Killer of Killers

by Mark M. DeRobertis

  Trent looked at Benson. “You! You’re the doctor!” he shouted. “You can save her!” But the reality of Susie’s death settled upon him, and he knew there was nothing Benson or anyone else could do.

  As if thinking the same, Benson removed the glasses from his tear-streaked face and rubbed his eyes. He turned and wobbled from the room.

  Trent forced himself to let Susie lay in peace. Tears fell from his eyes and soaked the hair on his upper lip and chin. He looked at Susie’s face and jutted his jaw forward. Even in death she retained the beauty for which he marveled the night they met. Hate replaced his sorrow, and he would vent it. He stood up and looked around. Nothing was different from the last time he visited. There were no signs of a struggle and no trace of a weapon.

  It was an anger-ridden Trent who stormed out of the room. He found Benson slouched on the sofa. “Do you know the Specials who did this?”

  Benson didn’t seem to hear the question. “It’s my fault,” he cried in self-guilt. “I gave it to her. If I didn’t, then—”

  “Then what?” Trent snapped. “She wouldn’t have been murdered?” He paused to calm down. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t kill her. It was Soriah’s men.” Trent paced the room. “They’ll pay for this, and so will Soriah.”

  A deep voice growled, “What about Soriah?”

  Trent spun around. There were two tall and stocky men standing just inside the shattered entrance. Both of them were the meanest looking brutes he had ever seen. Olive complexioned, like ethnic Mediterranean, they could be Greek, Italian, or some kind of Arab, but it didn’t matter. Trent wanted justice, and their timing was perfect. They stood side-by-side wearing black suits and ties, which to Trent was trademark Soriah-wear. “You killed an innocent woman!” he roared. “And now you’re going to pay!”

  The two men traded glances and then reached into their respective coats. In a flash, Trent closed the distance just as they produced their .45 calibers. Simultaneous wristlocks dropped both guns to the floor.

  In response, the bruisers stiff-armed Trent, and in the moment they pushed him away, the closer man bent down to recover his gun. It was a fleeting moment. Before he could reach it, Trent pummeled him off of his feet and through the doorway with a combination side-kick, three sixty.

  The second man produced his stiletto and sprang a polished blade. He thrust a killing strike, but Trent’s lightning fast forearm strike disarmed him, and with an equally fast pivot, he flipped him across the room. It was a Tsurikomi Goshi delivered with the speed and ease of a seasoned expert. The large man smashed into the china cabinet, which wrought an avalanche of shattered glass, dinnerware, and broken wood.

  Back on his feet and returned to the doorway, the first man hedged when he saw his partner buried in the wreckage, and it was in that instant Trent launched a barrage of punches to his head. The savage onslaught drove the man out of the apartment and down the length of the corridor. Trent culminated the offensive with a three sixty-jump kick, which bounced the heavy man off the end wall and onto his oversized gut.

  Beyond rage, Trent bolted back to the apartment, but when he reached the doorway, he heard Benson holler, “Look out!”

  Trent hit the deck just as multiple shots spattered holes in the wall behind him. He saw the shooter adjust his aim, so he darted past the partition of the living room and kitchen. Still, the shooting continued. The gunman was apparently trying to visualize a moving target from the partition’s opposite side, and his bullets riddled the length of the wall. Then the shooting stopped, and Trent heard footsteps approaching the closer end of the partition. Just as the man peeked around the corner, Trent sprang from the far end in a mad dash and delivered a crushing hammer strike to the base of his neck. The blow impacted the intercostal nerves on his upper spine, causing him to drop the pistol and sent him crashing through the dining room furniture. In the pause, Trent snatched both guns off the floor and tossed them out of the open window.

  The downed man was only stunned, but before Trent could press his advantage, he heard the successive thumps of running feet from the outer corridor. He ran to the tattered entrance and squatted beside it, like he did at the club when he fought the Samoan.

