Killer of Killers

by Mark M. DeRobertis

  Dr. Wong answered, “This is Zao Lin. Mr. Morgan hired him last week. We are so happy for him to join us.”

  The guard stood up and bowed.

  “He’s no bigger than I am,” Jason noted.

  “No worries,” Dr. Lee replied. “He comes highly recommended by the ambassador at the Chinese embassy.”

  “So what’s so special about him?” Jason asked.

  Dr. Wong answered, “Mr. Morgan chose him because he is the highest ranking Kung Fu master in all of China.”

  Jason frowned with a shrug. “Let’s get on with this, shall we?”

  “Yes, sir,” the new guard answered. He stepped forward to administer an iris identification check with a hand-held, pistol-shaped device. Its front end emitted a thin red light, and from the handle, a black cord connected to the security computer’s hard drive.

  After successive eye exams, the guard admitted Jason and his assistants to the private wing. They strolled through wide corridors and observed several workers, both men and women, all Chinese nationals, scurrying to and fro. Garbed in white, the male staff sported short-sleeved, V-necked shirts, slacks, and shiny white, hard-soled shoes. The women wore white, knee-length nursing dresses with white tights and matching white shoes. Jason always thought it looked like a scene from a Chinese General Hospital. Some of the workers acknowledged them, but most went about their business as usual.

  Minutes later, Jason grasped a shoulder on each of his associates. “You go ahead,” he told them. “I’m going back.”

  Doctors Wong and Lee continued the inspection while Jason returned to the gateway and rang its security bell. Zao Lin responded by looking through the circular window and opening the motorized gateway.

  In the main lab, Jason sat in front of his computer and brooded in solitude. He glanced over his shoulder and then recalled his personal website. He clicked on the icon Solutions. Next, he scrolled to the link that read Activate. He clicked on that one, too. He scrolled past Standby and clicked Engage. He started the program. Again, he placed the cursor over Wipe Out.

  Chapter Twelve

  Who’s a Nobody?

  Unlike his first appearance in the Big Apple, Trent stepped off the airline looking forward to his New York visit. For him, however, it was business before pleasure. The rapper Shalom DaBomb earned his interest in a way unique from the rest. While the balance of celebrity killers tried to live down the dark chapters of their past, this man used his criminal episode to advance his career. The rap star murdered two live-in girlfriends and, unlike the others, was convicted, albeit to a lesser charge.

  Based on what he learned recently, Trent figured the performer shared Soriah’s potion with the women. How ironic, he mused, they met untimely deaths as a result of a drug they injected to lengthen their lives. If the serum had never been invented, scores of the dead would still be alive, several hands less bloodied, and American courts largely uncompromised.

  As far as Trent was concerned, Eternity’s involvement mattered in only one way. These celebrity elitists who believed themselves superior because of lucky breaks, or even marginal talent, now found themselves above the law. For that, Trent was even more determined to render each of them his due.

  It was Monday afternoon. Outside the terminal, a jet-lagged Trent raised his hand toward a row of taxis lined on the curb. A yellow cab pulled up, but when Trent opened the door he saw a man seated on the far end. He knew who it was. The tall messenger from Minnesota had caught up to him. Even though Trent never got a good look at his face in that dim Minneapolis parking lot, his presence was unmistakable. The stranger spoke. “It’s all right, Mr. Smith, please come in. You won’t be harmed.”

  “No thanks,” Trent replied. He backed away.

  The stranger asked, “Are you afraid?”

  “I’m not afraid, just cautious.”

  “You don’t have to be cautious of me, I assure you. Please, we can talk. You might like what I have to say.”

  “Why should I like anything you have to say?”

  “You won’t know for sure until you hear it.”

  Trent had enough banter. “Is this cab supposed to be my next fighting ring, and are you supposed to be my next opponent?”

  “No, Mr. Smith, not at all.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I have no doubt, whatsoever, that you would kill me, Mr. Smith. And I have no wish to die today.”

  Trent decided the man was sincere. He entered the vehicle.

