Rise of the White Lotus

by H L Stephens

  I heard Agent Howard whisper, "I'm sorry Jane," just as he slipped the chord over my head. He twisted it and pulled it tight.

  It is hard to explain in words what it was like to taste death's acrid edge. It was a bitter bile to gag upon as it wrapped its arms around me to drag me into its dark embrace. I had but moments to act in my own defense, yet every movement felt like I was swimming in molasses. They were slow and labored. I fought to get my limbs to respond. I reached for my boot and grabbed the knife my father had given me. I braced my feet against the door as the world began to blacken and grow dim. Oxygen maintained a stubborn distance outside my lungs as Agent Howard tightened his strangle hold. I pushed with what little strength was left to me and slammed my body against his, knocking him against his door. The blow loosened his grip on the chord.

  The light returned to my eyes long enough for me to draw precious air into my lungs. I swapped hands with the boot knife and swung back, down and up with all my might. The stroke hit true at his groin, severing muscle and sinew. Agent Howard screamed and grabbed for his crotch with both hands. As soon as I was free, I propelled myself over the back of the seat and slashed at the left side of his neck as I went. I can't say how deep the knife sunk into his flesh but blood splattered everywhere.

  Agent Howard tried to reach me with one of his bloody hands.

  "If I were you, I would keep pressure on those cuts," I gasped, pressing myself as far from him as I could. "They run pretty deep."

  I was panting, and my hands were shaking. It was difficult to hold onto the knife.

  "You little bitch," he said. "You've killed me."

  "Just returning the favor you were trying to pay me."

  "They'll find you, you know," he said. His breath was growing more labored. "If you go back home, they will find you and kill you and your whole family. Hell, they might even kill the whole town. But this time, you'll be the one to watch. Just like your dad did."

  "So what....that Russian organization sent you to kill me?"

  Agent Howard gave a nod. The effort made him grimace.

  "They have a way of finding people to leverage," Agent Howard said. "It was either you or me. When they discovered you witnessed your family's murder and you lived to tell about it, they started hunting for you. It took them years but they finally tracked me down. Let's just say they were very persuasive. When they find out I failed, they will send others. Your days are numbered, one way or the other."

  Agent Howard's teeth were covered in blood. His face was a pasty white as he bled out into the seat of the car.

  "I gotta know. Where'd you learn how to do that? You take some class or something?"

  "My father told me where to strike right before we left. It just kind of came to me when I needed it."

  "Figures," Agent Howard said. By now, he was gasping for air. "Listen, on the other side of this pit off in the bushes is another car. The keys are in the ignition. There is money in the trunk. Enough to give you a head start. You can't go home Jane, unless you want to get your family killed. You've got to disappear. For good. Get your stuff out of the trunk."

  Agent Howard unlocked the doors and popped open the trunk.

  I jumped out before he changed his mind. I grabbed my bag and backed away from the car.

  "Why are you doing this?" I asked.

  Death sat heavily upon his shoulders.

  "I'm dead already Jane," he said. "They have nothing to hold over my head now. Maybe I can make up for what I tried to do to you."

  He backed the car up and threw it into drive, heading straight for the pit. I watched as the sedan glided off the edge like a dark metallic bird in flight, too heavy to maintain its altitude. I ran to the edge and arrived just in time to see the car strike the rocky floor below. The impact along with the two containers of gasoline in the trunk caused an explosion that did its best to singe my eyebrows. Like the rise and fall of the phoenix, all that I had known of Agent Howard was destroyed in a flash of brilliant flame and dusty ash. I heaved where I stood until nothing was left in me but the sour taste of old potato chips and bile in my throat.

  Agent Howard's was the first of many lives that would fall at my hand. It is true, he hastened his own ending, but he would have died one way or the other because of the actions I had taken to save my life. His blood on my hands was something I would never escape. The fact I had dealt the fatal wounds in self defense was irrelevant. I had taken a life, and nothing could wash its taint from me. It was like a new, gooey second skin I could not peel away.

