Killer of Killers

by Mark M. DeRobertis

  “A few that he selects, you mean.”

  “Yes, that’s pretty much it.”

  Trent mulled over the news. He cross-referenced the words with Susie’s and with what he learned from Soriah. All he really knew at this point was that some kind of steroid-based drug existed that can heal cuts remarkably fast. Was there more to it? Certainly, it pumps up an athlete’s body, which it’s been doing for years. Did their science make it into something else? Trent understood there were healing properties in anabolic steroids, but could it really stop aging? Samantha seemed convinced, and so did Susie. If any of this was true, was Manoukian’s goal simply to make another fortune? Trent had nothing against Capitalism, but when it was paid for with innocent lives he drew the line.

  Soriah, however, was a different story. What did he have in mind? He was already a multibillionaire with one foot in the grave. He didn’t need another fortune. Was he trying to save himself from Father Time? A Ponce de Leon, whose quest for the Fountain of Youth had actually succeeded with a drug?

  Or did the old tycoon have something else up his sleeve? He doesn’t want the world to know. Why? Did his means not justify his ends? Was the development of the serum knotted in legal issues so severe that their product couldn’t be marketed? Would connections to the murders be exposed? No. The old man already owned the courts. No doubt he ran the press as well. Did he really want to hoard immortality for himself and his sycophants to rule the population of earth as some kind of eternal god? That sounded crazy.

  Or did it? The more he heard, the more Trent became convinced that this Eternity meant just that, but only for those within the shade of Soriah’s exclusive umbrella. He didn’t know exactly what to make of it. But there was one thing of which he was sure. It didn’t make him any more sympathetic to the berserkers who murdered under its influence.

  As Trent brooded, Samantha rested her head on top of his shoulder. “You never said anything about working for Karl. Do you have an answer?”

  “You still haven’t told me why Stiles didn’t fly straight to SFO,” Trent reminded her. “What was the reason for his stopover in L.A., and why were you meeting him there?”

  Again, Samantha’s eyes became lost. She was hiding something, and Trent couldn’t tell if she would ever let it out. “Don’t tell me you and Stiles...”

  “Oh, god, no!”

  Trent knew better, but he wanted to point out how her secrecy could be misconstrued. He looked at her squarely and pinched her chin so she wouldn’t look away. “Look me in the eyes and answer the question,” he demanded.

  “I’m not working alone,” she finally admitted.

  “All right. Now we’re getting somewhere. So who are you working with? The SFPD? Are the police investigating this thing?”

  “Not the SFPD,” Samantha answered, maintaining the eye contact on which Trent insisted. “The FBI. Stiles had a black leather bag when you killed him. You might remember it.”

  “I do.”

  “It contained a shipment of the drug for their Southern California clients. After you left the scene, I took it from the restroom. Now, the Feds have it. We began setting this up when Karl asked Josh to bring in Benjamin, but I couldn’t do it in front of Karl, or even in front of my brother. Neither of them know. And I need you to keep it quiet.”

  Trent nodded, thinking to himself that her explanation was solid. “Was Stiles cooperating with the FBI, also?”

  “No. Sorry about that, too. The plan was to acquire a sample from his bag before he passed it to Karl’s L.A. distributor.” Samantha smiled again. “You made that part real easy for me. Thank you. You’re so sweet.”

  “Well, you’re welcome. So are you turning everyone in, or what?” He found himself further impressed with this policewoman.

  “Right now, federal agents are analyzing the serum, and they’re building a case against Abraham Soriah. They promised not to prosecute Josh and to go easy on Karl. That’s my deal.”

  “I hope they go easy on me, too.” Trent thought he’d throw that in.

  “Don’t worry,” Samantha purred. “You’re not even on their radar.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “So you see, you don’t really have to kill Soriah. Just tell Karl you will. Otherwise, he’ll make Josh do it. You know I can’t let my brother get involved like that. He couldn’t kill anyone. He doesn’t have it in him.”