  * * * *

  The taxi drove off, and as it did, a swarthy man in a black suit stepped to the curb. This was Ali, a giant of a man standing well over six feet and carrying the higher side of three hundred pounds on his massive frame. He pushed his black hair to the side of his head, and all the while he trained his eyes on the taxi that had just pulled away.

  His same-sized cousin Jamir joined him, and he too watched the taxi as it shrank in the distance. Jamir’s muddy complexion deepened around his dark eyes, which narrowed into slits. Another taxi pulled up, and after they entered, it drove in the path of the taxi before.

  * * * *

  The taxi in which Trent sat had been driving for less than a minute when the clean-cut black man turned to him. “My name is Charles Morgan,” he said. “Have you heard of me?”

  “Yeah, you played basketball. So what?” Trent’s opinion of professional athletes was only slightly better than what he thought of movie stars.

  “So I thought you might be interested in hearing what I’ve got to say. Mr. Soriah is not the villain you think he is.”

  “What makes you think I’m interested in hearing that?”

  “Well, your attitude in the meeting was indicative.”

  “If you think I don’t like him, you’re right, I don’t,” Trent said. “And I don’t like you, either, but so what? None of you need me to like you.”

  “That’s true,” Charles concurred. “But we do need you to stop killing our people so indiscriminately.”

  “So why don’t you just kill me?” Trent figured it must have been an option they considered. He tensed his muscles, half expecting an attempt right then.

  Charles smiled. “Because Mr. Soriah and I have decided we need you.”

  “You need me?” Trent rolled his eyes. “That’s funny.”

  “Why do you think it’s funny?”

  “Because you and Soriah are big names. You have a lot of money. People bow down to you. Me? I’m a nobody.”

  Charles raised an eyebrow. “Who’s a nobody?” he asked. “Certainly not you. And certainly not in Japan. No, Mr. Smith. Or should I call you—”

  “Mr. Smith is what you’ll call me, if it’s all right with you.” Trent wondered just how many people had looked up his background. “And I am a nobody in Japan.”

  “Not to the many people who follow the underground fights,” Charles asserted. “You made some money of your own doing that, didn’t you? It explains why you don’t need to work for anyone. But I think it’s more pertinent that you don’t want to work for anyone.”

  “You think?”

  “I believe I know. Shall I prove it to you?”

  “Be my guest.”

  “I have it figured this way. You learned from the best martial artist in the world—Shoji Wada. He taught you everything he knew. You were good. In fact, you were real good. You became the best, and Shoji trusted you. Even with his only granddaughter.”

  Trent glared at the man. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “It wasn’t enough for you, that’s what. If it was, you would have been content to inherit his academy in Tokyo. He is retiring soon. And when he does, you would be the first non-Japanese owner of the Tokyo Dojo. Think about it. That would be quite an accomplishment.” He stopped for a moment, as if to allow time for the concept to soak in.

  It did. Trent regurgitated the memories of his torrid romance with Shoji’s granddaughter. Believing they would marry, Shoji offered to bequeath his academy to them as a weddi
ng gift. It was no small gift. The Wada family had owned the Tokyo Dojo for two hundred years. Shoji himself rebuilt the distinguished school after it was reduced to ashes along with most of the city during World War II.

  In the new Japan, Shoji’s two sons strayed from their birthright, making their fortunes in business. His granddaughter, Yoshiko, yearning for tradition, bonded with Shoji—the Wada patriarch—but fell in love with Trent.

  “It wasn’t enough for you,” Charles said again. “You weren’t satisfied. Being a teacher left you empty inside. You were a man of action, and you were compelled to act. You joined the underground circuit and reigned supreme for ten years. But Shoji found out, and to be dishonored in his eyes was more than you could bear.”

  “I experienced no dishonor,” Trent responded.

  Charles crumpled his brow. “In Shoji’s mind, you abused your skill fighting for sport, isn’t that right?”

