Killer of Killers

by Mark M. DeRobertis

  “Why? Where is she?”

  “She came in while you were fighting,” the boy explained. “She was shot. I helped her into our break room.”

  Trent rushed inside. Samantha was lying on a cot with makeshift bandages pressed on top of her abdomen. Two waitresses attended her. As he neared, they backed away and joined their co-workers wedged in the doorway.

  Samantha opened her eyes and smiled. She asked, “Did you get them?”

  “Yeah, I got them.”

  “I wanted to help you, but I got shot.” Samantha’s voice barely exceeded a whisper. “I made it into the restaurant, and he helped me.” She cast her gaze at the waiter in the doorway. “His name is David. He’s really nice.”

  Trent wasn’t sure how badly she was hurt, but he knew a bullet to the belly could be fatal. He turned to the workers. “When is the ambulance getting here? What’s taking them so long?”

  David replied, “They should be here any minute. It’s what they said.”

  Trent turned back to Samantha. “Don’t worry. You’ll be all right.”

  “I don’t think so, Trent. I’m scared.” Her breathing became shallow.

  “No, hang on. You’ll pull through this. Hang on.” It crossed Trent’s mind how he saved Shalom’s bodyguard, but this bullet penetrated the abdominal cavity. He could only hope and pray the ambulance would arrive in time. His hopes sank when the waitresses at the door let their tears fall. Tears were falling from David’s eyes, also—even more than from the women. “Samantha, listen to me, you’ve got to hang on. The medics will be here any minute.”

  The smile returned to Samantha’s face. “You know how I didn’t want to grow old? Looks like I’ll get my wish.”

  “Don’t talk like that. You’ll grow old. We’ll grow old together.”

  “Promise me you won’t grow old, Trent.” Samantha’s voice was fading. “Promise me...” Then her eyelids sealed.

  “No!” Trent shouted. “Don’t die. Please, Samantha, don’t die!” His eyes welled and his tears spilled. “Samantha, please... Please, don’t die. Please...” Choked by his tears, Trent’s voice trailed away. He put his head against Samantha’s shoulder and left it there until his tears were no more.

  When he raised his head again, Trent knew better than to speak another word. For him, reality suspended—until someone from outside the room shouted, “Hey, the cops are here!”

  Trent looked at Samantha and kissed her on the cheek. He took both of her hands and placed them together on top of her stomach. He noticed her purse on the floor next to the cot and snapped it open. From its interior, he extracted her cell phone and her police wallet, but then he saw the black Eternity case. On an impulse, he took it, also, and put the items into his pockets. When Trent faced the weeping servers in the doorway, he saw scores of people crowded behind them. They were silent, but many contributed tears of their own.

  Trent approached David but couldn’t bring himself to say anything. Seeing the paper rose pinned to the boy’s vest, he reached out and pulled it free. He returned to Samantha and propped it in her hands. Then he walked through the doorway. Though packed shoulder to shoulder, the observers parted in unison, forming a path to the exit in the restaurant’s rear.

  Trent recalled the crowd that parted before him in Japan. He recalled the hatred and disapproval. He remembered the sneers and the insults directed at him and his country. But the diverse group before him expressed something different. It was something he could appreciate. It was genuine love from complete strangers. This was the way it used to be. Trent’s heart swelled. By God, he was proud to be an American.

  Trent turned to his left, and there, hanging on the wall—Old Glory. He straightened his back, put his hand over his chest, and fixed his gaze on the red, white, and blue. Subsequently, those around him looked at the object of his attention. They too stood straight and put their hands over their chests.

  Trent hadn’t sung a song in all the years he lived in Japan, but now the words and the melody flowed from his soul. “O, oh say can you see, by the dawn’s early light...”

  One by one, line by line, another man or woman joined in until the entire crowd sang along with every ounce of passion demonstrated by Trent.

  “What so proudly we hailed, at the twilight’s last gleaming. Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight, o’er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming.”

