Killer of Killers

by Mark M. DeRobertis

  Trent wanted to speak, but no words would come out. With increased effort, he tried again, but still nothing vocalized. Finally, with Herculean exertion, he forced it out. “Susie!”

  Trent realized he was dreaming and began to stir, but the velvety voice of Susie Q purred into his ear, “Ssshhh, it’s okay, baby, go back to sleep.”

  He didn’t. It occurred to Trent that he was flat on his back in a comfortable bed, and he was wearing no clothes. The next thing he recognized was his body in a state of sexual arousal. Not sure if he was half awake or half conscious, Trent opened his eyes to a sliver and viewed the beautiful, dark-skinned woman through his eyelashes. Sitting on top of him, trying not to put her weight onto him, the exotic dancer was also nude and had him completely inside of her while moving her pelvis in slow revolutions. He was genuinely amused and flattered to discover Susie making love to him while he was sleeping!

  Unsure of the circumstances, Trent continued to feign sleep and let Susie ride out the experience. After all, she most likely saved his life when he passed out at the club. If this was how she wanted him to repay her, he was content to cooperate. He hoped she wouldn’t notice that he was awake and enjoying it every bit as much as she.

  “Mmmmhhh,” she moaned as her hips danced a rhythm above him. Her knees, straddling his waist, braced most of her weight, and her arms, anchored astride his head, suspended full breasts mere inches from his face.

  “Mmmmhhh...” The movements quickened and then slowed, and she tensed for an approaching climax. Finally, she increased the pressure and, “Oh! Oh!” made it happen. The impassioned woman preserved the position for a few more seconds, and then concluded the act with “Oh, Jesus.”

  Easing from the bed, the ebon beauty slipped into a pink baby-doll nightie and sat at her dressing table to look in the mirror. Trent watched through the corner of his eye as she brushed her thick flowing locks.

  The doorbell sounded. Susie threw on a bathrobe and walked out of the bedroom. Shutting the door behind her was Trent’s cue to look around. He sat up, but a swell of vertigo reminded him to move slowly. Now lucid and alert, he wondered just how long was he out. Weakened muscles suggested it surpassed a good night’s sleep. Was it a full day? Perhaps even two?

  Glances over both of his shoulders revealed a typical woman’s bedroom, well decorated, with pink walls trimmed in white. The furniture appeared new and overtly luxurious. Trent looked through the window and learned he was on a high level floor, and the morning sunlight was only now silhouetting the New York skyline. The clock on the nightstand had yet to strike six.

  In front of Susie’s vanity mirror, Trent studied his image. There were two bandages on his face, one on the bridge of his nose, and one on his forehead. Removing them exposed healing lacerations, but it was nothing that concerned him. Something else occupied his mind—the awkward feeling of being naked in an unfamiliar bedroom.

  Trent began a search for his clothes, but loud voices diverted his quest, and he cracked open the door to see what was happening. At the end of the hall, there was another woman berating Susie with a litany of foul words.

  “You lying bitch!” the visiting woman shrieked.

  Trent made her out to be a variation of Hispanic. Her cropped hair was topped in a pompadour, and the sleeves of her shirt, rolled up to her shoulders, propped a pack of cigarettes on one side. She was stocky and short, and not at all feminine, either in her appearance or in the way she moved. In fact, she swaggered like the men he fought in Japan.

  “Leave me alone,” Susie inveighed. “I had to help him.”

  Trent commandeered a towel from the master bathroom, wrapped it around his waist, and slinked through the hallway for a better look. He was glad he did, because the angry woman grabbed the collar of Susie’s bathrobe and landed a punch square on her mouth.

  The resounding splat convinced Trent he’d seen enough. From behind, he snared the hostile woman by the neck with a single hand and lifted her off the floor. His grip blocked the external carotid arteries and jugular veins, allowing her mere seconds of awareness. She tried to pry his fingers but to no avail. Holding her aloft, Trent walked to the couch on the other side of the room. By the time he reached it, she was a rag doll.