  With blade in hand, the suited bruiser blasted through, but tripped over Trent’s extended leg and flopped on Susie’s coffee table, smashing it flat. As he struggled to rise, Trent fired a paralyzing lunge punch, targeting the transverse cervical nerve below the corner of his jaw. The force of the impact spun the man’s body a three quarter turn and landed him on his hind-side. It was now Trent fired his mightiest punch between the man’s eyes. It was a lethal version of the Cho Tou, which smashed both the supratrochlear and supraorbital nerves into the skull. Crushed nasal bones splintered through the frontal lobe of the brain, and the man died on the spot.

  While viewing the corpse, Trent realized the room was abnormally quiet. He examined his fists. They dripped with the blood of a Soriah-paid killer. He whirled around. The other killer was only now back on his feet, and he tried to escape, but a hunchbacked hobble was all he could manage. Trent foot-swept him from behind, and he belly-flopped to the carpet, where he rolled onto his back looking helpless and afraid. Trent stood over him and dropped to a knee, delivering the same fatal punch his accomplice received. The man raised his arms, attempting to surrender, but the pile-driving blow was irrevocable. After the impact, his arms collapsed, and they would never rise again.

  With tightened fists and elbows bent, Trent arched his back and clenched his teeth. He resisted the urge to scream, knowing it would release neither his fury nor his pain. When he turned to Benson, still on the sofa, he viewed yet another tragic development. A bullet had struck the eminent scientist. He hustled over and knelt down beside him.

  “I’m shot,” Benson groaned. He held his chest with both of his hands, and blood filled the space between them.

  Trent said, “I’ll call an ambulance. You’ll be all right.”

  “No,” Benson responded, “this is it for me. Listen, you have to take this.” He reached inside his pants pocket and pulled out a small oblong object, hardly bigger than a stick of gum.

  Trent eyed the tiny thing. “What is it?”

  “It’s a flash drive containing the complete formula for Eternity. The history, the process, the experiments, every step of the way. The whole thing.”

  “Why are you giving it to me?”

  “It’s the only copy. I destroyed all the files at the lab. The computers, the backups, all of it...gone.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, it’s finished.”

  “Finished?”

  Benson’s eyelids began a slow descent. He parted his lips in a strained effort to speak. “It’s purr...”

  Trent kept listening. “Come on, doc. Don’t you die, too. You saved my life just now, remember? I owe you one.” But Trent understood he was talking to a dead man. Benson no longer breathed, and when Trent checked for a pulse, it couldn’t be found. He lowered his head for a moment of silence. Then he took the device from Benson’s blood-covered hand. He didn’t know what to do with it. Was he now the guardian of Eternity? The keeper of the key to immortality? No. He was a killer. A killer of killers. And that’s all he wanted to be.

  After some seconds, Trent realized he was swirling in emotion. He found himself unprepared for this kind of pain. Susie was dead, and he wanted justice. He killed the killers, but achieved no solace. These assassins, sprawled on the carpet, were mere puppets. It was Soriah pulling the strings, and those strings needed to be slashed. Trent was going to make sure the old man’s quest for a long life would be cut very short.

  Sirens blared in the distance. Someone must have heard the gunshots and called the police. They would be here any minute, but Trent wasn’t going to repeat a mistake. Pocketing the flash drive, he returned to Susie’s room, knelt at her side, and kissed her cheek. Next, he took both of her hands and clasped them together on top of her stomach. He checked for the rose in his shirt
. It was still there, so he placed it in her hands as he planned to do when he plucked it from the garden. “Goodbye, Susie,” he whispered, his eyes welling again. “It’s just not fair. You were the most innocent of all these people. But now, look... Look what they did to you.”

  A second time, tears fell, soaking the whiskers on Trent’s face. He tensed his lips. “If it takes me forever, Susie, I promise. I... I promise...” Unable to finish, he could only lower his head.

  * * * *

  Overcome with grief, Trent roamed the streets, coping with the events that took place on this day. It began with a flight from California to New York. No sooner did he exit the plane, Charles Morgan greeted him with a strange proposal. Next, he fulfilled his mission to slay the rapper. In addition, he slew one of his bodyguards, but saved one as well. Then, he held Susie as she died and avenged her by killing the assassins. Finally, Eternity’s creator became an unexpected casualty, and Trent possessed the only copy of the formula, which could well become the most sought after prize in history.

