The Green Lama: Crimson Circle

by Adam Lance Garcia

  Jethro nodded, his blood cold. Hidden behind the gilded statue was the safe containing his enhanced radioactive salts; in the wrong hands… “It was a gift from the King,” he said aloud, his face betraying nothing. “He and I were friends.”

  Omega gazed at it in awe. “Beautiful,” he breathed. “Handcrafted, yes? Wonderful; such a lost art,” he said when Jethro nodded. “Sometimes I fear we have lost something, praying to gears and machines, we forget how talented we can be with our hands.” He studied the Buddha at length when he suddenly asked: “Tell me, Mr. Dumont, how audacious are you to call yourself a ‘lama?’”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’ve done my research, Mr. Dumont. I’ve read yours and Mr. Bernard’s memoirs on your travels through Tibet; even Madame Blavatsky’s ridiculous tome. A lama—a true lama—would never raise his hand against another,” Omega said as he once again began pacing the room, “never be so preoccupied with morality of ‘good versus evil.’ They would teach, help others find enlightenment; spend their days in prayer and, depending on the order, celibacy. Yet you live your life in the shadows, using violence and torture against those whom you have deemed criminal. You have even used your kata, a gift of respect, as a weapon, debasing all that it stands for.”

  “I consider myself a bodhisattva. Through my actions I can act as a shepherd, helping others reach enlightenment while delaying my own,” Jethro retorted defiantly.

  “Convince yourself of whatever lie you wish, Mr. Dumont. That won’t stop you from being a fraud.”

  “And what are you?”

  “A man, tasked with an objective.”

  “You’re the one who killed everyone in the theatre.”

  “I did, with my own, talented hands,” Omega admitted. “And I killed your magician friend, Mr. Harrin. Broke every bone in his body before I put a bullet in his head. A mercy kill, really. I was the one who took Mr. Brown from his darling family. And, yes, I kidnapped the lovely Miss Farrell. Such were the tasks necessary for my assignment. But I’ve already had this conversation once before, Mr. Dumont, and I will not have it again, so let us skip to what matters most,” he said sharply before stepping into the moonlight.

  Despite the small burn scar over his right cheek, Omega’s face was plain and unremarkable; brown eyebrows over empty brown eyes; a sloping nose, thin lips curled at the ends, high cheekbones and a rounded chin. He looked young, perhaps no older than Jethro; and save for the scar, the shaved pate and light skin, there was nothing instantly identifiable about him. He could be just another face in the crowd, easily ignored and forgotten.

  “I don’t know you,” Jethro confessed.

  “And why would you?” Omega said with a dismissive wave. “I am no one. Did you expect me to be someone familiar, some dark name from your past? No, Mr. Dumont, I’m afraid things don’t always wrap up so neat and tidy like they do in the stories. I am just a career man, doing my job.”

  “One that entails murdering dozens of innocent people,” Jethro said, his fingertips subtly glowing from within.

  Omega laughed sharply. “No one is innocent, Mr. Dumont. But there are prices to pay for everything we do, especially in my profession. What are a few lives to millions?” he asked. “Was that not what the Rabbi asked you, your death for the lives of his people? Had you known, would you have sacrificed yourself to save six million?” He paused and let the question hang in the air, knowing the answer. “Oh, Miss Farrell told me all about that and so much more… when I wasn’t beating her, of course. It seems that Hitler has big plans for the world… Which leads to me to why I am here… Mr. Dumont, I’ve come to enlist your services for the United States Government.”

  Jethro suddenly felt sick, winded and dizzy, as if he had just been at once struck in the gut, chest, and head. His eyes blinked rapidly, trying to process what Omega had just asked of him. He gripped the back of one of his armchairs. “What?” he finally managed, choking on the word.