  “I’m not so sure about that. I think we all have it in us. It depends on the circumstances, I suppose.” Trent struggled to believe what he just said. Nevertheless, he now understood why a policewoman was so eager to see him accept an assassin’s job.

  “Now, will you work for Karl?” Samantha renewed her smile and moved her face to within an inch of Trent’s.

  Trent turned away. “What if I say no?”

  “I don’t want you to say no.”

  Trent noted the eros in her tone and the way she stroked his hair while awaiting his reply. “Well, then I won’t say no,” he said while moving her hand away from his head, “but I won’t say yes.”

  Trent faced her again. She was yet another flawless specimen of a woman in her prime. Her captivating eyes penetrated his and would lay claim to his soul if he dared peer for too long. Trent hoped to get a good night’s sleep before his flight to Minneapolis, but the physical attraction was overwhelming and submitting to it was instinctive. Their lips touched, and there was no holding back. His passion from the prior day with Susie returned in full with Samantha. Trent noted the difference, not only in the color of their skin, but in the color and texture of their hair, the scent of their bodies, and the style of their lovemaking. He referenced his romantic experiences with his Asian lover, Yoshiko, and considered if he lived another million years, he would never be able to choose one over the others. All three were women, and women were women, whether black, white, or anything else. Trent resigned himself to simply being glad he was a man.

  * * * *

  A golden sun tipped its crest above the horizon, silhouetting the New York skyline against a beaming crimson backdrop. Rising higher than its neighbors, the Soriah Skyway ruled supreme. Within its walls of glimmering glass, Charles Morgan carried a silver tray in both of his hands. It contained a royal blue mug rimmed in gold. The tang of coffee filled the air. Next to the mug, a white linen napkin, folded square, based a small plastic-covered syringe. It was a daily routine, and Abraham was sitting at his desk when Charles reached his side. “Abraham?”

  Abraham looked up and said, “Thank you, Charles.” He sipped the hot brew and placed the cup on top of his desk.

  Charles turned around to put the tray on an adjacent table. He picked up the syringe and removed its plastic cap. When he turned around again, Abraham’s coat was gone from his back, and his shoulder bared of its sleeve. Charles punctured the atrophied arm. Abraham’s eyes closed and then reopened with a shiver across his brow.

  After returning the expended syringe to its place atop the linen, Charles lifted the platter and observed his elderly mentor. “We’re ready to leave whenever you are, Abe.”

  Abraham responded with a nod. “I’m almost ready.”

  Charles appreciated the fact that he was no butler or servant, nor was he Abraham’s bodyguard. Charles was Abraham’s most trusted administrator and second in command of their business empire. He knew Abraham would have no one else inject his body with the drug from his lab, and that’s exactly what he did with every sunrise.

  Charles pivoted to exit the sumptuous office. After he walked to the doors at the far end of the room, he paused to look at a framed picture hanging on the wall. It was an old photo of himself clad in a basketball uniform holding a trophy of champions. Standing next to him, a younger Abraham Soriah, in suit and tie, shared the moment of glory. He smiled as he remembered that day.

  Once inside the adjacent room, Charles put the tray on a countertop and cast the spent hypo into a designated container. He slipped off his coat, rolled up a sleeve, and took a fresh syringe
from a small black case into his hand. The cases were stacked neatly amongst many in the cabinetry of the room. He uncovered the needle and pushed the point into his bicep. With his eyes clamped, and his teeth clenched, Charles endured the rush for several moments. Then he opened his eyes, relieved.

  * * * *

  Ever higher climbed the celestial orb, lifting with it night’s shadow from the sprawling metropolis. Inside her apartment high-rise, Susie Quinn, wearing her baby-doll nightgown, peered into the mirror of her make-up stand. She looked at the needle she held in her hand and sent its liquid contents deep into her thigh. She closed her eyes and parted her lips to take a slow and steady breath. A lengthy exhale followed.

  Behind Susie, a nude Connie Perez was sitting up on the bed with a lit cigarette in her hand. Susie produced another syringe and plucked its plastic cap. Connie nodded. Susie joined her on the bed and pushed the needle into her shoulder. Connie scrunched her eyes tight and sucked the air through grinding teeth. Susie smiled with anticipation. When the rush passed, and Connie’s eyes reopened, their time together was at its best.

