He stopped in front of a multi-layered residential complex and spied the address on its stucco wall. Then he climbed the stairs to the apartment number he had memorized. Two iron-fisted raps announced his arrival.
* * * *
Inside the dwelling, Carlos Ramirez reached for the television’s remote control and muted the volume. He looked to the robed woman he was paid to protect. He slicked back his black hair and straightened out the wrinkles in his white muscle shirt, which exposed tattoos of Roman numerals and pretty girls over both of his arms. Sitting on the sofa, Connie Perez nodded her head in approval to attend the door. When he opened it, however, there was no one to greet him. “Who’s there?” he called out.
Carlos pulled up his sagging trousers and walked onto the patio. That was the last thing he remembered. Someone he never saw knocked him senseless with a blow to the base of his neck. He woke up breathing loose dirt off the concrete surface. The ringing in his ears blared like a fire alarm, and a tingling stretched the length of his limbs. He rubbed his neck and shook his arms while muttering, “Hijo de puta!”
Dazed and dizzy, Carlos managed to get back on his feet, but when he staggered into the apartment and looked at Connie, he froze. She was sitting erect on the sofa with a blank stare on her face. She remained unblemished in her unruffled robe, yet she was strangely unmoving.
Carlos peeked at the TV screen. It still flashed the Spanish novella he had grown bored with days ago. He turned back to Connie. Her eyes were open, but she wasn’t watching the show. Carlos felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, and he knew it wasn’t because of the blow he received.
Moving toward Connie, he asked, “Que Pasa?” There was no answer. “Tu estas bien?” Again, there was no answer. He leaned over and waved his hand in front of her face. She didn’t blink. He nudged Connie’s shoulder, and her body tipped over and plopped on the floor.
Carlos straightened in shock. He couldn’t stop staring at her eyes, for they remained ghoulishly gaping and locked into his. Only when he covered his face could he pull himself free. When he dared to lower his hands, he scoured the room, but there was nothing new to his eyes. He rushed outside and panned the streets. Not a soul was in sight. Even the children had retreated from their makeshift playgrounds. All that remained was an eerie silence, as the sun set behind the silhouetted skyline curtained in burgundy red.
* * * *
Trent stood alone at the curb of a wide boulevard. The twilight sky contained no stars, and even the moon lay hidden from the imminent night. Likewise, the streets were void of life except for occasional rats that scampered across the cables above. Trent wondered if a single cab would dare disturb the dormant street.
In the distance, a pair of lights appeared. When Trent determined it was indeed a cab, he raised an arm. The taxi, approaching from his right, slowed to a near stop, and the driver, a bearded East Indian wearing a white turban, poked his head out of the window. “Where to?” he asked.
Trent answered, “JFK.”
The taxi pulled to the far curb, so Trent legged it across the blacktop without a second thought. Once he reached the centerline, however, another taxi approached from the opposite direction. As it closed, it picked up speed until it roared.
Trent stood firm, knowing that an attempt to run would be futile. At the last moment, he leaped up, quick-stepped over the taxi’s hood and roof, and somersaulted high into the air. He landed in a three-point stance and saw the vehicle skid into a sharp turn, which the driver could not negotiate. It slammed into a telephone pole, crushing the wheel and right-front fender—immobilized amidst a haze of smoke and dust, and in the fumes of burnt rubber.
The driver of the first cab yelled from his window, “Man, that was close. Are you okay?”
Trent shot him a glance. “Don’t worry about me.” He walked to the mangled vehicle and opened the rear door.
Two gunshots fired, bam, bam, but Trent had jumped away in the moment it took the shooter to squeeze the trigger. Just as quickly, he raced to the vehicle’s other side, flung the door wide, and disarmed the pistol-toting passenger with a wristlock applied so forcibly bones snapped. He kicked the pistol out of sight.
Trent pulled the man’s face to within inches of his own. It was still another swarthy Turk in a black suit and tie. But this one had a bushy mustache under his nose and an ugly scar across his cheek.
Trent snarled, “What’s the matter, run out of limousines?” He struggled to keep his rage in check and darted a glance to the driver. He had yet to recover, so Trent focused on the Turk. “You work for Manoukian, don’t you?”
Before the man could reply, Trent jerked his collar and spoke again. “You better tell me the truth, because I swear, by God, I swear if you don’t, you die.”
The Turk shouted, “I don’t, I don’t, by Allah, I don’t!”
Trent clenched his teeth so hard his jaw moved sideways. He reached inside the man’s coat and pulled out a glossy black stiletto. “Right,” he said and threw it over his shoulder. “I suppose you never heard of Soriah, either.”
“Soriah? I don’t know him.”
Trent was done talking. He raised his arm and delivered a hammer strike, which crushed the brachial plexus nerves at the base of the man’s neck. The force of the blow also shattered his collarbone. The Turk opened his mouth, but before he made a sound, his eyes rolled up, and his life ended.
Trent turned his head toward the driver who was now fumbling with his seat belt. Circling the taxi, Trent opened the driver’s door just as the cabby freed himself. He jumped out and into a cross-lapel stranglehold.
Trent growled, “Why did you try to kill me?” He knew the man couldn’t answer. He had his lapels pulled so tight they choked off his airway. The man’s dark eyes strained to see the corpse in the back seat. Trent hissed, “Yeah, that’s what happens to murderers like you.”
The man moved his mouth as if trying to speak, but Trent didn’t want to hear anything more. “You tried to kill me,” he said, “and in my book that makes you a murderer.”
