Killer of Killers

by Mark M. DeRobertis

  Ding.

  The doors swooshed apart, but a wall of smoke was all they saw. Nothing, not even a puff obtruded. They traded glances, and Alejandro was unsure what to do next. He gestured for Ricardo to move first. With gun in hand, Ricardo inched toward the mist, inserted an arm, and waved it sideways. Suddenly, off the floor he flew, and into the mist he disappeared.

  Alejandro was about to fire, but the doors bounded shut. He reached out, pressed the button, and backed away. The doors spread wide. He leveled his Beretta, but still there was only thick, perplexing smoke, and he discerned no movement. “Ricardo!” he shouted. “Ricardo, donde estas?”

  There was no answer—only a creepy silence. Unwilling to step near the mist, Alejandro remained transfixed, ready to shoot.

  In the haze, something began to form. Upright and threatening, it was only a shadow, but it swelled. Fearing for his life, Alejandro pulled the trigger, firing once, twice, three shots point blank. Confident his bullets found the heart of the specter, he held his position. As the rigid shape emerged from the cloud, it became recognizable. It was Ricardo.

  “Ricardo,” he muttered. “No!” Alejandro caught the falling body against his chest, but the dead weight forced him to his knees.

  * * * *

  Trent leaped from the cubicle, swiped the bodyguard’s pistol out of his hand, and followed with an instantaneous chop to the great auricular nerve under the jawbone. The man collapsed with his partner sprawled beside him.

  Trent viewed the two men prone at his feet. They were deathly still. He touched their necks, one after the other. Both had succumbed.

  A deep breath cleared Trent’s lungs and renewed his vigor. He dragged the bodies, one at a time, and plopped them into the elevator, which he put on hold. It was time he delivered justice to the man needing it the most.

  When Trent reached the door of his objective, he stopped and faced it squarely. He wasn’t sure if he should knock politely or bust it down with a powerful kick. Just as he decided on the powerful kick, he detected movement from inside. He paused to listen and heard footsteps headed his way. The murdering lawman was coming to him!

  The lock disengaged, the dead bolt released, and when the door opened, there stood the tall senator. His eyes bulged, and with his hands on his hips, he asked, “What is this, some kind of joke?”

  “No joke.”

  “Then who are you?”

  “A disgruntled voter,” Trent sneered.

  Before Robinson could utter another word, Trent shot the heel of his hand through the bridge of his nose, cramming the cartilage of the septum into the frontal lobe of his brain. The resulting hemorrhage of the anterior cerebral artery took the senator’s life within moments. He stiffened, teetered backward, and fell with a thump to the carpeted floor.

  A woman called out from the bedroom, “Buddy, what’s the matter?” She cracked the door open, glanced at Robinson’s unmoving body, and then stared at Trent. Trent stared back. With a huff, she slammed the door.

  Trent examined the senator’s corpse. He saw the impression of a circular medallion through the taught shirt. His mission accomplished, he sauntered back to the elevator, leaving a smoky trail the length of the corridor.

  * * * *

  On the first floor, Carla was waiting for a call, but her cell phone didn’t ring. She crossed the lobby to the elevator and observed the luminous numbers denoting its descent. It was him. The stranger had prevailed, she was sure. Though apprehensive, she felt a surge of exhilaration at the same time. Did he really kill all those men? Goose bumps covered her body. Her pulse raced faster and faster.

  The shaft sounded, ding, and the doors slid apart. All Carla could see was a flat plane of smoke. She frowned, unable to decipher the contents of the cab. Then the smoke moved outward, and the man she met in the lobby appeared. Opaque vapors billowed from his crumpled clothes, and the ceiling’s artificial luminescence morphed his form into a ghostly shadow. She could only voice a high-pitched gasp.

  The man stopped within inches of Carla’s face, and a second time they settled into mutual stares. Enthralled, she couldn’t avert her eyes. She could only wonder what kind of man was this standing before her. His gaze moved from hers. Saying nothing, he passed her, and she watched him vanish past the lobby’s central doors.