  “We need you for the War, Mr. Dumont,” Omega answered, slowly walking toward Jethro. “The one that’s yet to come. Another Great War, if you can call wars anything but terrible. A conflagration unlike any the world has seen—or maybe ever will see, for that matter. You see, my employers are able to see the way the world works. They understand the machinery, if you will—the ebb and flow of history. Honestly, it is a little beyond my admittedly narrow comprehension. But, they have come to realize that the tensions building in Europe will lead to war within months, if not weeks. They believe that millions upon millions of people—soldier and civilian—will die because of the actions and inactions of the differing parties; and they do not want that to happen. Now, I cannot say for a certainty that they are correct. I don’t see the world as they do, I am not that farsighted; but they have tasked me with an objective, and that objective is you. It seems that my superiors feel you are… uniquely able to assist them in their machinations. So, I am to collect you and take you to them so that you may play a vital role in controlling this world’s destiny.”

  Jethro and Omega now stood less than a foot apart, their eyes locked on one another. Jethro’s heart jack-hammered against his ribs, his mind rattling as he tried to process it all and fit the pieces together, finding the answers horrifying. He had never been so naïve to believe that his country was free from sin or vice; nations were built on blood and the United States was no exception; slavery and the subjugation of the Native Americans were just two of the numerous crimes committed in America’s name. But, to murder its own people in hopes of defending itself against war was beyond forgiveness.

  “I’m afraid I will have to decline,” Jethro said at length.

  The corner of Omega’s lip twisted into a grin, as if he had been hoping for that response. “You misunderstand me, Mr. Dumont. This was not a request. Come willingly or I will take you by force.”

  “But if I am who you say I am,” Jethro asked, raising a curious eyebrow, his fingers curling into a fist, “what makes you think you can?”

  Omega gave him a toothy smile. “Because I have something you want. Something you love. I admire your taste, Mr. Dumont; Miss Farrell is a fine specimen… It would be a shame if something were to happen to her... You already saw what I did to her friends, imagine what fun I would have with her.”

  “Om! Ma-ni Pad-me Hum!” Jethro screamed as he rushed forward, his hands blazing green. He could feel the energy burning in his veins, spreading like wildfire, blinding in its ferocity. He wanted nothing more than to tear Omega apart limb by limb, let him bleed out on the floor, begging for mercy. He could unleash a torrent of energy, vaporizing Omega in seconds. He could drag Omega to the upper atmosphere before letting him drop down, listening to his screams tumble away. But Jethro held back—what little he could. He needed Omega to lead him to Jean. He needed to save her. Jethro swung left, right, but Omega dodged both, moving his body gracefully out of Jethro’s path milliseconds before he could land a punch.

  A small pistol snapped out from Omega’s sleeve and he fired two quick shots into Jethro’s chest. The bullets punched holes into Jethro’s shirt, but left his impenetrable skin unharmed, bouncing to the floor like discarded pennies. Omega grunted in fascination.

  “So it’s true,” he murmured.

  Jethro skidded to a stop, the rug bunching up beneath his feet. Launching off his left foot, he whirled around and struck Omega with a powerful roundhouse kick to the face. The blow lifted Omega off his feet. In a lightning move, Jethro caught Omega by the collar with one hand, while crushing Omega’s pistol with the other, the remaining bullets exploding harmlessly in his palm with a tinny pop-pop-pop. Jethro tossed the mangled gun away.

  Omega grunted a laugh. “Is that all you got, Mr. Dumont?”

  Jethro bared his teeth and threw Omega across the room into the furthest bookcase. The wooden shelves shattered on impact, splinters and paper flying.

  “You’re holding back, Mr. Dumont!” Omega laughed jovially as he pushed himself off the floor. The left side of
his face was one massive blue and purple bruise, blood trickling from both corners of his mouth. “How difficult it must be for you! They say you’re a man of strength, but what is strength if you don’t use it?!”

  In a flash, Jethro shot across the room, a blur of green light. He grabbed Omega by the throat and slammed him into the cracked bookshelf, knocking several more volumes off their perches and sending them tumbling to the ground, their pages fluttering like birds in flight.

  “Oh, you’re a very bad, bad Buddhist, Mr. Dumont,” Omega said through bloodied teeth, instinctually grabbing at Jethro’s wrist. “The Buddhist Bastard, they call you, amongst other more colorful names. How apropos.”