  * * * *

  Trent lay awake for several minutes. Samantha slept soundly beside him, so he remained unmoving while mentally calculating the means by which he would twice deliver justice in the Twin Cities. Two men, one in Minneapolis and one in St. Paul, would get their due. He figured once he killed the first, he’d be sure to kill the second to preclude a return to the state.

  But there was some kind of a lab, and it was in Minnesota. Just as Trent pondered its connection to the senator, he felt Samantha slowly moving to the edge of the bed. With her feet on the carpet and her back to him, she reached for her purse and set it on her lap. After a backward glance failed to divulge that Trent was awake, she ferreted through its contents. Out came the police gun. Next, she pulled out a thin black case and clicked it open. Trent saw the tiny syringes packed like cigarettes. She removed one, popped off the casing, and plunged the needle into her thigh.

  Trent seized her wrist and yanked it away from her leg. Samantha gasped in astonishment as he snarled, “Is there anyone who isn’t using this damn stuff?” He couldn’t keep his voice from rising. “Anyone?”

  “I thought you were asleep.” She sounded groggy and detached.

  “I wake up easily,” Trent snapped. “Was I next?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean were you going to stick me next?”

  “No, I wasn’t. Do you want me to?”

  “No, I don’t want you to. How do you even know this stuff is real? How do you know it won’t make you sick? How do you know?”

  “Because the FBI told me. That’s how I know.”

  “What did they tell you?”

  “They told me it’s not toxic. Besides, Josh has been using it for years now, and look at him. Does he look sick to you?”

  “You said federal agents are still analyzing it.”

  “They are,” Samantha said, now lucid and clear-eyed. “They’re trying to evaluate the composition of the serum. They’re still trying to figure out what’s in it and how it works. But they do know the healing properties are real.”

  “Well, I could have told you that.”

  “What? How would you know?”

  “Never mind.” Trent took a deep breath and made a conscious effort to calm down. “How long have you been using it?”

  “Not so long.”

  “Your friend, Manoukian... He’s on this stuff, too, of course.”

  “Manoukian, Soriah, and most everyone at Eternity Labs.” Samantha paused for a few moments and then beamed with enthusiasm. “Trent, come on, it stops aging! You can live forever!”

  It was clear to Trent she really believed. Could it be true? He couldn’t bring himself to accept it. “You have to stick yourself every day,” he argued. “I can’t buy that. Intravenous injections? No way.”

  “But it’s not intravenous,” Samantha countered, her enthusiasm refusing to wane. “It’s administered intramuscularly; otherwise, the blood level changes would be too sharp.”

  “I don’t care, a needle’s a needle,” a seething Trent insisted, “and I never met one that wasn’t too sharp.”

  To the rebuttal, Samantha didn’t respond, and Trent regretted his volatile reaction. It was clear she preferred he didn’t know she used the drug. But now that he did, it was also clear she wanted him to be a part of it.

  Samantha reached for his hand and said, “Trent, didn’t you have a good time last night? Look at me.”

  Trent looked. The morning sunlight, trickling through the window, painted a classic chiaroscuro across her nude figure, which was perfectly proportioned in every detail. Her complexion was immaculate, and her long blond hair, thick and vibrant, fell into place even after a night of vigorous lovemaking.

  “You are so beautiful. It’s undeniable,” Trent professed. But he understood Samantha knew that already. What she wanted him to realize was she could stay that way forever.

  Then something dawned on him. Despite their obvious racial differences, nearly everything else was identical between Samantha and Susie. Their height, their figures, the tight skinny waist, their full breasts and legs, everything could have been cast from the same mold. He had to ask, “Is this the real you? To what extent are the side effects? I don’t mean the pheromones. I mean the desirable side effects, the physical ones?”

  Samantha paused and then took a hold of Trent’s hand. “It’s a transmuted steroid,” she said. “Men become more muscular and more masculine. Women become more voluptuous and more feminine.”