  Carla turned back to the gaping elevator. The cloud of smoke had thinned, revealing a gruesome scene in its interior. She widened her eyes and gasped again. The bold assassin had stacked it with all five bodies of the men who were supposed to have stopped him.

  * * * *

  Marching up the St. Paul boulevard, Trent looked more like a walking chimney, he was sure, than a time-strapped pedestrian. Heads turned and fingers pointed, but he ignored the peripheral fuss. He fixed his gaze ahead and never bothered looking back.

  Chapter Ten

  Honor, Solace, and Ancient Sparta

  The Transamerica building loomed before Trent more impressive in person than on television or in the photos he saw while living in Japan. He had never been inside of it, but that was about to change. He allowed his gaze to scale the tremendous obelisk and pondered the meeting he was supposed to attend minutes from now. It crossed his mind to keep walking and forget this Manoukian character, but he told Samantha he would meet her friend, so he resigned himself to do just that.

  Trent entered the lobby, and there to greet him were the statuesque siblings, Samantha and Joshua Jones. Somehow, Samantha seemed more beautiful than ever. Her face glowed with excitement. She wore a loose-fitting summer dress, light orange, and hemmed at mid knee. “Trent, I’m so glad you came,” she said. A vigorous hug supported the claim.

  Trent hugged her in return but requited her warmth to a lesser degree. He trained his eyes on her brother. Josh, in turn, trained his eyes on Trent. The towering athlete exhibited no sentiment but was sufficiently courteous to not interrupt. Trent said, “Hello.”

  Josh replied, “Glad you made it.” He offered his hand.

  Trent and Josh reenacted their Oakland handshake, this time without comments. Josh’s eyes seemed strange to Trent. They looked demeaning and self-serving. Something was amiss.

  An elevator carried them skyward. At first the ride was smooth for Trent, but as the seconds passed, it triggered a flashback of his clash in St. Paul. He knew the images of pounding fists and clamping chokeholds weren’t real, still his pulse quickened, and sweat dripped from his brow. His breathing turned shallow, and the cab’s movement almost unbearable. To prevent the weight of imagined assailants pressing him downward, he latched onto the rail.

  Samantha crumpled her brow and asked, “Trent, are you all right?”

  Reined in by the soothing voice, Trent replied, “Yeah, I’m okay,” but he wasn’t so sure. Nothing like that ever happened before, and the experience was quite disconcerting. He preferred to dismiss it, but the moment the elevator opened, he darted out first and into a spacious hall where women sat at desks, working with computers or talking on telephones. Some looked up and greeted the siblings, and others acknowledged them with good natured smiles.

  Trent followed his fair-haired escorts into an adjacent room occupied by a single secretary sitting at a cherry-wood desk. The woman had her dark hair tied into a bun and wore thick-rimmed eyeglasses. Trent noted she was darker complexioned than the ladies in the prior room, yet he couldn’t place her ethnicity. She looked up and said, “Mr. Manoukian will see you right away.”

  The words were soft and spoken with an accent, which, again, Trent couldn’t identify. She gestured to the double doors beside her, and they opened automatically. Trent knew his immediate future would depend on what he learned in the next few minutes. It was a pivotal moment for him.

  Alongside Samantha and Josh, Trent stepped into a lavish office, where a balding man rose from a large desk, blathering, “Samantha, Josh, come in, come in.” In turn, he hugged Samantha, shook hands with Josh, and then extended a hand toward Trent. “So you are the mysterious Trent Smith. I have be
en looking forward to meeting you.”

  Trent noted that this man also had an unfamiliar accent. And his eyes seemed oddly devious. Nevertheless, he shook his hand and replied, “And you are the wonderful Karl Manoukian, savior of the universe.”

  “Is that how Samantha described me?” Manoukian directed a smile to Samantha, as if elated her reference could be so construed. “Mr. Smith, we must talk, and I’m very glad you came. Please, everyone, have a seat, be comfortable.” He gestured to a sofa near the desk.

  Trent eyed the sofa with skepticism. He remembered the one in New York. Manoukian’s was rounded and broke into chairs as it stretched the length of the room. Like Soriah’s, it was upholstered in black leather, but Trent detected no surrounding seam in the black-tiled floor.