  “Where is Jean?” Jethro hissed, his voice taking on a resonance that echoed through the air, every molecule in the room vibrating with each word.

  “Somewhere safe, far from prying eyes,” Omega replied. “And jealous lovers. I’m sure her broken fingers are beginning to heal—”

  Jethro’s eyes glowed a hot green as he squeezed down on Omega’s throat and raised his luminescent fist.

  Omega croaked a laugh. “Please, don’t try and pretend you’re going to kill me. I know a murderer when I see one and you, Mr. Dumont, are far from a killer. You must understand my predecessor was much like you, believing he could play hero and save the world without the Collective. But he quickly learned the world isn’t so simple, not so easily divided into blacks and whites. Now, he must spend the rest of his life beneath masks… Your resolve is impressive, there is no doubt, but do not confuse me for some foolish mobster or vengeful fascist. I know all there is to know about you, every way to defeat you.” He took a sharp breath and in a single motion, reached into his jacket pocket with his free hand, and pulled out a small aluminum canister. He thumbed off the canister’s cap, releasing a green-white mist into the air.

  Jethro’s eyes went wide. He dropped Omega from his grasp and back-flipped across the room, landing in a crouch. He sucked in a lungful of air, instantly knowing what the smoke was—but that was impossible—it all had been destroyed. Yet, he could already feel his head swimming, his strength flowing out of him like a broken faucet as the gas filled the room. He raced over and dove behind his desk, unlatching a hidden compartment to reveal a pair of gas masks; but before he could reach them the desk was violently tossed away.

  Jethro looked up to find Omega smiling over him before swiftly kicking Jethro the chest. Jethro gasped at the impact, inhaling a lungful of gas. Fire tore through his veins, a horrible deluge of pain. It was all he could do not to scream.

  Omega reached behind his back, unhooked a small gas mask of his own, and slid it over his mouth and nose. “You remember this, don’t you? Of course you do; how could you forget?” he said, his voice muffled through the mask. He placed his foot on Jethro’s cheek and pressed down, digging in his heel. His eyes narrowed pleasantly as he watched Jethro writhe in pain. “The Epsilon Mist; a fancy little update to Dr. Valco’s Delta Liquid Ray. Your little dalliance atop the Brooklyn Bridge with Heinrich von Kultz was in all the papers and newsreels. So public and quite unlike you, I must say. We were watching, of course.” He twisted his heel left and right. “We’ve always been watching.”

  Pushing his mind through the pain, Jethro grabbed Omega’s ankle, focused all his energy into his hand, and unleashed a blast of electricity. Omega screamed a quavering, liquid sound that rang in Jethro’s ears. Small arcs of green lightning crackled off the top of Omega’s head and tips of his fingers. Jethro held onto until Omega fell back and dropped to the floor, his eyes rolling back in his head.

  Jethro found his way to his feet, his body feeling heavy and weighted down. He stumbled over toward the long bank of windows; his vision blurred, the edges faded, colors muted. The Epsilon Mist filled the penthouse, as if a cloud had set down around the building. He unlatched a window and let the cool night breeze flow in as the Mist began to funnel out. Jethro took a deep breath in, letting the fresh air fill his lungs, and a sense of relief washed over him.

  But the relief was short lived. He was too weak, too stunned to hear the footsteps, and by the time he felt the gloved hand grab him by the hair, it was already too late. His head was pulled sharply back before his face was smashed into the window. Glass shattered around him, a cacophony of sound and pain, the shards slicing through his skin as they tumbled to earth. An arm wrapped around Jethro’s neck and squeezed down on his windpipe as he dragged him away from the window.

  “Did you think a little electricity would stop me?” Omega growled into Jethro’s ear, his voice cracking like a boy in adolescence. Blood streamed from his ears, his eyes red and raw, looking more like a creature from ancient myth than a human being. Jethro’s own head was throbbing from lack of oxygen while blood flowed from the lacerations on his face, pooling in the corner of his eyes. “Was that your plan, Mr. Dumont?” Omega asked, clamping down on Jethro’s esophagus. “Electrocute me and it would all just go back to normal; it would just be okay? That somehow everything would just reset to the way it was before? It doesn’t work that way, Mr. Dumont. Not anymore.”