  The next few hours were a blur to me. I watched the car burn until little more than ash and metal remained. The quarry was far enough removed from the civilized world that either no one saw the billowing smoke from the fire or no one cared.

  Somehow, I managed to clean the blood from my body in a brackish pool of water and change my clothes. My blood soaked clothes were tossed into the wreckage of the car and burned with what was left of Agent Howard. I watched them smolder to ash as I did my best to cover any trace of myself.

  Agent Howard had not lied about the other car and its location. The keys were in the ignition, along with an expensive leather bag loaded with cash in the trunk. I didn't stop to count it, but I had never seen so many Benjamin Franklins together in one place, except in the movies.

  The car had been Agent Howard's insurance policy, and now it was mine; a surety that I would escape the pit of hell and find myself back on the road to civilization. Unfortunately, hell seemed to follow fast upon my heels wherever I went, hounding my every waking thought. The weight of guilt can do that to a soul, making it jump at every sound and distrust every vehicle upon the road.

  Whenever I stopped for gas or to rest, it felt as though every person was watching me, following me with unfriendly eyes. The demons were all around me. I just had to learn which ones were coming to drag me back to the fiery pit.

  I longed to call my dad and have him come get me. Safety rested in his arms for me. I was determined if I ever felt them again, I would never leave them, but Agent Howard's words swirled in my brain until they were the only sound I could hear. The repetition of them was a rushing whirlwind of words striking terror into the center of my soul. To return home would endanger the ones I loved, and the thought of losing my parents because of my actions was more than my heart could take.

  Besides, I had just killed a man. My parents would never look at me the same again if they learned what had happened. Heck, I couldn't look at me the same. All I saw when I stared at myself in the mirror was the monster I had just become.

  The night of Agent Howard's death, I stayed in a motel whose blankets would normally have made my flesh crawl just to touch them. In my sullied state, however, they didn't seem so bad. The attendant had looked at me with suspicion when I asked for a room, but the extra cash I gave him overcame any reservations he might have had.

  I was exhausted and confused. I didn't know what to do so I slept the kind of sleep that killing a man brings. It was a tortured, restless slumber that brings with it no serenity; no renewal. It left me more drained at its end than I had been when I first laid down. It was a cycle of exhaustion that would become my constant companion for a time. I knew things would not improve because my father wasn't there to chase the nightmares away.

  I tried eating the following day, but the food just kept returning back the same way it had gone down. Having Agent Howard's blood on my hands didn't agree with my stomach. My constitution was wrecked.

  If I couldn't sleep, and I couldn't eat, and I couldn't go home, it left me only one option. I had to fix things at the source, and the only way to do that was to go back to where it all began. My mom always said the best way to kill a cancerous briar was to cut it off at its root, and that is what this situation was in my mind - a cancerous briar. I had to cut it off at the source before it choked out any hope I had of regaining joy in my life.

  I had just beat the odds and saved my own life. Perhaps I could fix what was horribly broken and
stop the cycle that started with the murder of my family. For the first time in days, I had a purpose. Grabbing the bloodstained map from the floorboard, I got my bearings and headed towards New York - hell's little half acre on earth.

  Finding the Worm in the Big Apple

  The best laid plans of mice, men and fourteen year olds never really prepare you for the reality that awaits you at the end of your journey. The last time I had walked the streets of New York City, I had been seven years old, accompanied by adults who were a heck of a lot savvier and well informed about the big city than I was upon my return.

  New York City isn't just a city. It's a myriad of different communities lassoed together under the same umbrella, but each community has their own distinct personality, feel, and potential dangers for the uninitiated. My destination of choice was selected based on a whim and an incomplete memory. It was Brownsville in Brooklyn. I remembered my parents mentioning it when I was little but for the life of me, I could not remember why it had been a topic of choice. Since I had to start somewhere in my quest for regaining normalcy at the hands of the Russian mob, I figured Brownsville was as a good a place as any to start. Besides I figured anything that reminded me of my murdered family had to be a romantic and wonderful location. Boy was I wrong.