  Policemen came to the door, but the sardined singers allowed no room for even one of them to squeeze through. None dared force their way in. The officers stood straight and waited out the balance of the anthem. Some even removed their hats and accompanied. “And the rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air, gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.”

  Trent crossed the human corridor and witnessed people singing with deep-rooted sincerity. They were white people, black people, brown people, and Asian people, immigrants from every corner of the globe, each and every one of them pouring their soul into this, their song. Trent was a broken man at that moment, but it was also at that moment he started to heal.

  When Trent reached the rear door, he stopped and turned to the crowd one last time to finish what he started. “Oh say does that star spangled banner yet wave, o’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.”

  The chorus became cheers, and many in the crowd threw their hats to the ceiling, but as they did, wailing sirens pierced the air and grew ever louder. The deafening shrills abruptly ceased when an ambulance parked at the very spot where the limousine of assassins had pulled up.

  By this time, officers were taking statements from witnesses, and Trent saw one of them pointing in his direction. He about-faced and exited through the back door just as the paramedics entered through the front.

  * * * *

  The bystanders cleared for the medical crew, and as the waiters turned to leave, something caught David’s eye. He looked back into the room and studied Samantha’s still body. He was sure he saw the rose move, as if her hand had twitched. As he stared, however, there was no further movement. The medics hustled in and urged him to step aside. They would care for her now, so he lowered his chin and walked away.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Family Ties

  Trent joined in the company of giant trash bins, buzzing insects, and half-eaten entrees. Small spaces between the big buildings granted refuge with the rubbish, so he wandered through the sun-blocked alleys to remain unseen. The compounded tragedies forced an instinctive disconnection from his feelings. He was in no mood to grieve, because it was time for payback, and he was more determined than ever to put Soriah out of business. For that, he had to meet with Manoukian in Minnesota as soon as possible.

  Resolute, Trent stepped toward the main boulevard when he happened to see the front end of a limousine jutting out from the shadows. Little more than a bumper lay in view, but he knew the limo to which it belonged was the very same limo that delivered Samantha’s murderers.

  Trent felt his anger unravel while crossing the width of the adjacent building. He snuck to the rear of the stretched vehicle. From there, he spied the driver through an open window. He was wearing the typical black suit and at the moment was peering through the limo’s windshield, no doubt watching for his partners to return.

  Trent crept low so as not to be spotted in the vehicle’s rear view mirrors. Within inches of the door, he stood upright while the black-suited man strained his eyes in the opposite direction. He was oblivious to Trent’s presence less than an arm’s length away.

  Trent visualized the various nerves on the back of the man’s neck. He had his choice from which to choose. There was the lesser occipital nerve at the base of his skull and the greater auricular nerve below that. Then again, he could strike the transverse cervical nerve in the center. Trent decided he would strike the supraclavicular nerve in addition to the adjacent phrenic nerve. Crushing both nerves at once would effect a very painful death. But he hesitated. Why ki
ll him now? If he applied a simultaneous depression, the man would still experience great pain followed by a brief paralysis.

  Trent shot his hand into the open window and applied the grip as he envisioned it. The driver’s hand, which held a pistol, jerked upward, but the movement was a reflex. The gun flew from his grasp, and his body lurched backward against the seat. Trent’s grip remained firm. Then, like a ventriloquist with a dummy, he turned the limp head to face him.

  “Hey scumbag,” Trent said in a low gritty voice. “You wouldn’t mind if I bummed a ride, would you?”

  Trent shook the man’s head sideways.

  “That’s very nice of you,” Trent hissed. “How ’bout we leave right away?”

  Trent made the head nod.

  “Why, thank you.”

  Trent set the man’s face forward and released him, knowing the paralysis would last another minute. Once in the passenger’s seat, he reached into the man’s coat pocket, removed the stiletto he knew would be there, and sprang the silver blade. Bracing it against the dashboard, a single jab broke the steel at its base, and he tossed it out of the window. The pistol followed. “Guns and knives,” Trent uttered under his breath. “Weapons of cowards.”