  Josh and Samantha settled into the chairs, leaving one vacant on the end. Trent sat there. Karl Manoukian returned to his own plush seat behind the desk. “Mr. Smith,” he began, “I know you have no desire to be employed by me or anyone else. Samantha has made that very clear. However, she did indicate you would be willing to hear me out.”

  “I’m listening,” Trent said.

  “First, Mr. Smith, may I ask you why you killed Benjamin Stiles?”

  Trent narrowed his eyes. “I’m not here to answer any questions.”

  “Of course. Let me start again.” After adjusting his posture, Manoukian continued. “Some years ago, Dr. Samuel Bernstein told me he was on the verge of creating a serum that would revolutionize medicine. With my funding, he was able to do that. Soon afterward, we realized his research uncovered a plethora of biological solutions, including the single, ultimate objective sought throughout the history of civilization...”

  Trent’s eyes were still narrowed. “A fountain of youth.”

  Manoukian’s eyes widened. “Yes, a fountain of youth.”

  Trent still couldn’t believe it. “How is that possible?”

  “Basically, Mr. Smith, it comes down to the mitochondria which lie within the cells of our bodies. It’s a structure in which protein molecules are dissolved with the infusion of oxygen, and converted to energy. It is this energy that rejuvenates our strength and vitality. It keeps us young. Eventually, however, oxidation breaks down the mitochondria. When that happens, our bodies also break down. We age.

  “Dr. Bernstein worked with the theory that mitochondria originated as single-celled organisms that became so symbiotic with their hosts they became indispensable. Because the DNA in mitochondria is genetically distinct from the cell nucleus, he claimed mitochondria once existed as separate organisms and can manufacture their own proteins independent of the rest of the cell.

  “By mutating a certain combination of anabolic steroids at the atomic level, we can increase mitochondrial protein, which subsequently decreases the need for oxidation, thereby preventing the breakdown of the mitochondria. The encompassing cells retain their integrity, and the aging process stops.”

  Trent sat unfazed. “And it’s as easy as that.”

  “No, Mr. Smith, I assure you it’s not quite so easy as that. The correct ratios and mixtures of additional components are necessary, but it’s all too scientific, even for me, to explain. After all, I’m a financier, not a biologist.”

  “You’re a financier,” Trent observed, “whose money ran out, and that’s why you merged with Abraham Soriah. And now, I understand it’s Abraham Soriah who runs the entire program.”

  “Well,” Manoukian responded, “in a nutshell, as they say.”

  “So why do you want him dead?”

  “Mr. Smith, I can appreciate your wish to reach the crux of the matter, so I will make this very plain. Abraham Soriah has created an army of what he calls Eternals. Most of these Eternals are ex-athletes, like Joshua here...and Stiles. The rest are extremely wealthy or famous for one reason or another, but they all have one thing in common.”

  “And that is...”

  “They are all extraordinarily tall and athletic individuals.”

  “I have noticed,” Trent said. “So what’s the big deal?”

  “Mr. Soriah has mandated that his Eternals are to be individuals who possess certain qualifications.”

  “Right. Tall people. I got that already.”

  “Not just tall people. He is also selecting gifted individuals who have exemplified excellence in the human condition in a myriad of ways. Yes, he is partial to athletes, particularly professional athletes, but he also includes musicians, thespians, scientists, engineers, and doctors.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “His goal is to create an exclusive community of immortals. This group of people will eventually be segregated from the mortal world and live in their own society, independent from the outsiders, as he’ll refer to them.”

  “A nation of immortals living and working separately from the rest of us,” Trent repeated as he pondered the concept. “So why must he be killed?”

  “Because the future of humanity is at stake,” Manoukian proclaimed. “How long do you suppose he’ll be content to rule one little community? Absolute power will corrupt absolutely. Surely you have heard that.”

  “Yes,” Trent said.

  “Inevitably, he will fall victim to his own ego. Either he will believe he has the right to extend his rule over the rest of mankind, or...” Manoukian paused, as if the words were too horrible to speak.

  “Or what?”