  Brownsville was part of Eastern Brooklyn and was perhaps one of the most dangerous and unwelcoming location I could have chosen as a point of reintroduction to my once-hometown. As a lonely fourteen year old girl, driving a shiny dark sedan down some of the most crime ridden streets in the city, I was a moving target, waiting for someone to strike.

  I needed a place to stay and stash my ultra-obvious satchel full of cash. Nothing cried "victim here, victim here" quite like a gleaming leather Maxwell Scott Varese pilot briefcase on wheels worth every bit of $600 bursting with greenbacks. Unless of course that briefcase was being dragged down the street by a lone teenage girl with bright red hair wearing cowboy boots and a T-shirt that read 'I (heart) Texas', carrying a giant duffle bag on her back. How I managed to survive the first twenty four hours is a mystery to me, even now.

  I had enough sense to stash some of the money I had acquired from Agent Howard into the lining of my duffle bag and a small bit in my boots, but the majority of it remained in the briefcase out of sheer necessity. I drove around Brownsville until I found what I was looking for. A nice quiet motel.

  The name caught my attention first. It exuded honesty and cleanliness. I felt in my heart that any place called the Homey Hotel had to be an establishment you could trust. Forget the fact that you could rent the rooms by the hour. The name promised the home-away-from-home atmosphere I was looking for. Oh the levels of misrepresentation in that name.

  Sheets were extra, as if anyone in their right mind would willingly touch the massive mystery stains that riddled the warped block of concrete they laughingly called a mattress. The room I was given was already occupied when I arrived. Four and six legged guests roamed with sheer abandon with no concern at my entry, as if I was as inconsequential as the ratty chair that sat next to the window. I would have called down to the front desk but the phone line had been severed by a previous guest.

  I decided I wasn't going to stay in such a disgusting location, so I gathered my things with the intent of leaving in search of another motel. When I got out to where I had parked my car, I discovered it was gone. All that remained was a puddle of moisture from where the AC's air condenser had dripped out on the ground. The sad thing was, I couldn't call the police and report the theft. I was being hunted by men who probably had members of law enforcement in their back pocket. I had no driver's license or identification to prove who I was. The stolen vehicle was not registered in my name. In fact, I couldn't be sure it had even been registered in Agent Howard's name. The only potential legitimate connection to that car was a man who was now dead and burned to ash in some hellish corner of no-man's land. Calling in the theft of the car would be suicide. I would just have to suck it up and walk wherever I needed to go.

  It was getting late, and things being what they were, I knew it wasn't safe to roam the streets of such a big city alone at night. I reluctantly returned to the Homey Hotel and requested a different room; one without existing residents. The new location was little better than the first but at least I found myself alone when I entered. I called up a pizza from a local place and set about making plans on my next move.

  The unit I was in had a window air conditioner that pumped cool-ish air into the room, but I noticed a rusted return vent that was left over from a central heat and air system which had stopped working years ago. The hole was just large enough for me to cram the cash-filled briefcase inside it, and the thick layer of undisturbed dust assured me no one would bother it now that it was there. With the cash safely stowed away, I focused on my next goal. Finding the men who were after me.

  Subtlety was never my strong point growing up. I had been opinionated, precocious little kid, and I had matured into a stubborn, feisty young teenager. I had yet to learn all of the critical life-saving rules that were important to know when coming up against mob-type men. The list isn't a particularly long one, but it is important. Breaking any one of the rules will most likely result with a bullet in the brain or you at the bottom of the river wearing concrete shoes.

  The number one rule is simple. Always keep your mouth shut about what you are up to. At the tender age of fourteen, walking around in one of the worst sections of New York, I broke rule number one with the largest hammer I could find. I discovered very quickly that asking the locals where the Russian mob hung out was not good for my health.

