Chapter Eight
All Along the Watchtower
A long, winding country road was the only route to the research laboratory housing the greatest discovery in the history of mankind. Some may argue that nuclear power would warrant that distinction. Others would make a case for the power of flight. It was Abraham Soriah’s opinion that the world’s ultimate breakthrough took place right here in the heart of Minnesotan outback.
His big-wheeled limousine, preceded by a Mercedes G500, bounced and splashed through muddy puddles with yet another Mercedes in its wake. Hidden cameras scanned the partially paved and pitted path while each bump on every turn reminded Abraham of renovation long delayed.
The twisting trail straightened into a clearing upon which a glass-encompassed watchtower came into view. An electrified wire mesh fence protruded from both sides of the tower. Twelve feet high and topped in swirls of barbed wire, the fence surrounded an expansive community of research buildings, which totaled five wings connected at the center like spokes of a wagon wheel. Each oblong section was the length of a football field, but one stretched longer than the rest. At their extremities, the wings were T-shaped. It was the hub that granted entrance through a glass-walled lobby, and past the lobby was the spacious master lab.
The procession stopped at the watchtower where a security guard poked his head through an opened first floor window. Reaching out a blue-sleeved arm, he received a magnetic card from the convoy’s lead driver and slid it through a slot in the security board. Activated electronically, the sliding gate cleared the road. Without speaking, the security guard returned the card and onward filed the motorized cavalcade.
* * * *
Within the master lab, Dr. Jason Benson pored over the mathematical equations and chemical formulas displayed on his computer screen. Shaggy blond hair, wire-rimmed spectacles, and a light build produced the stereotypical characteristics that Jason regretted as far back as he could remember. But those sentiments were behind him. His scientific breakthroughs would prove to be historic, and for that reason it was his work on which he focused the last three years. In his company, two Chinese scientists worked with equal diligence.
Jason paid no mind to the five men who just entered the reception room of his laboratory but was quite aware they watched his every move through an observation window. Four of them were majestic men dressed in gray sports coats and black slacks. One of the four stood taller than the others. It was Charles Morgan, and he was standing next to Abraham Soriah, whose leaner frame distinguished itself amongst the five.
Through the corner of his eye, Jason noted Mr. Soriah wore a dark gray suit with a blue tie, spotted with several Eternity symbols in white. And he figured it was right about now his elder boss would utter the words, Tell Benson I will see him now, to one of his men.
True to his expectation, the door to the main lab opened, and Soriah’s man appeared. “Good morning, Dr. Benson,” he said. “Mr. Soriah wants to see you right away.”
Jason looked up from his station and frowned. He looked again to his monitor and clicked on several options, then raised his head. “Lee, proceed with the biosynthesis of muscle proteins, but let’s wait until stage three before we introduce the oxandrolone.” His fingers continued a keyboard tap dance despite the waiting messenger whose impatience grew obvious.
Jason added, “Wong, you keep tracking the methandrostenolone in conjunction with the mitochondria, and be sure a molecular balance is maintained in successive stages.” He then quit the programs on his own computer and rose from his seat to walk with the tall man in gray.
When Jason approached the open doors to Soriah’s executive suite, he witnessed his white-haired employer reclining on a sofa surrounded by female assistants who helped in the removal of his coat and outer shirt. Pretty nurses smiled, and Soriah smiled back as he braved the pricking of his age-spotted skin. Charles Morgan sat opposite the main desk at an adjoining computer post, reviewing facility reports on multiple plasma screens.
The nurses exited with their specimens, and Jason passed them when he entered the suite. Still wearing his lab coat, he pulled on his fingers, cracking each knuckle until Soriah noticed his arrival.
As a busty redhead buttoned his shirt, Soriah blustered, “Ah, Dr. Benson, yes, I’ve been eager to hear what you have for me today.” His gaze wandered to a pretty brunette standing nearby with his coat and tie draped over her arm. He added, “Do tell, won’t you?”