  Trent laid her on the cushions and then turned to Susie. She was sitting on the carpet next to the china cabinet with both of her hands tending a split lower lip. “What was that all about?” he asked.

  “You,” she said.

  Trent knelt beside her. “Me? What’s her problem?” He reached out and pulled her gently to his chest.

  Susie rested her head and replied, “She doesn’t like you.”

  Trent responded, “No kidding.” It was apparent the two women were involved in a lesbian relationship. With a man in Susie’s bedroom and the sexual scent still fresh, Susie’s friend proved to be a very jealous woman. But Trent decided that he really couldn’t blame her. Susie’s exceptional beauty was something any lover might covet.

  “She thinks she owns me,” Susie continued. “Her name’s Connie, and, well, we’ve been together for a couple years now.”

  “A couple years?”

  “Well, yeah. I been with mens, but they always try to boss me around like they own me, so when I met Connie, I thought I’d try something different.” She lowered her chin and added, “But no one ever hit me before.”

  “And no one will ever hit you again,” Trent assured her. “Not while I’m around, at least. And that’s something I can promise.”

  While they embraced, Trent took in his surroundings. Susie’s apartment was high-end extravagant. The walls were painted a lighter shade of pink than her bedroom but had the same white trim, matching a pearl shag carpet. A wet bar adjoined the dining room, which showcased a picture window dressed in sparkling white curtains. Distant sounds of the waking city were barely audible.

  Once on their feet again, Trent’s weakened physique reminded him it was running on low-energy and an empty stomach. “How long have I been here?”

  “This is the second day, baby, but don’t worry, I took good care of you.”

  “I know you did.” He wanted to wink, but refrained.

  Before Trent could say another word, the front door swung inward, and three men wearing gray sports coats filed into the room. Each one of them, formidably muscled, stood well over six feet. Two were fair-skinned, and the third was brown. Trent faced the intruders, instinctively putting Susie behind him, but found himself wishing he wore more than a bath towel.

  “Are you Trent Smith?” the tallest one asked while pointing at Trent.

  Trent noticed a black onyx ring on the man’s middle finger, inlet with a golden design of a sideways figure eight. “Yeah, so what?” he sneered. He felt Susie squeeze his arm as if in warning to be careful with these men.

  “You have an appointment with Mr. Soriah,” the same man advised. “You don’t want to be late.”

  Trent furrowed his brow. “Mr. who?”

  “That’s my boss,” Susie said. “You don’t want to be late.”

  “What does he want with me?” Trent looked into the eyes of each man. They retained their cold expressions, and even Susie didn’t answer. None of them seemed willing to talk. Maybe nobody knew.

  Trent edged his eyes to Susie. “Do you know these guys?”

  “Well, I don’t know them personally, but I know who they are.” She seemed to choose her words carefully. “They work for the same man I do.”

  “You mean Abraham Soriah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How is it you work for Soriah?”

  Susie looked at Trent like he should have known already. “He owns the Flip Flop Club along with about half of Manhattan...”

  Trent understood. Although he was loath to meek compliance, the prospect of fighting three muscle-bound titans butt-naked didn’t appeal to him. He preferred a diplomatic approach. “So what’s he like?”

  Susie shrugged. “He’s all right.”

  “What do
you mean ‘all right’?”

  “Well, if you play your cards right, he’s all right.”

  Trent thought about it and then asked his last question. “And what if you happen to play the wrong card?”

  “Just don’t.”

  As Trent considered his options, the woman on the sofa began to stir. “Oooohhhh,” she groaned.

  The man with the ring, who seemed to be in charge, turned to her and blustered, “You, shut up!”

  Just as the woman named Connie opened her eyes, the ringed man yanked her off the sofa and dragged her toward the door. “Go fuck yourself, you goddamn bull-dyke!” The words accompanied a two-handed toss through the corridor, where she slammed against the opposite wall and limped away.

  Trent glared at the man. “You’re pretty tough, aren’t you?”

  “Tough enough to handle the likes of you,” he sneered.

  “Are you sure? I’m not a sleeping woman.”

