by L. M. Vila
“I’m looking for Ryoo Myung-Dae,” Michael started. “I’m told his dogs like to hide out here.”
The quick little insult was meant to incite their rage. It did more than that. The pool player that approached him spat some obscenity in Korean that had too many hints of slang for Michael to decipher immediately. He drew back the pool cue and swung it with every ounce of strength his semi-muscular frame could summon. The strike was aimed squarely at the FBI agent’s jaw, more than likely hoping to shut him up.
“What’s going on in here?”
The young Paladin asked the obvious as soon as he reached the door. He had just caught up to the sounds of action only to find himself inches away from it.
Michael shot out his left hand and caught the cue in mid strike. A short vibration tickled his palm. Supposedly this was pain. The gang member desperately tried to push the cue through and finish the swing but Michael’s arm remained stiff and firm. His opponent’s efforts barely registered. With one quick snap, Michael crushed the section of the wooden cue that he once possessed. Tiny splinters and fragments of the formally whole weapon rained down as he opened his palm showing both a symbol of his strength as well as the futility of his opponent’s actions.
The gang member jaw stood ajar in complete disbelief. He swung the newly miniscule pool cue once more with amplified force. The weapon’s reduced range and girth didn’t dissuade his determination. Michael swayed from the first initial swings. They were so off-balance and clumsy; typical for this lot of criminals. He effortlessly avoided an overhand swing and caught the gang member’s skull. Michael opposed the momentum of his attacker and slid his leg behind. He slammed the gang member to the ground with a thud the resonated in the entire bar. It wasn’t enough to knock him out cold. Michael made sure of that. He needed one of these goons to retain the ability to answer questions later. The fates of the other three were not so lucky.
“Get him!” One of them shouted as they all rushed to Michael’s position.
The FBI agent stepped forward past his first victim and prepared to counter the perpetual sloppy assault by the remaining companions. Michael pressed his leg against the pool table and thrust it forward. It skidded across the ground screeching in defiance and sandwiched the other pool player flat against the wall. Michael could hear knees cracking instantaneously. There was no way he’d be able to walk let alone move from that spot without assistance. Another one down in the blink of an eye with only two left to go.
One of the gang members was at least taking this threat seriously. He produced a small switchblade knife from his pocket and ran at the FBI agent with an impressive amount of gusto. The blade slashed the air that Michael once breathed. They weren’t precise or measured strikes in the slightest. Their complete lack of training gave Michael the idea that he may have chosen the right place. That or they were too intoxicated to put up a formidable defense. Either way, the FBI agent would get the answers he sought.
Wild slashes continued to whiz and slice into the open air. Normally he’d defer to his Kevlar laced trench coat to block the attack and protect his skin. This black suit offered no such luxury. Michael relied to his combat training to stop this threat with minimum effort. By allowing the gang member to continue exhausting his energy, soon enough he’ll deplete all of his strength. That opening would allow the FBI agent the moment he needed to end this conflict without dropping a bead of sweat. It was the essence of the Yamatera style after all.
The gang member soon caught wind of his complied failures. Instead of continuing to swing openly and wild, he tucked the knife near his waist and thrust it forward at the FBI agent’s center mass. This was the most precise strike of the night. Sadly, one that was already well telegraphed.
Michael spread each finger wide on his extended hand and caught the oncoming fist carrying the blade. A mere half inch separated the FBI agent’s finger from the sharp steel appendage threatening to spill his blood all over this bar. The blade hovered between Michael’s middle and ring finger. He clasped the knuckles of the gang member and using the same strength he demonstrated on the pool cue, he crushed every bone underneath his skin. The poor soul dropped immediately clutching his newly broken fist. He cried and swore in his native language. Even the added adrenaline of the battle couldn’t overcome the overwhelming pain of having your fist turned into dust within the fleshy pockets of skin. Michael delivered a well measured kick to his jaw and silenced him for good.
Only one sole soldier of the gangster crew stood between the FBI agent and certain victory. If Michael actually gave these men any consideration, he would have thought they were fairly brave. It takes a lot of chutzpah to stare doom in the face and keep coming after it. That or they were a couple of eggs short of a complete breakfast.
The remaining gang member used only his fists but swung them with such bravado he could convince others they were mighty hammers blessed by all the gods one could imagine. Michael would have loved to end this quickly by taking another punch to the face. The thought of giving this guy the satisfaction of landing one didn’t sit well either. The FBI agent easily blocked the initial onslaught of blows. Openings were easily created and found all over his opponent’s offensive flurry. Michael stepped in between a wild haymaker and drilled his elbow into the gang member’s gut. Spit flew wild as every atom of oxygen was sucked out of his system. He tried to drop to his knees but Michael caught him by the neck before he could taste the sweet freedom of the floor. With one mighty push, the FBI shot the gang member into the air. His back slammed against the jukebox destroying it and rendering the machine silent. His flailing legs caught the skull of the other pinned gang member. They collided so hard and fast it sounded like one simultaneous explosion of bone and flesh. Both of them dropped unconscious next to each other. Michael couldn’t have asked for a better ending.