“We still can’t use an oral device, sir,” Jason advised. “We just can’t get past the need for alkylation. Otherwise, the liver breaks down the compounds before they reach the blood stream. However, once the compounds have been chemically treated, the required doses have damaged the livers of every targeted subject.”
Nodding, Soriah asked, “Even those in-house?”
Jason firmed his mouth. “Even them.”
“Well, we can’t have that. What about the adhesive patches you were considering on my last visit?”
After a gulp, Jason answered, “The transdermal patches that we tested couldn’t administer a sufficient amount of the active ingredients to be effective. Every subject using that method returned negative results.”
“Very well, Dr. Benson, but now tell me you’ve made progress with our main objective. What are the most recent results?”
“The latest run has reinforced cellular repair. It’s why you feel stronger. But the process of reversal... That one’s still a hurdle.” Jason searched for encouraging words. “But I can assure you, Mr. Soriah, it has taken up my entire effort. It’s my top priority.”
“Thank you, Dr. Benson. Your top priority is my top priority. I don’t much see the point of living forever in this old bag of bones.” Soriah smiled at Charles and then returned his gaze to Jason. “Now then, we must address our list of Eternals.”
“Our list of Eternals?”
“Yes, Dr. Benson, I’m glad you were listening.” Soriah’s face darkened as he spoke in a voice that wasn’t usual for him. It was more reprimanding than encouraging. “Revisions are in order. We need to make very important changes, and time is of the essence.”
“What will constitute these revisions?” Jason asked.
“The program must be accelerated for one thing,” Soriah answered. “We’ll start by increasing the degree of transmutation. As soon as each steroid is converted, I want it active in every category. Not in theory, mind you, and not just in-house. I want it in the field immediately.”
“I understand,” Jason said.
“That’s not all,” Soriah continued. “First and foremost, we need to remove our at risk subjects from Eternal-X stage. We’ll be putting them into a new category. Charles will work with you on this, and he’ll supervise the new listing every step of the way.”
Scratching his cheek, Jason asked, “Do you still want me to keep the incoming data confidential?”
“Absolutely. Your results will be channeled through me. I want no one else advised, and that most definitely includes both of your assistants from the People’s Republic.”
“Yes, sir.” Jason tried his best to hide the contempt he felt for his working arrangement. He hated having a boss looking over his shoulder, a sentiment he inherited from his former colleague, Dr. Samuel Bernstein. It was Dr. Bernstein who insisted on working without supervision, and Karl Manoukian created a perfect solution here in the Northern Minnesota wilderness.
When Abraham Soriah took over, the late Dr. Bernstein often lamented that ‘Big Brother’ had arrived. No research was promoted or advanced without Soriah’s personal approval, and he alone designated all variants of the drug for specific recipients.
“There is one more thing, Dr. Benson,” Soriah said. “As you know, we’ve experienced too much trouble stemming from unauthorized use, and I need that to stop. My Specials have already taken care of the West Coast problem, but I want you to seal off the East Coast, personally. We need to run a tighter ship. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes
, Mr. Soriah.”
Soriah walked to his desk, but before taking his seat, he turned to face Jason again. “Remember, the consequence of further leaks will be very serious for everyone involved in our program.”
Soriah’s voice had a dire ring to it, and Jason understood. It was he who provided for the Global Girls after the demise of the Bernstein twins. Did the old man find out? He must be suspicious at any rate, and Jason didn’t dare affront Soriah’s orders. Or did he? Just who had the real power? He could impair the entire network as Bernstein had done. Even the backup systems put in place to safeguard such an act—he could damage them, too. It seemed to Jason that his association with Eternity Laboratories should be appreciated much more than Abraham Soriah apparently did.
Soriah snapped his fingers. “Well, let’s go, Dr. Benson, get to it.”
Jason leaped with a start. “Yes sir, Mr. Soriah, right away.” And with a quick pivot, he hastened from the room.
* * * *
Abraham proceeded to access his computer, but Charles had noticed his gloomy mood. “Are you okay?” he asked.
