Agent M: Testament (The Agent M Series Book 2)

by L. M. Vila

  “After all. This could be your very last chance to do so.”

  The menacing tone uttered through those last few words attempted to impress the gravity of the situation. Under normal circumstances, Michael couldn’t care less about repenting his numerous and continually growing list sins. He didn’t plan on dying today, tomorrow, or anytime soon. But this butler wasn’t asking Michael. He was asking Johnny Rage. Michael gave no resistance obliging to the request.

  “Hey!” Meryl shouted as she watched Michael and another slip into a back room. “Where the fuck are you taking him?”

  She motioned over to his direction but another stagehand cut her off halfway, presenting a black microphone.

  “Here you go Ms. Onyx.”

  Meryl stared down at the communication strengthening device with a confused but thoroughly angry look on her face. “What the fuck is this dipshit?”

  She had certainly grown in this character. The poor stagehand nearly pissed himself where he stood.

  “It’s as you requested prior to your arrival. To,” he paused, stuttering over the words at what he was going to say next.

  Instead of going over her exact words, he thought toning it down just a tad would still be an effective delivery method.

  “Talk shit to all of the pompous, over-dressed bitches and assholes.”

  “Give me that!” Meryl snapped, snatching the device from his weak grip. “If Rage isn’t back here in one minute, I’m kicking everybody’s ass in this room.”

  Everyone knew where Rage had gone off to but none dared to speak. Given the circumstances, most of them prayed for his early arrival. By the tone of Onyx’s threat, they were damn sure she would live up to it.

  Ryoo Myung-Dae sat patiently in his dressing room. Deep, tired breaths exited his muscular frame. Each puff of oxygen hissed passed his nostrils in a calculated manner. His long, greasy black locks of hair hung over his stubble ridden brow. The baggy black shorts adorned with various logos representing the Utopia Hotel and Casino he wore did little to convey his feelings about the battle about to commence. He’d fight anyone naked if the situation called for it but this was a special request of his employer. Though these events were never televised, Ryoo assumed this was just some form of branding in a meager attempt to usurp control in some form or another. It didn’t have any effect on his performance. He continued to wait for his cue to enter through the curtain.

  This place had a rich and clean smell to it, as if someone spent the better part of a month sterilizing every molecule of space. Logan’s undefeated champion required little frills, only a stiff bench and locker for his personal belongings. Despite the theatrics his employer liked to utilize, every one of his bouts ended the same. Unlike most prize fighters these days, Ryoo was in it purely for the money. Fighting a worthy challenger was lower on his radar than cockroaches and sewage. As long as the payments were made, Ryoo would do anything his employer asked.

  Pacing around the locker room with smug grin glued on his face, Charles Logan contemplated the majesty of his creation. Albeit the elder in the room, Charles allowed his more physically gifted partner to feel superior in the brawn aspects of business. Though the color of salt and pepper graced his thousand dollar haircut, Charles was all brains. His rippling black suit shined over his skinny physical frame and told stories his tongue couldn’t dare speak. It was almost as if he was trying to compensate for something.

  The initial investment of this place was ludicrous according to the banks he spoke with, which just happened to be all of them. Thankfully there were some graciously individuals out there with enough business sense to know a good deal when they saw one. The resort, casino, and all the little luxuries pull humans out of their disgusting, and tragically mundane lives was just a front for something much more magical. Once a man acquires a massive sum of wealth, something changes within him. The first few months are riddled with frivolous spending and a lot of bad decisions but soon enough, they’ll find themselves stuck in the humdrum rut of the less fortunate. Clearly, they couldn’t even see the problem staring them right in the face. It is as formulaic as elementary arithmetic. As one gains wealth they start to lose imagination. Fear of losing their money is usually the root of the problem. Playing it safe, not taking any risks will ensure that they will continue to live in the higher echelon of society. No one wanted to live the life of a commoner. Especially after sampling a king’s feast.

