Killer of Killers

by Mark M. DeRobertis

  Trent whirled around and saw a man amongst a row of cars, a short distance away, very tall, and dressed in a dark suit and tie. The lighting was insufficient, but he appeared to be a black man with an athletic build proportionate to his extreme height. Trent squared off with the elevated suit. “What are you,” he asked, “another Soriah Special?”

  “Doesn’t matter what I am,” the stranger remarked. “What does matter is that you leave the senator alone.”

  “Who says I won’t?”

  Saying nothing more, the tall man turned and walked away. He passed the next row of cars and entered a limousine, which slowly drove off in the opposite direction.

  Trent wasn’t intimidated. He had found the old adage to be true—the bigger they are, the harder they fall. Even so, he preferred not coming to blows with this individual. There was a noble presence about him. Nevertheless, a fight seemed inevitable, and Trent guessed it would be very soon. He had no intention of leaving the senator alone.

  * * * *

  Two days later, motor vehicles chugged along the streets of downtown St. Paul, and the sidewalks pulsed with countless pedestrians. It was early in the evening, and Minnesota’s capital city enjoyed pleasant summer weather. Trent had arrived the day before, and Buddy Robinson, the state senator, was paramount in his mind. He had long ago cataloged the womanizer’s tendencies, and was well aware of his daily routine.

  Trent decided the best time to bring justice to the sixty-year-old murderer was when he called on his prostitutes. There were three of them. Each went about her business in her own high-rise apartment in the downtown area. Two bodyguards accompanied him at all times, but they had to wait outside the residence of whichever lady he happened to visit.

  It was Wednesday, so Trent knew today’s tart would be the redheaded beauty Sophia in her twenty-story apartment building. Every hump day she had the honor of servicing the statesman. This week was no exception, and Trent made up his mind to crash that party.

  Despite the focus on his self-imposed mission, something else brewed in Trent’s head. It was the tall man’s warning, which he couldn’t stop thinking about since the night of the concert: ‘Leave the senator alone.’

  Why did Soriah send a messenger? Why didn’t he send assassins instead? Could Samantha have been wrong about him? Was he really the evil man she made him out to be? Why was it okay to kill the rocker but not the state senator? Did Soriah need him for some kind of legal arrangement? Obviously, Eternity had something to do with it, otherwise, Soriah wouldn’t be looking out for him regardless of his political position.

  Warning or not, nothing was going to stop Trent from teaching the law-breaking lawmaker what happens to those who brutally murder the innocent. Four women were bludgeoned to death that day years ago. Who looked out for them? They were gone now, but justice was not forgotten. Justice would never be forgotten as far as Trent was concerned.

  The lobby of the upscale apartment building fluttered with people, but Trent sat alone with a newspaper in front of his face. While reading about the latest overdose of another reckless rock star, he propped his sneakered feet on top of the adjacent coffee table.

  It was dusk, and Trent knew the senator and his pair of protectors would come strolling through the lobby any time. He was also aware the senator used the elevator reserved for VIPs. It was located on the reverse side of the central shaft. When he arrived, Trent planned on preceding him to the prostitute’s floor and killing him there after dispatching his companions.

  “You’re taking a big risk,” a feminine voice said from behind.

  Trent turned around. A strikingly beautiful blond woman was standing within arm’s reach, smiling at him. It wasn’t Detective Jones. She had returned to California long before. Trent figured this was a resident of the building, and he wondered if she was yet another woman using the miracle drug based on her perfect complexion and voluptuous curves. “So who are you?” he asked.

  “I’m Carla,” the woman replied.

  “Okay, Carla, suppose you tell me why I’m taking a big risk?”

  “Because I happen to know why you’re here.” She raised her gaze to the ceiling while adding, “And so do a lot of other people.”

  “Really. So what are you and all these other people going to do about it?”

  “I would like to ask you exactly what are you going to do about it?” Her blue eyes sparkled and, coupled with that smile, exuded a charm that reminded Trent of Samantha.

  “That depends on whether you’re here to help me or to stop me,” Trent responded. “Which is it?”