  “No, it’s more like I misapplied my talent,” Trent countered. “I abused nothing in Japan.” Scowling, he added, “And be clear about this. I suffered no dishonor. Not in Japan, and not anywhere.”

  “Shoji didn’t approve,” Charles maintained. “And that’s the bottom line.”

  “So you’ve got it all figured out,” Trent conceded. “You’re a clever man. But again, so what?”

  “So you were beholden to Shoji, and that’s what you can’t get over. You surrendered your relationship with his granddaughter, along with the honor of being his heir, and decided to never again be indebted to anyone. You left Tokyo and came to America to make it all good. You found a reason to kill over here. It pays nothing, and you seek no fame. The justice you dispense is righteous. It works for you.”

  “The only reason it works for me,” Trent snarled, “is because here I am beholden to no one. I plan on keeping it that way. Get it?”

  “Yes, Mr. Smith, we get it. However, we have no such compunctions. We won’t mind being beholden unto you.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “We actually want you to keep killing.” Charles smiled again. “It’s just that it would be so much better if you would work with us, like Abraham suggested at the Skyway.”

  “First things first,” Trent insisted. “The word ‘indiscriminately’ doesn’t come close to describing my agenda.”

  “Well, I shouldn’t have said ‘indiscriminately’. We’d prefer it, though, if you had a less ambiguous schedule.”

  “Mr. Morgan, I can see that you’re trying to be friendly, and thanks for that, but with all respect, what the hell are you talking about?”

  Charles’ face sobered. “Abraham has decided that many of his Eternals must not be allowed to remain so. We can’t just cut them off, because they would go public. The controversy would cause too much commotion and discombobulate the entire program. So, yes, we want you to keep on killing, but not just anyone. The senator, for instance...”

  “The senator needed killing most of all,” Trent contended. “He was supposed to be a leader, representing the people. But instead, he was a butcher. And what he represented was an ever-growing clique of scum who murdered with impunity.”

  “Of course,” Charles said. He produced a folded piece of paper from within his coat. “Mr. Smith, we would be very beholden to you if you simply put these names at the top of your list, and that’s all we’re asking.”

  Trent took the list and permitted a glance. It did contain the names of several people he planned on bringing to justice. “What makes these guys worse than the others?”

  “These are the loose cannons,” Charles explained. “When we brought them in, they seemed to be great additions to Mr. Soriah’s fellowship. But as Eternals, they have demonstrated a complete disregard for his principles.”

  Trent tugged the hair on his chin. “Why don’t you just send your Specials to take care of them?”

  “Two reasons,” Charles began. “First, our Specials are not trained killers. They leave holes.”

  “Holes?”

  “Bullet holes...knife holes... You, on the other hand, have the talent to kill without a mark. Like you did with Stiles and Flint. And Nick Martin. Even Topu’s death was explained as a natural brain hemorrhage.”

  “And second?”

  “And second, our Specials are well-known within our select community. You, my friend, are an outsider. Our Eternals don’t know you from Adam.”

  “Forget it,” Trent said. “I don’t kill for Soriah’s pet peeves. I’m a killer of killers, only. And that won’t ever change.”

  “Then let me be explicit, Mr. Smith. Every person on this list, not only is a killer, but is a repeat killer. Some are responsible for as many as three or four separate incidents. And, like Stiles and Robinson, multiple murders each time.”

  Trent’s blood boiled. “That means any one of these murderers runs the risk of killing again at any time.”

  “Despite our best efforts to prevent further tragedies, they seem to find a way to keep happening.”

  Trent felt like hitting something, so he pummeled his left palm with his right fist. “I’ll tell you how to prevent them from happening. Trash the damn serum is all ya gotta do.”

  “That’s not an option. For now, anyway, it’s the repeat offenders who have proven to be the greatest risk, and no one feels worse about it than Mr. Soriah, believe me.”

  Trent shook his head. “I don’t know what to believe.” He perused the list again. “There are names here I don’t even recognize.”