  Logan knew the one thing other than wealth, status or power that bonded individuals together: their animalistic instincts. When you tear man down to his naked core, no matter what side of town they lived on, their reactions to this wild world of ours would always be the same. Logan loved exposing these people for the true savages that they are. Businessmen, politicians, even foreign delegates have all graced his arena. And even though many of them shared diverse backgrounds, they all came here to see the same thing: two men beating the shit out of each other to the point of death. It was really that simple. This wasn’t some brilliant new idea that would change the world as we know it. He simply provided a safe haven for the rich and wealthy to act like the savages he knew they truly were.

  These events which produced tens of millions of dollars in revenue, had Logan’s champion to thank for its success. Normally, he didn’t really care who stepped into the ring as long as they put on a good show for the crowd. The better the performance, the higher the bets. And no one produced a higher quality performance than Mr. Ryoo Myung-Dae.

  “It’s almost time. Do you need anything else?” Logan asked, almost convincing Ryoo that he didn’t have an army of assistants at his disposal to take care of the fighter’s every need.

  Ryoo shook his head, refraining from speaking directly. His English skills were still subpar at best. It’s a good thing he got paid to speak with his fists or else Ryoo’s stock would considerably drop in value.

  “Try to take it a little easy on this one,” suggested Charles. “Let him land a few strikes, lull the audience into a false sense of security before you finish him off. The people have been anticipating this fight for quite some time. We can only respect their wishes by putting on a good show.”

  Even though this kind of mockery was frowned upon by his gracious teachers, Ryoo could only agree with his employer’s wishes. Some would think this kind of deception would anger the audience. Contrary to popular belief, many of them seemed to grow tired of Ryoo’s dominance. When every result is identical to the previous, anyone’s attention span would grow tired. The very definition of insanity was doing the same action over and over again and expecting a different result.

  “Has the payment been made?” Ryoo asked.

  He carefully picked over each word as too not sound too desperate or demanding.

  “As always, I’ve deposited your money this morning. I must say,” Logan interjected, “for someone who’s amassed nearly a quarter of a billion dollars, I’ve never seen you spend an extraneous dollar on yourself.”

  The analysis couldn’t be denied but in Ryoo’s mind didn’t matter. What he did with his money was none of Logan’s concern. Ryoo looked at this relationship in a business sense. He fought, Logan paid. End of story. Ryoo did not require nor desire the frivolities of luxury and comfort. The only thing that mattered was money. And lots of it.

  A familiar vibration tickled Logan’s front coat pocket. This was the call he had been waiting for. The lights were about to dim. Fireworks would rain from the skies. And most importantly, Mr. Charles Logan was about gain a little more wealth and power.

  “They’re calling for you. Are you ready?”

  Ryoo nodded. He waited until Logan was far out of sight and sound. Inside of his duffel bag sat the key to his constant and resounding successes. With the fight moments away from starting, it was time to take his medicine. He had to make it count. This was his last dosage but thankfully, one is all it would take.

  The miniscule lighting of the back room heated Michael’s early warnings signs. There wasn’t a
nything particularly disturbing upon initial observation but something definitely rubbed Michael the wrong way. The room was no bigger than a hundred square feet with only one visible way in or out. Given the level of introduction, Michael half expected to see a mini-cathedral backstage. This was more fitting as a storage closet. Not the kind of place one would think you would repent for the final time.

  Footsteps were closing in. Michael’s enhanced senses picked up on it at least fifty feet beyond the door itself. He focused his attention towards the only exit. Each step closer appeared to be faint and calculated. If his cover was blown somehow this would make an easy place to execute a traitor. Well, the easiest place they could try anyways.

  The door opened, revealing only a dim light in the distance and a cascade of shadows everywhere else. A man entered dressed in a full black cassock. His build was impressive, something not seen on most men of God but definitely uncommon for a standard priest. The cassock was unique as well. Not the kind of delicate fabric you would think to see but something more practical, like a composite weave found in BDUs. Couple that with an outline of the holy cross shining in pure silver across the entire chest and abdomen made for an interesting costume altogether. Not typical priestly attire indeed.