  A pause in the conversation allowed for a moment of mutual admiration, and Trent decided Carla was quite a looker. She wore a short skirt of pink and a matching low-cut top.

  The smile on Carla’s face devolved to a smirk. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of stopping someone as hot as you,” she answered. “In fact, you’re someone I would keep on doing all night.”

  Carla winked at Trent and then walked in front of his sofa. She sat in the seat opposite him. Crossing her legs, she maintained eye contact and continued. “So what do you say? Wouldn’t you like to be with me right now? I promise you the time of your life. No charge, even.”

  Trent re-examined the woman and marveled at the excellence of her face and figure. Long golden hair curled about her shoulders and rested over a tanned bosom. It was an enticing image, but Trent moved his gaze from hers and peered through the glass of the lobby. A limousine was parked at the curb. Two tall, muscular men exited the rear door and took their places on either side of it. Then Buddy Robinson emerged, and the three of them walked toward the entrance to the building. Not surprisingly, Robinson was even taller than his bodyguards, and despite his age, he sported a notably fit physique.

  Trent rose from his seat and eyed again the yellow-haired beauty. “It’s been nice talking to you,” he said. “But I have to go now.”

  He strolled into the elevator, pressed button number twenty, and relaxed against the rail. While waiting out the ascent, Trent thought about the senator’s dual bodyguards and hoped he wouldn’t have to kill them. He observed the flashing numbers over the doors—15, 16, 17—at 18 the cab’s transit slowed to a stop. But it wasn’t the twentieth floor.

  * * * *

  It was the nineteenth floor, and outside the elevator shaft, three hulking well-dressed men stood at the ready. The man in the middle was the fair-haired titan whose onyx ring featured the inset of an eternity symbol molded in gold. The two men astride him were Asian professionals he hired from outside Soriah’s organization. Paid to inflict pain, their cruel expressions, bulging muscles, and tightened fists suggested they were eager to begin.

  * * * *

  The elevator sounded ding, and the doors slid apart. Wedged in the front corner, Trent discerned three men reflected on the elevator’s back wall and waited for them to move forward. When they did, Trent recognized the blond man and with blurring speed delivered a roundhouse finger strike deep into his throat. The well-aimed strike shattered his hyoid bone and also burst the larynx and trachea. He fell back, writhing in pain, with both of his hands clenched over his neck. Instantly, the two others jumped into the cubicle. They stood together and stared at Trent, even as the sliding doors sealed behind them.

  The man on the right struck first with rapid blows to Trent’s head. It was Tae Kwon Do, and Trent had no time to mount a defense. To make matters worse, the confined space hindered his ability to counter the attack. The other man darted his arm forward and clamped the levator scapulae muscles on the left side of Trent’s neck. The man used his other hand to throw punches into Trent’s midsection. Trent parried most of the blows, but several connected, and each time they did, crooked smiles on the Asian fighters divulged a perverted pleasure of inflicting pain.

  The elevator stopped at the twentieth floor where parting doors revealed two senior couples staring in disbelief. One of the women remarked, “Honestly, in my day you would take that outside.”

  As the
cab descended, hard-driving punches flew unabated, and unyielding fingers still clamped the nerves at the base of Trent’s neck. He spun around, dropping to a squat, and wrenched himself free. Before his assailants could resume their barrage, he delivered a double strike to the nearer body, targeting the lumbar nerves above the hipbone. The recipient winced in pain and collapsed with both of his legs temporarily useless.

  The other man planked on Trent’s back and worked a chokehold around his head. Hunched over, Trent struggled to keep the pressure off his jugular veins and maintain an unblocked airway. Although he was an expert at Senriyu Tomoe—striking nerves to escape chokes—the awkward position compromised any possible retaliation.

  The doors sprang open again, and this time Trent glimpsed a group of young men who were about to enter. Instead, they shifted into quick reverse. As they gawked, Trent struggled upright, raising his foe at the same time. In response, the Asian fighter jerked an increase in pressure. One of the astonished onlookers asked, “Why are you guys fighting in the elevator?”

  His question drew a poke from his friend who said, “Shit dude, when’s the last time you took the stairs?”