  Charles nodded. “Mr. Soriah managed to keep the media out of most cases involving Eternity. What you’ve seen in the papers or on TV in Japan, it’s only the tip of the iceberg, I’m sorry to say.”

  The revelation hit Trent hard. Corruption in American courts was already a widespread scandal. To learn now that it was even worse numbed his mind.

  With a grin, Charles continued. “And don’t forget, you’ll need a guardian angel to keep the Feds at bay.”

  “Guardian angel?”

  “Who do you think has been keeping the law off your back until now? Your blond detective? Think again. It can be like that the whole time.”

  Trent didn’t answer. He remained silent even as the taxi dropped him off on a side street. He stretched his back and still held the list in his hand.

  Charles poked his head out of the window. “You never answered me.”

  “How many times do I have to say it? I don’t work for anyone, and—”

  “I know,” Charles cut in. “It’s the way you like it. You have my number. Call me when you have something to say, and I’ll listen.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  Charles retracted his head and the taxi drove off.

  Trent turned in the opposite direction, but before taking a step he looked again at the list. He resisted an urge to toss it into the closest trashcan and instead stuffed it in the back of his jeans.

  As he did, a dozen youngsters clad in white keikogis rushed from an adjacent martial arts studio and into its neighboring soda shop. They looked winded and worn, and most had towels draped around their necks. The musty smell of sweaty bodies befouled Trent’s nostrils and evoked in his mind a fateful day from his past.

  It was a warm afternoon at the Tokyo Dojo, and the workout, more strenuous than usual, had also just finished. A group of men pressed towels onto their faces. Water bottles lined the wall but subtracted one by one as the men quit the mat. Trent was talking to Jiro when he noticed a lone figure remained in the quad. His white keikogi signified him as an academy pupil.

  “Kazuki, what’s up?” Trent had asked as he and Jiro ambled toward him. Their all-black keikogis distinguished them from the trainees, as did the stark red Japanese characters that crawled up the ends of their jet black belts.

  Kazuki bowed when Trent and Jiro neared. He was their student, yet his silver-striped hair suggested he was older than most at the dojo. “I am honored to have learned from the best,” he said. “And now, as you know, Shihan has seen fit to
allow my promotion next week.”

  “Yes, congratulations are in order,” Jiro replied. “You deserve to be promoted.”

  “No, Master Jiro, a pat on the back is not my reason to talk.” His face looked serious. “Soon, I must take my leave. It’s what I have told you before, and I must say again. Both of you should join me in a greater cause. The free world needs men like the two of you.”

  Trent put his hand up. “Wait a minute, Kazuki, what are you saying? You still want us to be a part of your secret service thing?”

  “It’s not secret, Master Tora, it’s a well-known agency, after all.”

  “No way,” Trent said. “We belong here with Shoji. You know that.” He turned to Jiro. “Right, Jiro?”

  Jiro remained silent. He dropped his gaze to the mat.

  Trent furrowed his brow. “Jiro, right?”

  The corners of Kazuki’s mouth curled upward. “The academy has my number, Jiro. Call me tonight and we’ll talk.” With that, he departed, and Trent couldn’t shake the feeling that he had been used.

  Jiro said, “I know you don’t like this idea, but we have both felt the same way. You have said it, remember?”

  Trent rolled his eyes. “When I said I’d like to see how I would fare in the real world, I meant that I wanted to test my skill in live competition. I never said anything about being a spy. Come on, Jiro, that’s the movies you’re thinking about.”

  “No, Tora, it’s real life, don’t you see? We’ll have an opportunity to prove just how good we really are. I’m surprised you don’t take these people seriously.”

  “I take them seriously when they pay us to train them,” Trent replied. He observed the next troupe of students file into the quad and begin their warm-ups. “Look at them, Jiro. Black belts all, and most of them way older than us, yet we are their masters. We are the Judan. That proves how good we are.”

  Jiro turned in a huff. “How many times have you told me that you don’t even know how long you would stay here?”

  Trent smiled. “I say that every year, Jiro, and what, it’s been more than twenty now. For both of us.”