  Jethro jabbed his elbow into Omega’s stomach and then knocked the back of his head into Omega’s nose, eliciting an audible crunch! Omega grunted in pain as his hold on Jethro loosened. Jethro reached back, grabbed Omega by the shoulders, and leaned forward, using Omega’s own weight to flip him over and slam him to the floor.

  But Omega was fast; a split-second after he hit the floor, he reached into the inside of his jacket and produced a throwing knife. He expertly threw the blade, striking Jethro in the shoulder. Jethro fell back a step, pulled the knife free from his shoulder, and dropped it to the floor. Blood spilled down his shirt, staining it crimson. The Epsilon Mist had drained him of his powers, leaving him weak, and growing weaker. Pearls of sweat were forming on his forehead, stinging as they began to drip over the gashes on his face. The ghost of panic began to twist in his gut, a feeling he had long thought forgotten.

  “So it seems you can bleed,” Omega observed as he climbed to his feet. “Your powers must be wearing off, Mr. Dumont. Or perhaps it’s the Epsilon Mist.” He brushed the dirt on his jacket. “Or maybe, it’s just me.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself.” Jethro spit out a wad of bloody phlegm. “I’ve fought worse than you.”

  “Have you?” Omega asked skeptically. “I highly doubt that, Mr. Dumont.”

  “I defeated a god,” Jethro replied with an exhausted shrug.

  “A god?” Omega chuckled. “The gods are dead, Mr. Dumont. Torn down and replaced by science and technology. The gears of the world run on oil and blood; we are all that’s left. We are the gods now.”

  The corner of Jethro’s mouth tugged into a smirk. “How naïve of you.”

  “I was just about to say the same to you,” Omega said with a nod. “I must admit, Mr. Dumont, you took me by surprise. When I first learned about you I imagined you would try to pray me to death. You have proven a formidable opponent and I have quite enjoyed this little game of ours. It’s made this job so much more interesting. But I’m very tired. I’ve seen my fair share of the fantastic and unbelievable, things that would make you shudder at the sound. Even so, you and your ilk have worn down my patience and I’m done playing.”

  “Good,” Jethro growled. Drawing from his shrinking reservoir, he unleashed a torrent of energy as Omega rushed forward.

  Omega tried to sidestep the blast, but was a millisecond too short, the energy singeing the side of his face. But he kept charging forward, avoiding the next blast, and the next, and the next, each one weaker than the last. Books and furniture ignited as the beams of power hit, fire and smoke mixing with the remains of the Epsilon Mist.

  Omega grabbed Jethro’s arm before he could fire off another blast, twisted it violently to the side, and punched Jethro hard in the stomach. The impact shot the air out of Jethro’s lungs and curled him forward. Omega then slammed his knee into Jethro’s lacerated face and threw Jethro against the wall
, grabbing him by the throat and squeezing down. Jethro tried to fight back but he was too weak to overcome.

  “Don’t you see, Mr. Dumont? You are outmatched, growing weaker by the second. Very soon I will simply need to flick my finger and watch you fall over,” Omega whispered, his face inches from Jethro’s. “I know what you are, Mr. Dumont; another self-righteous vigilante who thinks you can fix everything outside the system. But like a gambler counting cards, you forgot that the house always wins. I know about the rib von Kultz broke!” He struck Jethro violently in the ribs, cracking the bone. “I know about the shoulder you dislocated twice in the Pacific!” Omega wrapped his free arm around Jethro’s right and twisted until the humerus popped free of the socket and fell limp to the side. “If I weren’t mandated to bring you back alive and in one piece I would tear you apart until you were nothing more than a broken sack of flesh. But I am denied such pleasures.” The small pockets of fire began to merge together, licking at the air, lights flickering, casting sinister shadows over Omega’s burned visage. “Instead, I will simply enjoy watching you slip into the abyss of unconsciousness, knowing that you have been beaten and all you ever held dear will burn down to the ground.”

  Omega’s fingers clamped down harder on Jethro’s throat, and everything began to dim.