  “Good evening Jonathan,” he spoke stepping into the light.

  This man was young, probably around Michael’s age. Brown hair lit up the top his head and followed it down all the way around his chin and lips parted neatly down the center of his skull. His piercing blue eyes locked on those of Michael’s as he continued.

  “My name is Adriel. I am here to help you make peace with God if that is what you so desire.”

  “No thanks.”

  Michael didn’t bother trying to outfit a character response. He replied in his usual effortless fashion.

  “Oh come now Jonathan, there must be something you’d like to get off your chest. Whatever your worries, I’ll be happy to listen to it and offer you guidance.”

  His act no longer seemed synthetic. This one appeared generally concerned. Michael hadn’t expected that. Maybe his initial apprehensive feelings were all for not. He turned his gaze away, hoping that the priest would take the hint and leave. There wasn’t anything left to discuss here.

  “Forgive me,” Adriel started, “I must offer my sincerest apologies. I did not mean to coerce you in any way Michael.”

  The FBI agent’s eyes went wide. Michael couldn’t believe his cover had been blown already. He didn’t even get a chance to discuss a proper escape plan with Meryl as this meeting was not mentioned in the initial briefing. Their brief separation was not calculated in the final briefing. Just before his head turned to face the priest, Adriel spoke once more, tearing Michael’s world apart with just four words.

  “Or is it Mavryk?”

  Michael’s hand shot out, clasping the priest’s throat and simultaneously slamming him against the wall. The tight grip locked Adriel in place but allowed enough room to sneak in a few words. Given the gravity of the name that man just called out, an interrogation was deemed necessary. Even while facing potential death, the priest didn’t allow himself to seem frightened or stunned at Michael’s actions. Almost as if he had already anticipated this response.

  “Come now Mavryk. I’m here at the behest of my organization. I only wish to speak with you,” Adriel gasped, choking on every word.

  Air quickly swept back into his throats and lungs once Michael released his death grip. Relief never tasted so sweet. For a moment there, Adriel was worried this meeting might go off script.

  Many questions beckoned at Michael's attention. The first of which would hopefully explain how in the hell did this man know Michael's given name at birth.

  “Who sent you?”

  A few more coughs echoed into their tight confines. Recovering from the quick attack took more time and energy than Adriel imagined. However, the answer he was prepared to give might cause some new and perhaps more permanent discomfort.

  “Not here. What we have to speak about requires much of your time. More so than you can afford to waste at this moment.”

  That response ticked away against the thin fibers of the FBI agent's patience. No one can drop a bombshell on his conscience the way this priest just did and expect Michael to take his word for it. Even if he's an actual priest, anyone that has uttered that name has lived to regret it in one way or another. The only saving grace this priest had going for him were his final words. More of a warning in actuality. Reasoning had to take precedence over desire.

  “Fine,” Michael hissed, “Where?”

  “Come to the Aria Casino tonight. You'll be shown the way by one of our associates. He'll be the first to greet you.”

  This had bullshit written all over, yet Michael knew he wouldn’t deny this request. Adriel could be just a pawn in some grand scheme. They could be setting up a trap that Michael willingly agreed to. Not that he had much choice in the matter. Every trace of Project Mabus had to be destroyed; especially knowledge of his true identity.

  Michael nodded in agreement. The priest smiled once again as if he expected this result from the very start.

  “You have my thanks Mavryk.”

  Adriel made his way to the door and stopped just before opening it.

  “If I may be so bold, I have a bit of advice to offer you for your battle tonight.”

  Adding pretentious to the growing list of annoying traits wouldn't be difficult in Michael's book. First he has the nerve to accost him in the middle of a mission with life-threatening information and then he has the gall to actually give the man who single handedly took down the Ten Most Wanted fugitives advice about combat. Michael motioned for Adriel to finish his statement.