  Just as the doors bounded shut, Trent attempted to slam his assailant against the wall, but the man tucked his head and took the impact on his shoulder. Another attempt to dislodge him saw the same result—a steel grip held fast until the floored man stuck his arm out and tripped them. In mid-fall, Trent bashed the strangler’s head into the aluminum paneling with such force it tore him from his back and split a three-foot rift in the wall. Damaged circuits erupted in a dazzling shower of sparks and plumes of billowing smoke.

  Coughing and gasping for air, Trent had barely regained his feet when the Asian fighters resumed their assault. The doors yawned again, and through swinging fists, brilliant sparklers, and swirling fumes, Trent saw an elderly Chinese couple agape in amazement. As the doors snapped shut, the woman turned to her husband and remarked, “Good God, they’re Koreans.”

  The smoky pall forced shallow breaths. Trent was pinched between one man’s chest and the other man’s shoulder, and the frantic scuffle increased the entanglement. Again buffeted with punches, he knew the entrapment meant his imminent doom. With both legs, he kicked off the back wall and launched the tangled bodies into the clamped doors. Bounced onto the floor, Trent still couldn’t extricate himself from the writhing mass, which now pinned his face beneath a sweating ear. Biting not a part of his repertoire, he focused instead on freeing an arm from the interlocked extremities. Once accomplished, he dug his fingers deep into the stylohyoid muscle under the jaw next to his own. Twisting them into the mandibular nerve forced his opponent to release him, and when the man shifted his weight to escape the attack, Trent leaped free.

  Again upright, he turned his head but couldn’t see beyond the smothering smoke. By the fireworks past his assailants, Trent gauged his position and found the controls, but multiple raps changed nothing. The cab seemed to be moving through the shaft with a life of its own.

  Conscious of the next attack, Trent spun around just as a powerhouse approached. He ducked under the blow, and the follow through pounded the man closing from the opposite side.

  The punched man was down, and the other, a dark shape in the haze. Trent recognized his opportunity, and he took advantage of it by launching a series of strikes to the shadowy head. But the Asian fighter proved to be just as agile and equally shrewd. He used his own skill to prevent himself from being an easy target. Despite numerous connections, none of Trent’s blows hit the necessary nerves to put him out for good.

  To regain the offensive, the man bulled forward just as his ally attacked, and both fighters impacted Trent simultaneously. At that moment, the doors slid open, and in a spewing of smoke, they plowed through another group of residents, knocking them all to the floor. Before the doors conjoined, Trent exerted a one hundred, eighty degree turn but couldn’t dislodge his aggressors. Instead, their continued push slammed them back into the elevator, which, upon closing, trapped them inside once again.

  With an elbow strike, Trent ousted the one on his right, but the other pinned his arms from behind. The dislodged fighter swiped the fumes for a better view and unleashed a barrage of blows to Trent’s head. Trent rolled with the punches, and the slugger must have realized his roundhouses were taking no toll, because he wound his fist for a pile-driving straight punch. Trent sensed it coming and jerked his head to the side, and a second time the puncher struck his cohort, knocking him back to the cloud-covered floor.

  Visibility was near zero. The swirls were thick blankets over Trent’s eyes, and he used the handicap to his advantage. The upright man was swinging blindly through the mist, and Trent perceived the hectic motion. He flanked him and waited for the first sign of a target. A shift in the smoke revealed a leg, and Trent shot a side-kick to the knee, tearing the medial collateral ligaments. The man screamed in agony but did not fall. He swooped over and grabbed his damaged leg, but in doing so, he moved enough smoke to allow Trent a view of his lowered head. Here was an opening to fire a fatal blow to the ariculo-temporal nerve. Just as he delivered the strike, the man’s partner sprang through the haze and pinned Trent to the wall.

  Trent switched his focus to the aggressor who wrapped him in yet another chokehold. This time the grip effectively blocked both his airway and his arteries. Only moments remained before death would result. Escape had to be now. The strangler’s arms were committed above Trent’s shoulders, exposing the nerves in his lower torso. Trent fired a double-strike to his sides, impacting the lumbar plexus nerves under the rib cage.

