his neck while seizing a bundle of hair. “Keep your hands up,” he growled.
With the blade against his skin, Rico threw his arms into the air.
Amman pulled Rico’s head back by the grip of curls. “No skinny, little monkey-man laughs at me! Now vehr is the bag?”
“All right, all right!” Rico cried. “You can have it. And deh bread, too, just watch deh knife, will ya?”
“I said vehr is the bag?” Amman boomed. He lifted Rico by his hair and pushed the blade through the first layer of skin.
“It’s here,” Rico claimed. “In dat closet, over dehr.”
Amman forced Rico to the door. “Open it.”
“Take deh knife off my neck first, hijo de puta.”
Amman removed the blade from Rico’s neck, but retained a handful of hair. Rico opened the door and revealed the black leather bag. As Amman eyed his objective, he noticed Rico’s hand shifting toward his belt. He jerked Rico’s head back. “You think I let you shoot me?”
Straining against the grip, Rico’s face contorted with defiance. Then his eyes bulged, and a gasp escaped his mouth. To the hilt, Amman plunged his blade through Rico’s side, slicing the renal artery. Only after twisting it, twice and thrice, did he free it from Rico’s flesh. Blood spurted from the wound, and he permitted the dying man to fall at his feet. He wiped the blade on a hanging garment, triggered its sheathing, and returned it to his coat.
Once again, Amman confronted the pulsing beats, and once again, he maneuvered through oblivious partiers, this time carrying the black leather bag. Throwing the door open, he passed the stern lookout.
“Hey, hombre.”
Amman pivoted, ready to share his steel a third time on the night.
“You forgot this,” the youth said as he held out the .45 caliber.
Amman possessed it and hastened his return to the street.
* * * *
Walking down a crowded Manhattan avenue was not his favorite pastime, but with his business in New York concluded, Trent reflected on his East Coast experience. He came here to kill a man, and he killed two. As a bonus, he found a dazzling lover who adored him. And to top it all off, he met a billionaire megalomaniac who talked about miracle drugs and treatment programs. Trent couldn’t really make sense of what he heard, but he harbored no regrets. What he had to do now was choose his next move. His only uncertainty stemmed from whether he should return to California or call on Susie one more time.
Just yesterday she saved him in the Flip Flop Club, yet the time that had passed seemed much longer than that. It was late afternoon of the second day, and the city lights already emblazoned the sky with colors diverse as the crowds underneath. People buzzed in all directions, bumping and pushing, and to Trent it was insufferable. He observed the monoliths above, and wondered how many more idealists lay hidden behind those walls of brick and steel. He didn’t care. It was time to check down the list in his head for the next killer walking free. Knowing that it probably would be another of Soriah’s Eternals, Trent considered he should have taken advantage of his opportunistic meeting with the elderly executive and learned more about this treatment program. He dismissed the thought, because his stomach was ever reminding him that it needed his attention, too.
Searching for a place to eat, Trent happened upon a newspaper stand. The front-page headline was noteworthy, particularly to him. It read Nick Martin World Tour Begins in Minneapolis. Performance dates were listed as subtitles, and Trent mentally filed the news for when he needed it.
For now, he returned his attention to the gnawing hunger pangs disrupting his stomach. The café across the street looked inviting, and once inside, his first stop was the washroom. While rinsing his hands, Trent examined his face in the mirror. Just as he considered the need for a shave, he remembered the two lacerations. They were no longer visible. No trace at all. He dragged his fingers over his nose and forehead, but there was nothing. Earlier in the day, each cut looked to be healing well, but there should have been some kind of scar.
Was it the medicine Soriah talked about? Did he get a dose of it? How? Was he injected while he was senseless? Trent’s mind flashed on the prick he received in his dream, and he fixed a hand to his shoulder. That’s it! Someone must have given him a shot. Forgetting about food, he stormed out of the diner on a beeline to Susie’s. Amorous intent notwithstanding, he had to find out just what else did she do while he slept so secure in her bed.
* * * *
Susie was alone in her apartment, hoping her new boyfriend would meet the approval of her stringent employer. Multiple phone calls occupied most of her day since the towering trio took him away. Her Global sisters expected every detail for helping her bring the tenebrous gentleman home. Some of them told her to forget about him, he would never be heard from again. Others told her that if she didn’t hang on to him, Soriah most definitely would. The billionaire took pride in surrounding himself with the finest people on the planet. He employed the biggest and strongest men, the sexiest and most beautiful women, and the smartest, most formative scientists. Soriah would find a place in his empire for a man like Trent Smith.