Abraham shook his head. “It’s just so maddening that the world’s top biochemist has to be such a pipsqueak.”
Charles chuckled but made no comment.
“Well, what’s so funny?” Abraham asked.
“I haven’t heard that word since I was a kid, that’s all.”
“So what’s the word they use nowadays? Wimp? Nerd?”
“My mother might have said Country,” Charles answered.
Abraham raised an eyebrow. “She was a great lady.”
“She was,” Charles agreed. “I just wish...” He stopped for a moment, straightened his posture, and then said, “I’ll see to Benson, now.”
Abraham nodded. “Go easy on him. I shouldn’t have been so rough on the poor rascal.”
Charles turned his head. He was glad to see the softer side of his aging employer. “Sure, Abe,” he said.
Charles proceeded to exit the large office. Overseeing revisions of the Eternal list was his first order of business. Getting it to the proper recipient was the second. But when he reached the door, the cell phone chimed from within his coat. “This is Charles.” After listening for several moments, he said, “Thank you,” and then turned around. “Abraham... You’ll recall you asked me to keep an eye on Trent Smith.”
“Ah, yes. The unpredictable Mr. Smith. Do tell.”
“He’s just arrived in Minnesota.”
Chapter Nine
The Twin Cities
Minneapolis bustled with excitement, and although Trent walked amongst the numerous celebrants, he didn’t share in their merriment. It was about Nick Martin. The aging rock star was in town to perform with his original band, The Buzz Boys. He was long past his prime, but he still drew hordes of graying diehards who gladly swapped a college fund for scalper-priced tickets. Apparently, most of his fans cared nothing of the storm that embroiled their idol those years ago. What seemed more important to them was the fact that he was in town, and they were in line to see him.
Less than jubilant, Trent found a place in line and weathered the summer winds that buffeted the crowd outside the arena. As the line inched forward, he moved along with his hands in the pockets of his blue jeans.
“I love Nicky Martin,” a middle-aged woman screamed when the gatekeeper scanned her ticket. She was just ahead of Trent, and her blind allegiance to the murdering singer turned his stomach. He found solace, however, in a small gathering of protesters outside the gates. They carried signs that proclaimed the performer a cold-blooded killer. Many of their banners questioned why would someone acquitted of murder release a new song called I’m Your Reaper. Trent approved of pickets challenging devotion to detestable stars—particularly those stars who had taken the lives of helpless innocents.
Most of Martin’s obsequious followers paid them no mind. Some cursed them, and others made obscene gestures. Many did both. Trent smiled, pleased that there were those who remembered the victims and the criminal deed, and he nodded as they placed the singer’s latest hit in its proper context.
Upon entering the amphitheater, Trent bulled his way to the front section of the main floor. This was the mosh pit, and it was only for those hard-core addicts brave enough to bear a frenzied mob. When the musicians appeared, more freaks poured in, turning it into a melting pot of sweltering bodies. The constant push caused a steady press of sweating skin.
Close by, several young women struggled to keep their place. Performers strutted over the stage, and many of the ladies flashed the band to get their attention. Figuring they would be the ones most likely invited to the backstage party after the show, Trent made himself a part of their pack.
When the revelry hit a crescendo, a wild-eyed blond girl chose the climax of the band’s latest hit to lift her blouse. As she bounced her endowment for the musicians, a close-by pervert reached over and grabbed a handful. Trent saw the woman’s scornful disapproval and her unsuccessful attempts to keep the jerk from taking advantage, so he reached over and snared him in a wristlock—the katate tori.
With his bones on the verge of breaking, the groper screamed an agonized apology, audible even above the loud music. After a sadistic twist for extra measure, Trent released the offending arm. The misfit wouldn’t be doing anything else with that hand for the rest of the week. Seeing what he did to protect her, the lady attached herself to Trent from that point on.
For the heated climate, the singer pulled off his own shirt. He threw it to the rabid audience where it ripped to shreds in a sea of hands. Trent spied the Eternity pendant hanging from Martin’s neck, but knowing its meaning lessened not his resolve. Tonight he would see justice entertained as thoroughly as these mindless minions.