  “Use the past to your advantage but don't get lost in those memories.”

  The priest calmly walked out of the room without another look leaving Michael in a confused but inquisitive state. Those words could mean everything and nothing at the same time. The only way he'd get confirmation is through confrontation which graciously awaited his arrival.

  “I swear to God, he'll be out here soon,” a stagehand pleaded. “Please, don't hurt me!”

  Meryl kept a firm grip on his collar and drew him in closer.

  “You have until the count of three.”

  Her words dripped with poison. The man gasped.

  “One.”

  Air pumped in and out of his lungs quicker than a mouse's heartbeat.

  “Two.”

  Her fist cocked back, aimed squarely and the center of his terrified face. Everyone else could only standby and watch. Their orders were to never lay a finger on the guests no matter one; not even in self-defense.

  “Three.”

  The stagehand braced for impact. He didn't even realize the voice that uttered those words didn't come from Onyx herself. The savior had at long last appeared.

  “Where the fuck have you been? That cock-basket is already in the ring,” she snapped referring to Ryoo Myung-Dae in the most cynical way she could think of.

  Michael calmly approached her, doing a few mundane but pointless stretches, appearing as if he were trying to prepare himself for a grueling battle in the most stereotypical way possible.

  Michael took his place behind Meryl as they stood just before the curtain. She stared up at him and noticed a change in his expression. It was oddly stoic coupled with a look of uncertainty, as if all of his thoughts had drifted away from this death pit. Perhaps the legendary Michael Madison was actually nervous for a change. A deeper probe into his sullen yet distance eyes told Meryl that might be true but it didn't look like his mind was even in the building. Unfortunately, they lacked the time and place for an appropriate discussion. The sooner this fight started, the sooner it would end. These guys just needed a fire lit under their asses to get it moving.

  “What's the fucking hold up?” Shouted Meryl leaning past Michael's muscular frame.

  Every nearby stagehand turned to another wondering if they knew e
xactly what was supposed to happen next which just so happened to irk Meryl towards the breaking point.

  “Is everyone in the fucking building dense? Play the Goddamn song... Now!”

  The speakers lit up, shouting massive waves of barely translatable heavy metal music through every corner of the arena. Meryl hadn't been filled into every detail as to what she was supposed to say but figured this would be her once and a lifetime chance to stick it to some upper-class businessmen that just happened to trigger some repressed childhood memories.

  “Aw yea!” She shouted into the microphone, trailing the final word for a few pressing seconds.

  Meryl and Michael broke through the curtain. The crowd of onlookers offered their respective cheers and jeers at the pair. Women of course hooted at Michael's impressive body and men whistled at Meryl like she just walked passed a construction site, some even asked for her hand in marriage. The attractiveness of this outfit lifted Meryl's confidence. The ring must have been a good hundred feet away. Plenty of time to lay into these assholes.

  “Listen up bitches. Open up your shallow minds and feast your eyes on some prime real estate. This is the pinnacle of male evolution.”

  Michael nearly reacted to that comment. She had no idea home close to home her words really were. They continued to move about the arena with Meryl slinging a few more obscenities at the nearby audience members for good measure. Her eyes caught wind of specific attendees donning blue handkerchiefs in their front jacket pocket, signaling them as members of the Vegas undercover group waiting for the signal to call the S.W.A.T. team on standby.

  “Standing at six-feet, three inches and weighing in at two-hundred and thirty pounds of solid muscle, you'll never see a fighting force of his caliber for as long as your privileged-fucking lives have to offer.”

  Michael gave short glances to the crowd. He snuck a peak at the armed security members watching this event. There were at least a dozen of them. They had no shame brandishing their UMP machine guns as if it were a fashion statement than a weapon. If things escalated beyond Michael's control, his thoughts quickly drifted to the safety of his partner. Granted, he might have to show equal concern for anyone trying to cross her during the anticipated chaos.