A sharp metal click could be heard from behind. The FBI agent knew that sound all too well. The last conscious gang member had drawn a short-barreled .38 revolver. He snapped the hammer back. Michael quickly reached for his own pistol within his shoulder holster in quick succession. The gang member barely caught the move being performed and he was staring at him the entire time. Michael’s sights quickly aimed for his defiant opponent’s skull before he could even raise his own weapon in a remotely threatening manner. With a sharp squeeze Michael discharged his weapon. The bullet tore through the chamber of the Glock and whizzed towards the gang member’s forehead.
Sharp metal ringing filled the quiet halls of the bar where the rock music once played. The large resonating echo stung into the air and left a sharp impression on those who were still conscious. The bullet ricocheted up and dug into the smoke filled ceiling. Michael instantly knew something was wrong when he didn’t see the familiar crimson dust explode through his sights. The barely conscious gang member dropped to the ground with a large gash on his forehead. Standing before him was the ever vigilant presence of the young Paladin known as Davis. He took a casual stance in front of the gang member with a shining silver staff that stood almost as tall as he was in one outstretched hand. Michael had no idea where this holy man hid or when he procured such a weapon. He’d eyed that cassock from head to toe. There was no way he’d be able to hide a staff of that size on his person and it certainly wasn’t lying around a place like this. The staff was finely crafted, almost gleaming in both magnitude and quality.
“My apologies Michael,” Davis calmly stated as he drew the staff away from its protective stance. “I know I’m not supposed to interfere in these matters but I cannot stand idly by while you attempt to take the life of another.”
He looked down on the fallen gang member flailing in pain. The staff struck him hard but not enough to completely knock him out. Much better than the alternative.
“This man may have evil residing in his heart but he can still be redeemed. As long as you are under my watch there will be no killing, guilty or otherwise. Is that clear?”
Michael did not like the sound of
that as much as he didn’t like the idea of taking orders from anyone other than Nicole Wells. Their partnership had been tolerable up to this point but Davis has seriously crossed a line. Michael stared him down with an icy gaze. The young Paladin didn’t falter or change his expression in the slightest. Thou shalt not kill may have been a religious commandment but in Michael’s experience, it was barely an afterthought.
The FBI agent holstered his weapon. There wasn’t a need to start a fight here with someone that he still relied upon. That may change when they touch down in America but for the time being, Davis would be spared Michael’s defiance. There was still the matter of information gather to attend to anyways.
The gang member continued to squeal in pain. Michael grasped his throat, lifted him off the ground, and slammed him into a nearby wall so quickly people would believe they heard thunder clapping would soon be heard in neighboring streets. The gang member winded and moaned with the iron claw-like grip attempting to seal his throat shut.
“I’m not going to ask again,” Michael stated.
His words came out slow. It was hard to sound professional in Korean after Davis had agitated his frame of mind but by the looks of the gang member’s face, the point was well taken.
“Where is Ryoo Myung-Dae?”
“I don’t know!” He pleaded.
It was useless to struggle against the FBI agent’s clasp. Not that he would actually believe it if told but some people needed to learn through more drastic means than others. Michael squeezed even tighter, hoping to impress the severity of the situation onto this goon as the flow of blood would soon cease to than tiny brain of his.
“Start talking,” Michael ordered. His words brewed with unbridled menace. “When did Ryoo join the Shining Daggers.”
“He didn’t,” the gang member countered. “Ryoo paid our gang to hide him while he was bouncing at clubs. We wanted to bring him in but he refused.”
“Why was he hiding here?”
The FBI agent scoffed signaling his growing impatience.
“I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell us anything. We kept him out of trouble and the payments kept coming. After seeing him work, the boss didn’t question it so we didn’t either.”
“Your gang sounds weak,” Michael taunted. “Why would you let Ryoo go without a fight?”
“Because he promised to help our gang expand,” he coughed. “By supplying us some new drugs.”
“Where are they?!” Michael fiercely spat.
“We never got them,” the gang member answered. “But these drugs weren’t for selling he told us. We were supposed to take them.”
That was news Michael didn’t want to here. If Ryoo Myung-Dae was peddling Agent M as a drug to gang members, there was no way to measure the amount of damage it could do. In the blink of an eye, the country would erupt into chaos. Hundreds of Ryoo clones would be canvassing the street and imposing there will. It would take Michael months to track them all down and that would be if he could shut the supply down first.
This interrogation was going nowhere. Michael wasn’t getting any useful information out of him. As much as he’d love to snap this twerp’s neck he had the proverbial angel sitting on his shoulder telling him it wasn’t allowed. The only thing that helped was the fact that word hasn’t spread of Ryoo’s death among his former comrades. Without that knowledge, Michael still may be able to intimidate this goon into spilling the beans.
“Where can I find Ryoo Myung-Dae?”
“I told you I don’t know!”
Michael pulled the gang member back and slammed him into the wall creating a skull shaped dent.
“Answer me!”
“I said I don’t – “
The gang member couldn’t formulate words let alone breathe in the FBI agent’s vice. He tried to compose himself while awaiting certain death and finally he shouted the one word, the only word in this whole mess that would save his life.