  What would he do with it? Trent didn’t even know at this point. The only thing he knew was that a problem needed eliminating, and the problem had a name—Abraham Soriah.

  Trent used a street phone and dialed Samantha’s number. She didn’t answer, but her voice mail kicked in. He said, “Yes, Samantha, it’s me. Sorry about last week. Tell Manoukian I changed my mind. Yeah, I don’t believe it, either.” He hung up and hoped he made the right decision. As soon as he was ready, he would fly to San Francisco and commence Soriah’s downfall.

  But Trent wasn’t ready just yet. He resumed his aimless walk. He took the flash drive from his pocket and frowned. He wanted to smash it, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Aside from the anti-aging factor, it contained the cure for disease. That meant no more cancer, no more illness, no more pain and suffering for humanity. He thought of children in the hospitals with their lives hanging in the balance. He thought of his own parents. If this Eternity, or some form of it, had been available when they died, maybe they wouldn’t have. It could have made up for all the years he missed while training in Japan.

  Trent still couldn’t shake the compulsion to destroy it and leave humanity to its natural destiny. As he considered the quandary, he felt himself swelling with stark indignation. First Bernstein, now Benson decamped with the drug. He wondered how Soriah was taking the news.

  * * * *

  “He what?” Abraham leaped from his seat, holding his phone in disbelief. He slammed it down and activated the loudspeaker. “Charles, you must hear this. It’s mind-boggling!”

  Charles stepped to the desk and listened as the dismal tidings continued. “Yes, sir, it’s true.” The projecting voice belonged to the Chief of Security at Abraham’s Minnesota laboratory. “The computer programs are deleted and all the files destroyed. There’s nothing left. Nothing.”

  Charles spoke. “Did you try all the backup systems and reserves? Did you check the vaults for all the backups there?”

  “Yes,” the chief replied. “There’s nothing left.”

  Struggling to maintain his composure, Abraham asked, “What about Doctors Lee and Wong? Where are they?”

  “They’re still here,” the chief answered.

  “Can they reproduce the formula? Get them on the phone.”

  Moments later, a timid voice spoke in a Chinese accent. “This is Dr. Lee.”

  “Can you or can you not recreate the formula?”

  “It’s all gone,” Dr. Lee confirmed. “Dr. Wong and I were working on derivatives. Those files are gone, too. All the equations and calculations leading up to the base product and beyond have been deleted. Nothing is salvageable, not even a single file of our own work over the past three years.”

  Abraham asked, “What is the status of our existing supply?”

  “The production vats are intact.”

  “How much do we have left? How long will it last?”

  “At the rate we’re packing, about five months.”

  “And after that?” Abraham closed his eyes.

  “After our current supply is packaged, we cannot continue the production of any additional serum.”

  It was the answer Abraham feared. “Can’t you analyze existing samples and duplicate the formula?”

  “It’s not as easy as that,” Dr. Lee replied. “This was a product of several years’ research, involving the minds of many leading scientists. Micro-analyzing the serum is one thing, but there is a process of sub-atomic breakdowns, molecular ratios, transmutations, and the synthesizing of hormonal properties. The entire database has been destroyed. We don’t even know where to begin. We would need Dr. Benson for that, or Dr. Bernstein’s research, if it is available.”

  “Well, it’s not,” Abraham jeered. “Where is Benson? Where did he go?”

  “We don’t know,” Dr. Lee responded. “We don’t know where he is. We are so sorry.”

  Abraham took a moment to assess his latest crisis. What compelled Benson to do this? It couldn’t be E Wing. He had come to terms with that. It was something else. Could he have solved the problem of age reversal? Despite the catastrophe, Abraham felt his heart jump. That must be it! Perhaps the pheromone rage was corrected, as well. Benson finally completed the formula and figures he holds all the cards. He wants more money—or more power. It didn’t matter. Whatever he wanted, Abraham was confident he could provide it. The puzzle was complete. He just needed to reacquire it.