  “Or there will come a time when he will eradicate the balance of the population. Normal people who live, age, and die will be considered inferior—a subhuman species—deserving to be exterminated. It will be genocide, Mr. Smith, not of a race or ethnicity, but of an entire planet.

  “Humanity’s future, to Mr. Soriah, is a world of immortals, each inhabitant a physically perfect specimen of exaggerated proportions. His ultimate plan is to establish a new human race to inherit the earth, to progress and explore, to reach the stars and become a space age civilization of supermen.”

  “And, of course,” Trent surmised, “being the architect of it all, Abraham Soriah will be their leader. Or dare I say their eternal god?”

  “That is most definitely the way he sees it,” Manoukian confirmed. “Who would question it?”

  “What about their children?” Trent asked. “What if their kids don’t meet Soriah’s qualifications?”

  The balding executive leaned forward and folded his hands. “You have heard of ancient Sparta, have you not?”

  Trent considered ancient Sparta. A government official inspected every newborn child. If the infant didn’t meet the standards which the hard-living Spartans had set, the baby was put to death. Trent also considered that it was thousands of years ago, during a brutal age of adversity and primitivism. Was the same thing in store for Soriah’s future world? If so, when would this inspection take place? Would it be at birth, as in ancient Sparta? Would another inspection take place at adolescence? Would every individual who didn’t top six feet by adulthood be slain? A megalomaniac like Soriah, living forever, could see to it that the standards he himself set never changed.

  Trent pondered the words of his host. Genocide was real. The superior and inferior concepts in the human condition were also very real. The concepts were extreme, but they were real. If a separate nation of immortal supermen existed, how long would it take before they considered themselves superior to the rest of humanity?

  Still, it sounded farfetched to a skeptical Trent. “How do you know all this?” he asked. “Did he tell you these things?”

  “Not quite so directly,” Manoukian admitted. “However, his plans are unfolding before our very eyes. You have seen it as clearly as the rest of us.”

  “All I’ve seen are murderers walking the streets because of a corrupt legal system,” Trent clarified. He looked to Samantha and exchanged a glance with Josh. He turned again to Manoukian and continued. “As far as supermen are concerned, that’s laughable. Being over six feet tall doesn’t make someone a superman any more than wearing clean underwear.”


  “Of course, you’re right,” Manoukian said. “But if Mr. Soriah is allowed to establish an entire nation of immortal titans, what will they come to believe one hundred years from now? Or two hundred years from now?”

  Trent still didn’t buy it. “No reasonable man will consider himself superior just because he gets a shot in the ass every morning.”

  Manoukian smiled confidently. “That’s very amusing, Mr. Smith, but who says Abraham Soriah is a reasonable man?”

  Trent realized Manoukian had a point. He experienced Soriah’s eccentric tendencies first hand. If the old man wasn’t over the edge yet, he was awfully close to it. By any measure, it was clear the aged industrialist ran an exclusive operation—an operation that included Manoukian. “But you’re a part of this,” Trent concluded. “You are a willing participant. You sell your serum to the hot shots in California, don’t you? You agree to limit its availability only to those on Soriah’s honor roll. That makes you just like him, the way I see it.”

  “That is only temporary, Mr. Smith,” Manoukian stressed. “I have my hands tied. It’s why we need you...to help rectify the situation.”

  Trent considered the argument, but he wasn’t convinced. “What makes you different than Soriah?”

  Manoukian fidgeted. “For one thing, I am not going to discriminate.”

  “Yes, you will. You’ll discriminate but for different reasons. Only the top point one per cent of the population who can afford your drug will get it. And they’ll be the same people who you’re selling it to right now. Why else is it on the black market? You get a bigger price tag, isn’t that right?”

  Manoukian didn’t answer. He sat behind his desk with unblinking eyes, and it didn’t escape Trent’s notice that Josh and Samantha remained voiceless during the exchange. They looked at each other, as if they expected Manoukian to carry the argument. But Manoukian merely replied, “You are right,” in a much softer tone. “And that’s the way it is because of Soriah,” he added. “I can’t change it, not until he is out of the way. Do you understand now?”