  “Look,” the ringed man snarled, “it’s like I said. You have an appointment with Mr. Soriah. Are you ready or not?”

  “Do you mind if I clean up and get dressed first?”

  The man nodded. “Mr. Soriah would prefer that, so make it quick.”

  Trent turned to Susie for the whereabouts of his clothes.

  “They’re in my closet, baby, I cleaned them for you.”

  Trent found his clothes where Susie said they were, put them on, and returned to the living room. As Soriah’s men led him down the corridor, he asked, “Can we get something to eat on the way?”

  * * * *

  The clatter of fading footsteps convinced Susie that the next few hours were hers alone. She leaned into her sofa and considered the consequence of her recent decisions. Abruptly, the pain in her lip interrupted her reflection. She touched the injured membrane and looked at the blood on her finger. Then up she sprang on the way to her room. She knew what she had to do.

  Chapter Five

  Beholden to No One

  Trent found himself in the highest levels of Manhattan’s tallest building—the world famous Soriah Skyway. His three lofty ushers had left him inside a spacious and lavishly decorated office, which seemed fit for a king. Trent sat by himself on a black leather sofa, but he wasn’t alone in the marble-floored room. Two tall black men wearing black suits and ties stood straight and motionless astride a large resplendent desk. Both were about six feet, six inches tall, and kept their hands clasped in front of their respective belts. Each man stared unblinking and straight, making Trent think they were looking at something behind him. Whenever he turned around to see what that might be, however, he couldn’t determine anything that would hold their eyes so effectively.

  After several minutes with the frozen sentinels, Trent thought he would break the ice. “So, how’re you guys doing?”

  Neither man reacted. Trent couldn’t even tell if they were breathing. Nevertheless, he had no doubt that if he were to try something impermissible, their response would be instantaneous. For now, he would bear it because, if for no other reason, he was curious as to why the reclusive billionaire would make such an extensive effort to meet him.

  Rather than attempting another dialogue with the black-suited black men, Trent observed his surroundings and noted several references to athletics. Trophies and plaques representing many different sports adorned the walls. Among the awards were those honoring baseball, football, tennis, and boxing. A section dedicated to basketball dominated the exhibit. Framed photos and prints featured several well-known personalities of competition. Some of them contained the image of a tall and square-jawed older man, standing beside or shaking hands with whichever athlete happened to be the star of the day.

  Was that Abraham Soriah? The aged and wrinkled face reminded Trent of his Japanese mentor, and the many wall mounts instilled the memory of his first visit to the shihan’s home.

  Trent was but a teenager, and the academy’s master gestured to the single plaque upon his own lacquered wall. It depicted the four cardinal directions, and its center displayed red Japanese characters pasted on a field of black.

  Shoji explained the meaning: “The North point shows the first way to view the world in which we live. It represents honor, integrity, and strong character. Always embrace wisdom and humility.

  “The East point is the second way. Just as the sun rises in the east, consider it enlightenment. Keep your mind clear and open, so that you may accept new ideas and new concepts.

  “The South point is the third way. Trust the art and trust your intuition. Make use of experience to identify truth and to achieve rational thought. As a martial artist you must never forget that mastery over form is not your ultimate goal. It is the individual interpretation of form that reveals your inner self.

  “And the West, the fourth way, represents introspection. Accept what you see when you confront yourself. Recognize your flaws and your boundaries as a human being. Acknowledge and value your mortality.

  “It is not a style, but an attitude we all must nurture and personify, not only as a martial artist, but as an offspring of this world we share.”

  * * * *

  In a room directly beneath the opulent office, a sophisticated computer scheme built into the wall evidenced rare technology and covert purpose. Abraham Soriah stood in front of it, and he scrutinized the view screen. Beside him sat his right hand man, Charles Morgan, and he also scrutinized the screen, which displayed a grid superimposed over a close-up of Trent Smith’s face. A moving cursor highlighted Smith’s facial features, and with a clicking mouse, Charles commanded the input of data.