  “So what would you look like if you stopped taking this stuff?”

  “Like when you met me.”

  “Like when I met you?” Trent frowned. “When I met you, you looked just like you do now.”

  “You don’t see the difference?”

  “Samantha, there is no difference. You are as beautiful now as you were then.” Trent needed to make her believe, so he added, “Look, it’s impossible for any woman to be more beautiful, or become more beautiful than you already are. Or were. Or... Well, it’s as simple as this, you don’t need drugs. That’s what I’m trying to say.”

  “But for how long?” Samantha asked. “How long will I be beautiful? Ten years? Twenty years? Then I’ll get old, withered, and gray. Thanks to Karl Manoukian, that doesn’t have to happen.”

  Hearing the name disgusted Trent. “Manoukian and Soriah... As far as I’m concerned, they’re both the same.”

  “Karl is nothing like Abraham Soriah. I admit he’s creepy, but he would never willingly withhold the serum. He just doesn’t have a choice right now. He has to remain a part of the program; otherwise, he risks losing everything.”

  “But it’s Soriah’s program.”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me more about Soriah’s plan.”

  “He wants to engineer a secret society of super humans who will live forever. His immortal supermen will watch the rest of the world age and die. He never intended to make Eternity available to the public. He’s an evil man, Trent. He must be stopped. Any time he can cut off our supply. Karl is completely dependent on him.”

  Trent wondered if they wanted Soriah out of the way because he was an evil man or because at any time he could cut off their supply. It also stuck in his mind that Soriah was aware of Manoukian’s schemes. He asked, “Why does Soriah bother keeping Manoukian around?”

  “Because Karl is the perfect fall guy if Soriah’s operation runs afoul of the law,” Samantha pertly answered.

  “Ha, a failsafe,” Trent responded, amused. “That makes sense.” Being unfamiliar with the two-sided operation, Trent could only speculate the old man’s bribes may actually have a limit, but there must be more to it. “He has everything under control. What’s he worried about?”

  “Abraham Soriah owns the company and gives the orders, but like I told you, the research center was originally built by Karl Manoukian. Since Soriah took over, everything became
top secret. The old wolf probably thinks that whatever he’s hiding can be pinned on Karl.”

  “What makes you think he’s hiding something?”

  “Because Karl and Josh are both very tight-lipped about what’s going on inside that laboratory. I can’t even get them to take me there.”

  “Can’t the FBI get you in?”

  “That’s exactly what they’re planning. Zoning laws require the facility to receive regular inspectors, and very soon one of those inspectors will be me. By then, I’ll have a contact already inside. Once I’m in, we’ll expose Soriah’s illicit operation, and he’ll be finished.”

  “But then you’ll lose your wonder drug, no?”

  “No,” Samantha stressed. “Karl will assume responsibility, and he knows how to keep production safe and legal.”

  Trent narrowed his eyes with skepticism. “Really.”

  “Yes, really.”

  Trent considered the big picture. Regardless of the allegations against Soriah, if Manoukian succeeded in killing him, what he would gain is control of the wonder drug and a multi-billion dollar business. Soriah, on the other hand, didn’t seem concerned about Manoukian’s conspiracies. “This is all very interesting,” he admitted.

  Another pause ensued, during which Samantha leaned forward and again brought her face to within an inch of Trent’s. He couldn’t help the entrapment. It was her eyes. They sparkled more so now than ever before. “So will you see Karl,” she implored, “just to talk, just to hear what he has to say?”

  Trent gazed at the blond goddess and raised his hand to caress her face. She responded by closing her eyes as if relishing his lethal fingers applied so gently to her cheek. Finally, he answered, “I will meet with your Karl. I will listen to what he has to say, but I’m telling you now, I work for no one, and that won’t ever change.”

  Samantha appeared satisfied to hear as much. “Thank you,” she said with a grateful embrace. She rested her head on his shoulder. “That’s all I ask.”

  “Well, not so quick,” Trent added. “I have another appointment to keep first. Tell Manoukian I’ll see him. But not until next week.”