  To his security chief, still on the line, Abraham spoke again. “Charles and I will be there by this evening. Buckle everything down in the meantime, and let no one leave the premises.”

  Abraham turned to Charles. “Better give Mr. Manoukian a call and let him know what’s happening.” He was going to stop there, but then he thought to add, “Speaking of Mr. Manoukian, have our lawyers prepared the papers?”

  “Just today,” Charles said.

  “Good, then make the arrangements for a meeting. It may as well be at the lab. Have him meet us there tomorrow.”

  Just as the words passed Abraham’s lips, the desk phone rang. Charles picked it up. “This is Charles.” A pause. “That’s correct.” Another pause. “Thank you.” Charles returned the phone to the desktop.

  Noting Charles’ alarmed expression, Abraham asked, “What is it?”

  “That was our man at NYPD,” Charles answered. “They found Benson right here in New York. He’s dead.”

  Abraham scrunched his eyes. “Where? How?”

  “Susie Quinn’s apartment. She’s one of the Global Girls. She’s dead, also, and two of our Turks. There was a brawl. Shots were fired.” Charles put a hand over his brow. “They’re all dead.”

  Abraham grimaced. “Did they find anything?”

  Before Charles could answer, Abraham continued. “You’ve got to get over there.” He spoke with tenacity. “Find out if anything’s retrievable, like a disc or a flash drive, a memory stick, anything!”

  Minutes later, Abraham observed Charles exit his office accompanied by two of his equally tall Specials. For the crisis at hand, Abraham was confident Charles was the man to make it right. He pressed the button to his interoffice intercom. “Imelda, notify the flight crew. We’re going back to Minnesota. And we’re leaving tonight.”

  * * * *

  Police officers were still cordoning off the crime scene when Charles and his two assistants emerged from the elevator. They walked down the hall to Susie Quinn’s apartment, where Charles was sure he’d find Detective Maurice Williams in charge. Detective Williams was a middle-aged black man and a thirty year NYPD veteran who always seemed to be in charge of any and all investigations that involved Soriah Enterprises.

  Charles noted that the police had already abided by Abraham’s preliminary expectations. All press and related paparazzi were forbidden, but Charles, and anyone with him, was granted direct access and immediate audience. As he approached, Detective Williams was the first to greet him and the first to speak. “Damn, do you g
uys ever wear anything different?”

  Charles ignored the small talk. “What do you have for me?”

  Williams gestured to the corpse on the sofa and the two black-suited heaps on the floor. They had yet to be covered. “Be my guest,” he said. “And there’s another one in the bedroom. A woman.”

  Charles walked to the sofa, where lay the unmoving body of the man he knew to be Dr. Jason Benson.

  Williams spoke. “A single bullet to his chest, from what I can see. Tell your boss we’ll have an autopsy ready by mid-week.”

  “Has anyone touched them?” Charles asked.

  “Hell, we just got here ourselves,” the detective grumbled. “If I’d have stopped to take a piss, you’d have been here before me.”

  Charles eyed his assistants. “Andy, search these bodies. Start with Benson. Bill, you check the back room.” As Andy and Bill parted, Charles dropped his gaze to what remained of the Turks. Lowering himself to a squat, he examined their bloodied faces, noting one in particular frozen in horror. He spied the splintered door, the wrecked furniture, and the bullet holes in the wall.

  Williams spoke again. “They were Soriah Specials, weren’t they?”

  “Yes, they were,” Charles confirmed. “Now look at them. Both have had their lower frontal bone smashed, the nasal bone pulverized, and the lacrimal bone completely crushed, along with the upper maxilla.”

  “Yeah, right,” the detective sneered. “We found two switchblades on the floor and two semis outside, I’d guess thrown out this window here.” He gestured toward the open window, but Charles’ eyes weren’t on the stocky policeman. Regardless, Williams continued. “Only one of the handguns has been discharged, but we believe it’s the weapon that killed your egghead.”

  Charles remained silent, pondering his own assessments.

  The detective added, “The lady in the bedroom was stabbed. Probably by one of these switchblades. We’ll check them for blood and prints. They’re fancy stilettos made in Europe.”