  Next, the monitor zoomed into an image of Trent Smith’s hand. Within seconds, he happened to grip the glassy smooth front portion of the armrest, and Abraham blurted, “Now!”

  Electronic scanners transferred the fingerprints into the computer’s hard drive, and the text Download Complete flashed over the screen. Satisfied, Abraham said, “Well done, Charles.” He turned around and walked to a darker part of the room, where he lowered himself into a cushioned and high-backed chair. “It’s time I met this most interesting person. You know what to do.”

  * * * *

  Waiting in Soriah’s office was becoming a problem for Trent. Being idle was not to his liking, and being bored was infinitely worse, as the prints and exhibits were no longer interesting. Returning his gaze to the desk, it occurred to him there was no chair behind it. He fantasized a trap door sliding open, and then rising up would be the head honcho atop some kind of electronic lift.

  Trent smiled with that image in mind. Seconds later, an electronic buzz snapped him from the daydream. To his amazement, an elderly man rose into view, sitting in a black chair atop an electronic lift. He reclined, passively examining Trent as if he had been there the entire time.

  “You gotta be kidding me,” Trent muttered under his breath. It seemed like, whether in a dream or in a flight of the imagination, everything suddenly became real in this world of Abraham Soriah’s.

  The man’s face was long and thin, and his pale skin wrinkled ear-to-ear. White hair, still full atop his head, was combed back and well coifed. Cold, gray eyes, set deeply beneath snow-white eyebrows, were laser sharp. He was clean-shaven, and the jaw that looked strong in the wall-mounted photos had withered into a crooked and weak attachment to his face.

  The old man spoke first. “You are Trent Smith?”

  “Yes, and you are Abraham Soriah?”

  “Yes, have you heard of me?”

  “Everyone’s heard of you,” Trent acknowledged, “although I’m at a loss as to how you’ve heard of me.”

  “Well, to be honest, Mr. Smith, I have only heard of you recently. But I must say, what I have heard has been very impressive. Yes, very impressive, indeed.” Soriah seemed to be waiting for some kind of response, but after several silent moments, he asked, “Aren’t you curious as to why someone like me is so impressed with someone like you?”

  “Okay, why?”

  “Because you have ki
lled three men in the last two weeks,” Soriah gushed with a wry smile. “And all three with your bare hands. Isn’t that true?”

  “You find that impressive?”

  “Well, considering that all three of these men were themselves killers, I think it’s impressive.”

  “I’m not admitting to killing anyone.”

  “Come now, Mr. Smith, you don’t have to be coy with me. I’m not the police. Believe me, if I had anything to do with the police, anything at all, you would be behind bars right now, but you’re not.”

  “Look, Mr. Soriah, maybe I’m slow, but I still don’t get where the ‘impressive’ part comes in.”

  Soriah leaned forward. “Benjamin Stiles was six feet, four, and three hundred and twenty pounds. Jeremiah Flint was six, three, and two forty. Topu Tacau was six, six, and three hundred and fifty pounds.” He calmly raised an eyebrow. “And you... Five, nine, one ninety?”

  “One ninety-five,” Trent said. “So who says I killed them?”

  “Mr. Smith, please, I told you already, I have nothing to do with the police. You can trust me.”

  “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “Because I am a man who can cut his losses, you see. Three men have been snuffed out, but we will move on.”

  Trent studied his host. “So what were they to you?”

  “Well, they all worked for me in one way or another. But it’s okay. All I want to know is who do you work for?”

  Trent scowled. “I don’t work for anyone.”

  “You don’t say.” Soriah’s gaze intensified. “There’s no one paying you to be an assassin?” he asked. “There’s no secret organization that’s awarded you a license to kill?”

  “I don’t need a license to kill.”

  Soriah chuckled and put his hands together, but jutted an index finger toward Trent. “I like you, Mr. Smith. I hope you realize that’s a good thing. However, I still must ask you... Why do you kill people you never knew?”

  “If I killed them,” Trent snarled, “it’s because they deserved it.”

  “You mean to tell me that you decided they deserved to die?” Soriah paused and then added, “Who are you to decide who deserves to die?”