  Trent fastened his seatbelt and glared at the motionless man. “No use waiting for your buddies,” he said. “They’re dead. All of ’em.”

  Despite his paralysis, the driver’s face beaded perspiration. He was another black-haired, dark-skinned Mediterranean. Even when seated, Trent saw him to be tall and wide, like the others. He guessed they were related—brothers or cousins, perhaps.

  “In a few moments you’ll be able to move again,” a contemptuous Trent said. “If you want to stay alive, all you gotta do is drive me to JFK.” He hoped he sounded convincing, because after he reached the airport Trent had no intention of sparing the man’s life.

  * * * *

  It was a painful flight to Minneapolis. All Trent could think about was what he might have done differently that would have kept the two women alive. Before departing JFK, he used Samantha’s cell phone to inform Manoukian and Josh he was on his way. He didn’t say what happened to Samantha, revealing only that she was indisposed at the time. Trent planned on dropping the hard news in person. He was intent on looking both men in the eyes when they learned of her fate.

  After arriving at MSP and disembarking from the plane, Trent easily spotted the lofty Josh Jones. He wore a dark gray sports coat and stood a full head above the waiting crowd. But the first words from Samantha’s brother were not in greeting. He asked, “Where’s Samantha?”

  “She’s still in New York,” Trent told him. “But there’s some bad news, and you’d better be sitting down when you hear it.”

  “Whataya mean, ‘bad news’?”

  “If you want, I’ll give it to you straight up, right here and now.”

  “Give it to me,” Josh insisted.

  “Soriah sent men to kill us,” Trent began. “I killed them, all four of them. But they got your sister.”

  Josh took a step back and swiped the air with both of his arms in an apparent effort to maintain his balance. His face turned pale, his expression forlorn. “So, is she dead or what?”

  “She’s dead.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I was there, remember? I went to her side. The ambulance was on its way, but before it got there, she was gone.”

  Josh’s face contorted. Water filled his eyes, so he closed them and rubbed them dry. “You’ve got to be wrong,” he growled. “She’s got to be all right.”

  Trent reached into his pocket and pulled out Samantha’s police wallet and cell phone. He handed them to Josh and said, “I thought you should have these.” He decided not to present the black Eternity case, because Josh wasn’t aware Samantha used the drug, and Trent thought he should respect her privacy—at least for the time being.

  Josh flicked open the wallet, exposing the photo of Samantha’s smiling face and her shiny golden badge. After placing the items in his coat, he said, “Let’s go,” and led Trent to a waiting Karl Manoukian, seated at a table in the side bar of a small airport restaurant.

  Manoukian exhibited an astonished face when he saw Trent approaching. “Where’s Samantha?” he asked.

  Josh glared at Manoukian and snapped, “She’s dead!”

  “No!” Manoukian blurted in a voice so loud it seemed to surprise even himself. “How can that be?” He became jittery and almost fell from his seat. “What happened?”

  “Like I told Josh,” Trent said, “your Soriah Specials, or whatever you call them, attacked us while we were eating breakfast. They opened fire with semis and got Samantha with the first shot. She didn’t have a chance.”

  “And then? What happened then?”

  “What do you think happened then?” Trent retorted. “After their first shot, it was them who didn’t have a chance.”

  Over the next minute, Josh and Manoukian remained speechless. Trent examined their eyes, deciphering Manoukian’s as no less devious than on the day when they met. Josh’s, on the other hand, were tormented and brimming with sorrow. Trent didn’t doubt that his own eyes were those of a man bent on killing, because it’s exactly what he had in mind. But he also had questions, and before he proceeded, they had to be answered.

  Josh put his hands over his face. “It’s my fault,” he cried. “It’s all my fault.” He folded his arms on the table and rested his head on them. He wasn’t bawling, nor was he whimpering, but tears soaked his sleeves, nonetheless.

  Trent scrutinized him. “Why is it your fault?”