In her powder blue shorts and a white crop top, Susie shuffled about the kitchen, preparing dinner. She was cooking for two. Always the romantic, she envisioned a candlelit dinner with the new man in her life, but that necessitated the condition he was still in Manhattan and, more importantly, still alive.
Susie’s anxiety was not unfounded because she knew Abraham Soriah would get what he wanted. She just wasn’t sure exactly what he wanted with Trent Smith. Whether it was revenge for killing Jeremiah Flint or an offer of employment, she could only guess. She knew it was likely she would never see him again, but that didn’t keep her from hoping he’d be knocking on her door at any given moment.
Two quick knocks made Susie believe her hopes were rewarded, and she dashed to the door with a teenaged exuberance. She looked through the spy hole and jumped in the air, overflowing with joy.
* * * *
Outside Susie’s apartment, Trent waited for but a moment when the door swooshed open and out popped the gorgeous woman who clamped him in arms of ebony. Her eyes filled with tears, and she let loose an outpour of sobs.
Trent asked, “Why are you crying?”
Susie looked up with those exquisitely slanted eyes filled with tears, and just as she tried to speak, she broke down again. Trent didn’t know how to respond. All he could do was hold her. When they entered her apartment and sat on the sofa, she said, “I wasn’t sure if I’d ever see you again.”
“You were really scared for me.”
“Baby, when you left with those mens, I thought you’d be better off fighting TT again.”
Susie’s use of a double plural in the word men amused Trent, because, for him, it added to her charm. Since he had many questions, and she mentioned TT, he decided to begin with him. “Did TT work for Flint or for Soriah?”
“TT was what they call a Soriah Special,” Susie explained. “That means he was one of Soriah’s toughest bodyguards. They’re the meanest mens you ever saw. Anytime Soriah wants something done, he sends one of them.”
“Something like what?”
“Something like anything. If Soriah wants it done, and it takes someone strong, he sends one. Sometimes more than one. Like today.”
“You mean all three of those guys that busted in here this morning were Soriah Specials?”
Snuggled close, Susie looked into Trent’s eyes and nodded.
“So why was TT protecting Flint?”<
br />
“Because Flint insisted on a Soriah Special for a personal bodyguard ever since he got off his murder charge. That’s why TT was allowed into the Global Room. All of the other bodyguards work for their own bosses, but TT worked only for Abraham Soriah.”
“Just how many celebrities are associated with Soriah?”
“A lot. I would say mostly pro athletes, because Soriah loves sports. He used to be an athlete, too, back in the old days. It’s what all the girls say.”
“What about so many of these other celebrities, like movie stars, singers, and politicians? I mean the ones who’ve been let off for murder. There’s got to be dozens of them.”
“Well, I know a lot of them are protected by Soriah. Nick Martin, Bobby Day, Shalom DaBomb, and Buddy Robinson.”
Trent nodded as she spoke the names, because each one was on his list. Nick Martin, a famous, albeit aging, rock star, acquitted of murdering his manager and girlfriend, now enjoyed the success of a new song called I’m Your Reaper. Shalom DaBomb, a rapper charged with murder, but found guilty of manslaughter, never saw a day in prison. Bobby Day, a professional baseball player, had his murder charges dropped because of legal loopholes and never missed a game in his athletic career.
Finally, Buddy Robinson, the Minnesota state senator now serving his fifth consecutive term, had the most interesting story of all. Despite indisputable evidence to the contrary, his lawyers convinced a jury that he wasn’t the fiend who committed the bloody carnage in his home. Subsequently, the gruesome murders of his wife, sister-in-law, and two nieces were never solved.
Was it all about this drug of Soriah’s? If it triggers murderous rage, why does he continue making it available? Was there some secret that made killing acceptable, and he simply considered it collateral damage?
Even if this quick-healing potion was real, and Trent was beginning to believe it, why did Soriah need those who murdered under its influence to remain above the law? Trent’s next question was clear. “Do you know anything about this drug of Soriah’s that all these people are using?”
Killer of Killers Page 8