  It was my fifth afternoon in Brownsville when my impertinent inquiries finally caught up to me. I was walking back to the Homey Hotel from a small market a few blocks away when my flesh began to crawl. I tried to ignore it at first, but then a pit formed in my stomach the size of the Washington Monument, making it hard to put the creepy-crawly feeling aside. I finally realized I was in imminent danger. I crouched down like I was tying my shoe and stole a glance behind me. That is when I saw the beginning of my ruin.

  Three ruffians the size of Mount Rushmore were directly behind me, and they had their ugly mugs set on me. Malice rested upon their features like an old comrade welcomed with opened arms. They were not amiable men, and I knew in my heart I did not want to tangle with them if I could avoid it. One glance was all I needed to ascertain their damaged, unyielding nature. The wealth of tattoos running the length of their sizable forms only added to their intimidation factor.

  I decided I wasn't going to wait around to determine their intentions. I bolted from my crouched position and ran as hard as I could. I was so focused on the goons behind me, however, I missed the two massive tattooed monsters in front of me. I slammed into the one with enough force to knock the wind and momentum right out of me. Within moments, I found myself sprawled on the filthy concrete of some darkened, dead end alley.

  I huddled against the brick wall and reached for my boot knife, hiding it in the palm of my hand. Cold steel was my comfort, and in the moments before the ensuing battle, I resolved to hurt as many of them with me as I could, one way or another.

  The gang of five formed a human barrier against my escape. The biggest and the ugliest of the bunch stepped forward with a sickly grin upon his face.

  "I hear you look for Russian gang," he said. His Russian accent was thick in every broken English word he spoke. "Here we are little princess. You get what you ask for," he said waving around at the others and laughing. Turning back to me, he continued with a glint in his eye, "Now for your prize little princess."

  The leader waved the other guys towards me as he began to undo his pants. He said something to them in Russian that made them all laugh. I didn't like the sound of it, whatever it was.

  My blood was pumping so hard, it made my temples hurt. I remembered my father's words about surprise and last resort. I only had seconds to act in my defense. I was horribly outnumbered. I couldn't think what the
right maneuver would be in this situation. Training for such encounters had not been part of my upbringing. I went with my gut in this case and attacked the leader, hoping it would cause enough confusion in the others to enable me to get away.

  I launched myself at the leader's stomach, aiming both of my elbows at his solar plexus. It was his turn to have the wind knocked out of him. I cut down his chest, through his abdomen, and across his inner thigh. I missed the femoral artery but cut deep enough to cause him to crumple into a useless ball of mewling, bloody flesh. His sudden downfall catapulted his friends into a frenzy of confusion and rage. Several of them tried to grab me, and I slashed at anything I could make contact with. I ran toward the mouth of the alley filled with exaltation. Another successful battle and I was virtually unscathed. I had won my freedom yet again and was nearly at the mouth of the alley when I was overtaken by one fatal event.

  My foot became entangled in an obscured piece of rubbish, and I lost my balance. I crashed to the concrete, hitting my head on a dumpster that was the only thing separating me from my escape. My boot knife slipped from my hand, scuttling underneath the metal monster and out of reach. In that fateful second, I was at the mercy of a small mob of injured, bloodthirsty enemies that had laid mercy down along with their morality years ago.

  The few of their number that had full use of their arms grabbed hold of my legs and dragged me back into the shadowy recesses of the alleyway. My screams were left unheeded by any passersby for no one came to my aid; they were too afraid of the men I had wounded.

  My body became the outlet for their rage as blow upon blow was rained down upon me. No part of my body was spared their assault as foot and fist pounded an unending rhythm of hate upon me. Bones cracked and tissue swelled until the pain was so great, I would have welcomed death, yet it would not come to release me from my torment. I thought of my murdered family.