  Josh sat up and took a deep breath to collect himself. “Because I was supposed to kill Soriah after you did in Stiles. Samantha was trying her best to get you to do it, to keep me out of danger.”

  “That doesn’t mean it’s your fault,” Manoukian said.

  “It is,” Josh snarled, combining his anguish with a sudden burst of anger. “I’m her big brother. I protected her all of her life. Now, she was trying to protect me, and it got her killed. I should have shielded her from all of this.”

  Trent had enough of the babble. “Let’s clear the air,” he said. “What I want to know is how did Soriah find out that I was coming after him.”

  Neither Josh nor Manoukian answered. They merely stared, each with a straight face. Trent glared at Manoukian. “You’ve got a stoolie somewhere, and whoever it is keeps Soriah informed about everything.”

  “What do you mean, ‘everything’?” Manoukian asked.

  “I mean when you were bringing in Stiles for the job, it turned out Soriah knew about that, too.”

  “Impossible. No one knew about that.”

  “No one?”

  “I mean besides Samantha and...” Manoukian looked at Josh.

  “It’s true,” Josh bemoaned. “It was me.” He cast a woeful gaze to Trent. “After Samantha heard your message, she called me to let me know. She was so happy for me, and what did I do? As soon as I was off the phone with her, I called Soriah. If not for me, he wouldn’t have sent his killers.”

  Manoukian slapped the tabletop. “But why would they kill Samantha?”

  “It was a stray shot,” Trent said. “Unless...”

  “Unless what?” Manoukian pressed.

  “Unless the Specials got the job, after all.”

  “What job?” Josh blared. “What are you talking about?”

  Trent shifted his glare to Josh. He pulled out Samantha’s black case and slid it across the table. “This is what I’m talking about. Your sister was using the damn drug, just like the rest of you idiots.”

  “What? How do you know that?”

  “I saw her, if you really want to hear me say it. I got that from her purse. It was right next to her badge.” Trent returned his glare to Manoukian. “You said yourself that women were excluded from using this stuff. Can you tell us what happened to the ones who refused to stop?”

  “Well, they weren’t killed for it!” Josh cut in. To Mano
ukian, he added, “Were they?”

  Trent looked back at Josh. “I know another woman who was killed for it just yesterday.”

  “But they don’t kill for that.”

  “Oh, yeah? They asked me to kill for that. But I’m no one’s lackey. I told Charles Morgan I wouldn’t do it.”

  “Charles Morgan?”

  “He’s the one who gave me a hit list.”

  “A hit list?” With eyes perplexed, Josh turned his head toward Manoukian. “Since when does Abraham Soriah have a hit list?” He turned back to Trent. “Well, is Samantha’s name on it or not?”

  “No,” Trent replied. “The list contains the names of Eternals they no longer deem worthy of their Utopia. But it doesn’t mean they didn’t have an alternate plan if I refused to cooperate. It seems they have a new list now, and I’d say my name is right there at the top.”

  “Let me see it,” Josh demanded as he reached across the table.

  “What for?” Trent sneered. “It’s old news. Are we going after Soriah or not?” He looked again at Manoukian. The bespectacled executive appeared to be lost in his thoughts. Trent asked, “What’s your take on all of this?”

  Manoukian eased out of his reflection. “We stick to our plan. Soriah must die. My jet is waiting to take us to Bemidji, and then—”

  “Then what?” Trent snapped. “If Soriah knows I’m there to kill him, why would he let me inside his lab to do it?”

  “Because he thinks you have something he wants,” Josh answered.

  Trent responded with a scowl. “Like what?”

  Josh shook his head. “Forget it. All I care about now is taking Soriah down. Are you in or not?”

  “I’m in,” Trent said, “but they’ll grab me as soon as I show my face. How do you suppose that’ll work out?”

  Josh’s eyes seethed. “Perfectly,” he hissed. “When Soriah and his people are busy worrying about you, I’ll be able to take him out.”

  “So you expect me to walk into a trap and get caged like a dog?”

  “It’s the only way.”