  The blow forced a release of the stranglehold, and the man slithered into the elevator’s rear corner. Trent coughed incessantly and settled himself on the opposite end. It was a race in time. Which one of them would recover first and press the advantage? Peering through gaps in the murky vortex, Trent locked eyes with his foe and knew they were thinking the same.

  Suddenly, the black-suited fighter sprang forward but tripped over his smog-hidden ally. Trent jumped high enough to clear the diving man, spun a mid-air one eighty, and drove his knees into the man’s kidneys as he bellied the floor. Instantly, Trent applied a stranglehold of his own. With every ounce of strength, he increased the pressure of a triangle choker, knowing his enemy had no leverage with which to escape. He knew, also, that in a few more seconds the Hadaka Sankaku would end the fight forever.

  But few as they were, the seconds were slow. The floored fighter thrashed about, his contorted face purpled from the strain and blocked circulation. He opened his mouth in one last soundless gasp, and his body fell limp.

  Trent didn’t let up. He locked the hold until he was sure. Finally, he let go and stood up. He nudged the man with his foot and knew he was dead. He nudged the other. His earlier strike had been true.

  The struggle was over. Trent stretched his back and reached high with both of his arms. He bent his head to the right and then to the left. The sizzling fissure spent its final sparks, but its dying breath still fumed, and the bodies lay hidden within a thick and swirling cloud. Trent raised his hand inches from his face. There was nothing but incandesced white interrupted by gray. He turned, stretched his arm through the mist, and bulls-eyed the button he knew to be 20. Justice awaited. It was time she was served.

  * * * *

  Still seated in the lobby, the pink-skirted Carla anticipated the events she believed would result in the handsome stranger’s demise. She crossed her arms and looked on as several residents entered the lobby by way of the staircase. Some looked flustered, and women fixed their hair as they walked. Others smoothed out rumples or brushed a smoky tang from their clothes. All were talking about the fight in the elevator.

  “That poor man being picked on by those Chinese brutes,” the senior woman said. She received an icy stare from her Asian counterpart.

  “They were Koreans,” the Asian woman jeered.

  One of the younger men proclaimed, “We all got bowled ove
r. Dude, they scored a strike on us!”

  Another youth gushed, “Did anyone else see the big dead guy on the nineteenth floor?”

  Pressed to uncertainty, Carla leaned forward and poked her cell phone. She held it to her ear. The unanswered call convinced her to whom the youth referred. She sprang to her feet, poked more buttons, and returned the phone to the side of her head.

  * * * *

  On the twentieth floor, the prostitute’s apartment was the end unit down the hall and around two corners from the main shaft. The VIP lift shared the hall with the entrance to her pad. One of the two men outside it reacted to the chimes sounding from within his coat. His name was Alejandro—a dark-haired Cuban hired by the senator—and like Ricardo, his Puerto Rican counterpart, he trained his eyes on the corridor beyond.

  “Yes, it’s Alejandro,” he said in a light Spanish accent. “No, everything’s cool up here.” He listened for a few more seconds and responded again, “The elevator? No. Nothing. Nobody.” He lowered the phone and leaned his head to inspect the corridor. He strained to look past the lift through which his boss had arrived. The other shaft was not in view.

  Putting the phone to his mouth, Alejandro said, “I’ll check it out,” and then he thrust it back into his coat. When he extracted his hand, it held a Beretta 418. Turning to Ricardo, he said, “Vamos a chequear el elevador. Necesitamos encontrar el hombre con camisa negra.”

  Ricardo drew his own weapon—a Walther PPK. Alejandro led the way down the corridor, not quite knowing what to expect. How could an assassin have made it past the men on the nineteenth floor?

  At the corner, they stopped. Alejandro wasn’t eager to step out and expose himself to the connecting corridor, and clearly, neither was Ricardo. Alejandro put his back to the wall and peeked around the bend. There was nothing. He signaled Ricardo. They made the same trek down the next corridor and repeated the maneuver. It was another empty passageway, but the elevator was now in view, and they ventured forth. Facing the shaft, they witnessed the 20th dial ignite. They pointed their weapons and braced for a target.