Trent lasted through the performance with tested patience. While Martin’s worshippers surrendered to hysteria, he retained a stern determination. During the encore, the front man pointed at the females whom he wanted backstage, and the flashing girl on Trent’s shoulder was one of them.
The concert ended, the performers took their bows, and Martin made it known to the ushers whom to admit. Fortunately for Trent, the rock star made a generalized gesture to the women in his direction, so when they made their way through the group of stagehands, he was arm in arm with the ladies all the way. Only one other male was amongst them—the husband of another adoring fan, who also was liberal with her exhibitionism.
Within minutes, Trent reclined in the backstage lounge with the musicians, their girlfriends, several groupies, and half a dozen overweight bodyguards. Partiers served alcohol, marijuana, and cocaine, but Trent’s glass never drained, his lungs remained unpolluted, and his nose stayed clean. Drugs repulsed him. Just being near the despicable substances made him feel defiled, but he endured his revulsion for the greater objective.
Heavier drugs complicated his predicament. Lighters heated spoons, and needles punctured veins. It was needles Trent hated most.
After observing the same, and clearly sharing Trent’s sentiments, many revelers called it a night and bid the band farewell. The singer gawked at his departing fans, and his failed attempts to call them back seemed to distress him. He pouted like a child whose playmates ran away. When roadies offered needles to the other man from the audience, the man politely declined, and he too rose to leave. He moved to collect his drunken wife, but this time Martin jumped up and insisted they indulge.
The man again politely declined. As he stepped away from the users, the tall and burly Nick Martin grabbed him by the shoulders and forced him back to his seat. “Hold him down,” he said to his cronies.
With the man’s arm held steady, the rock star pierced his vein. “Don’t worry,” he told the man. “You’ll thank me in a minute.”
Trent noticed many of Martin’s people exchanging guilty glances, as if silently acknowledging their leader had crossed the line. Meanwhile, the man’s wife, speechless during the struggle, sided with the singer. “It’s my turn, baby,” s
he slurred, “and I’m ready.”
Martin smiled. “Now there’s a real woman. Hook ’er up, fellas.”
Longhaired sycophants did as they were told, and within minutes the man and his wife were succumbing to the heroin high. The hard drug made its way to Trent, and he stepped away as did the man before, but likewise, his attempt to leave was not unnoticed. Martin said to him, “Come on, dude, don’t be a chicken-shit. It’s all right.”
“I’m no chicken-shit,” Trent replied. “And it’s not all right.”
The remaining attendees were mostly losing consciousness by now, and even the bodyguards were all but passed out. Trent hoped to retain the low profile he had established and showed his back to the star. As he started to walk away, Martin leaped forward and snared his arm, but Trent braced himself and wouldn’t be moved. The surprised rocker looked at his grip and remarked, “Dude, what the hell are you made of?”
Trent also looked at the grip on his arm. He turned around slowly and raised his gaze to Martin who stood much taller than he. Then he turned his head and observed the other celebrants. They were no longer lucid.
Martin crumpled his brow and asked, “Who are you?”
Trent answered, “I’m your Reaper.”
In the next second, he fired a nerve shattering hatchet chop to the base of Martin’s neck. Martin had no chance to realize he was attacked. The brachial plexus nerves above his trapezium muscle, now crushed, shut down the vital organs within the left side of his chest. He was dead before he hit the floor.
Trent viewed the people in the room. Not one of the few still conscious saw what happened. A drug-fueled fantasia veiled their eyes. His gaze lowered to the lifeless rocker at his feet. There rested the medallion next to the nerve-twitching body. Trent looked up again. He counted himself lucky and quietly excused himself through the rear of the massive stage.
The night was eerily still when Trent approached his rented car, one of several vehicles scattered across the lot. As he prepared to unlock it, he heard a deep voice: “Mr. Soriah gave you this one, but leave the senator alone.”
Killer of Killers Page 12