“Washington!”
That name sent spirals of confusion coursing through Michael’s mind. His grip tightened. The gang member had only a few moments to explain himself before death loomed in.
“Ryoo used to get deliveries here,” he choked. “Didn’t know what was in them but the boss saved the boxes.”
The FBI agent growled through his teeth.
“Where?!”
“Back there,” the gang member pointed. “Behind that door!”
Michael ceased his grip and dropped the beaten stooge. The gang member sucked in all of the lovely air he could while still trying to circumvent the pain of the entire experience. Freedom never felt so horrible.
As he walked through the remnants of the bar, Michael felt his anticipation grow. He hadn’t experienced this sensation since his hunt years back. If Davis saw that side of him then or even now, his opinion on the whole matter of the anti-Christ may be significantly changed and not in Michael’s favor.
The FBI agent slowly opened the back door to reveal a small office. A sole chair that appears to have survived every major World War sat in front of a cheap plastic table. There were a few scattered documents piled up next to a general ledger. The gang may have been weak physically but it kept detailed information of all of their business transactions with names, addresses and phone numbers written cleanly and legibly. Michael tossed the chair aside and began rummaging through the other scattered contents. His frustration was slowly growing but summarily silenced when he came upon a small brown box with Ryoo’s name and this address written on it. There were several stamps and custom markings decorating the box that confirmed the gang member’s statement. And this box was just the perfect size to fit a syringe and a couple of bottles of medicine that would go otherwise unnoticed to the untrained eye.
Fate has certainly spun a unique web. The one place that was desperate for Michael’s attention was exactly where this box was shipped from. Though the FBI agent didn’t believe in coincidences, at least this way he’ll be able to quell the Director while fulfilling the interests of his direct superior. Michael tore the address label off the box and headed for the door. He didn’t even shoot the gang member a passing glance as he exited.
Davis thought to ask a question of the FBI agent before he passed but quickly quashed it. He followed alongside Michael walking back through the lifeless neighborhood and back towards their vehicle parked a couple of safer blocks away.
“Did you find what you were looking for Michael?” Davis kindly asked.
The way he presented that question was as if the previous interference in the FBI agent’s work didn’t happen. Michael shot him a quick glance that was all the confirmation the young Paladin needed.
“I should probably make arrangements for travel then,” he started with a smile. “Where should I tell the pilot we’re heading?”
Michael took a deep breath masked within the aura of unpleasantness quickly surrounding him. Testament had become a great asset in this entire endeavor. Michael would never admit that Davis’ interference with saving that gang member’s life actually gave them a positive resolution. There was no way to know if any of those other thrashed goons knew anything. The young Paladin had saved Michael a lot of trouble and it seemed like despite his best efforts, they both knew it was true. The least he could do was give Davis an answer to his question that would definitely lead to more questions than answers.
“D.C.”
“The capital?” Davis questioned. “What are you hoping to find there?”
Michael shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
He thought long and hard about this next part. This particular FBI agent has rarely if ever asked for any direct help. In this case, he couldn’t find any other away around it.
“I need a favor.”
The surprised look on the young Paladin’s face was both wide and genuine. He couldn’t believe he was hearing those words. Maybe Davis has finally worn the great Michael Madison down. Maybe this FBI agent has seen the value in their relationship. An
d maybe, just maybe they were slowly becoming friends.
“It would be my pleasure,” Davis cheerfully replied. “How may I help you?”
“My gear,” he started. “It’s in the trunk of my car back in Los Angeles.”
“I will have some of our friends take care of that for you. What will they be looking for in particular?”
“Weapons. Armor. Explosives,” he responded. “I need it all.”
“I believe we can arrange that. I can have them waiting for us at the airport in Washington if that is the most convenient.”
Michael nodded. Asking for all of his gear now may seem a bit extreme but it goes with the territory. Anyone who’s supplied Ryoo Myung-Dae with Agent M obviously knows how powerful the substance is. The battle in Hesperia last year taught Michael a lot of things. One of the most important is to always have a plan in motion even if you are forced to make it up on the spot.
The fact of the matter is he had no idea what to expect. This entire trip from Vegas to now has seemed like one huge wild goose chase. The FBI agent couldn’t say for certain what they were going to face when they reach this address but he would rather be prepared then sorry. After all of the time it took to collect the pieces of gear Davis would have thought they were almost symbolic to him. The truth is they were just tools to help him get the job done. Any time he brought them out things always had way of escalating. The trail of blood he’s left over the years would seriously sour his relationship with Davis should it be forced to return now.
He really hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
March 27th, 2013 6:30AM
Washington, D.C.
Colonel Lee and his troops woke up at first sunlight and immediately continued their work from the previous night. All of the tasks assigned to them by Dr. Shin were incredibly easy although a bit laborious at times. The empty office space below was reinforced with steel grates along the walls, iron bars on the windows, and the doors torn out and replaced with a sliding metal gate. In one short afternoon the large unallocated space has been turned into a makeshift prison. Reasons for this decision were still unknown to Colonel Lee but he was a soldier, not a strategist. Following orders is what he was best at.