Trent held the Gyakujuji Shime until the man’s scruffy chin dropped onto his lifeless chest. He then returned to the first taxi, and through its open window he observed what he believed to be a veteran cabby who no doubt bore witness to many rumbles in this part of town. But he also saw hands that jittered. Trent had jumped over a speeding car and dodged bullets before ending the lives of two men, but that was no reason for this man to feel threatened—unless he played a part in their plan.
While Trent looked him dead in the eye, the cabby asked in a shaky voice, “Um, do you still need a ride to JFK?”
Trent didn’t answer. He opened the door and yanked the man off his seat by the collar of his shirt. “You set me up, didn’t you?”
“Set you up? What do you mean?”
Trent initiated the stranglehold. “I mean you pulled over on the far side, forcing me to cross the street. That’s what I mean. Why didn’t you just make a U-turn and pull up next to me?”
“Because—” An increase of pressure choked the cabby silent.
But Trent changed his mind. Without knowing why, he decided that he wanted to hear the man’s answer. He eased the grip and narrowed his eyes. “Because what?”
“Because JFK is that way.” The cabby pointed a trembling finger in the direction his taxi was headed.
Trent released the hold. “What’s your name?”
With an onslaught of coughs, the cabby answered, “Rahul.”
“Well, Rahul, it’s nice to meet you. I’ll take that ride.”
The cabby sighed in relief. “Okay.”
Epilogue
JFK Airport
It was another airport, and Trent entered the terminal, begrudging a long wait. While seated, he pulled the flash drive from his pocket and fixed his gaze upon it. He still hadn’t decided exactly what he was going to do with it. Shortly, he noticed a very pretty blond woman sitting in the next row of seats, and apparently, she had just
noticed him, as well. He pushed the flash drive back into his pocket and averted his eyes for the rest of the wait.
In due course, Trent boarded the plane on which his return to the West Coast was imminent. Following the line of passengers, he found his aisle seat. As he sat down, he noticed the blond woman from the terminal sitting next to him. When their elbows touched on the common armrest, she turned her face to Trent and smiled. He smiled back and then buckled his seat belt.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m Jennifer.”
“Hi,” Trent replied. “I’m Trent.” He really didn’t want to talk, but a long flight loomed, so he resigned himself to the inevitable conversation.
“These early flights are killers,” she purred. “Do you happen to know what time it is?”
Trent looked at his watch and then into her eyes, which struck him as did Samantha’s. They sparkled and, like Samantha’s, possessed a magical charm. “Yeah, it’s six o’clock.”
Jennifer smiled again and said, “Excuse me. I have to use the potty-room before we take off.”
“Sure.” Trent pulled back to allow her access to the aisle. As she sidestepped before him, he couldn’t help but notice the woman’s hourglass figure, short skirt, and shapely legs. Again, he thought of Samantha.
Minutes later, she returned, but this time Trent decided to stand up and permit a clear path to her window seat. When she sat down, her hem pulled up, and he spied a small circular bandage on the front of her thigh beneath her nylons. “You know, that’s a good idea,” he said. “It’s going to be a long flight, isn’t it?”
Trent made his way to the tiny washroom and locked the door. Standing in front of the small mirror, he stared at the grim face staring back. Then he rolled up the sleeve of his shirt, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a thin black case. Opening it, he removed a diminutive syringe and plucked its plastic cap. He put the needle against his bicep.
Images of Susie filled his mind. She had saved his life, but for all his skill, he couldn’t save hers. Samantha’s smiling face followed. Their brief moments of intimacy seemed eternally stamped into his consciousness. He wondered if the pain in his heart would be just as permanent.
Trent pushed the needle deep into his muscle and thumbed the plunger down. A rush flowed through his body, and he shook his head clear of it.
Taking his seat again, Trent’s gaze entwined that of the smiling blond. He returned the smile, but just as he hoped she wouldn’t speak, she said, “I don’t really like flying, do you?”
“No, never did.”
“So, Trent, tell me... What do you do?”
Trent crumpled his brow. “What do I do?” Already, he tired of the small talk. He didn’t want it to continue, but he didn’t want it to be evident. He may be a killer, but he wasn’t rude.
Acknowledgments
I would like to dedicate Killer of Killers to my brother, Rick, for his idea to write books when we were still kids.
I would also like to dedicate Killer of Killers to my wife, Elizabeth, and my two sons, Mark Anthony and Michael, for their continued love and support.
I would like to personally thank Shihan Russ Rhodes and his senseis at the Pacific Coast Academy of Martial Arts in Los Gatos, California, whose interviews, techniques, and philosophies contributed to the creation and completion of Killer of Killers.
I would also like to thank Dr. Mheir Doursounian and Dr. Bruce Edward Jacobsen for their advice and knowledge, which I put to good use throughout the storyline of Killer of Killers.
Finally, I would like to thank Nancy Schumacher, Tom Dahedl, Caroline Andrus, Sherry Derr-Wille, and the entire staff at Mélange Books for their parts in making Killer of Killers available to the reading public.
About the Author
Mark M. DeRobertis is an art teacher in San Jose, CA. He holds a Master’s Degree in Education, Administration and Supervision, a Bachelor’s Degree in Art, and a California Teaching Credential, all of which he earned at San Jose State University. In addition to creative writing, his specialties include painting, drawing, and ceramic sculpture. Mark has written four novels: Killer of Killers, The Vase, Killer Eyes, and John Dunn, Heart of a Zulu.
Contact the author at:
http://metazoid.blogspot.com/
http://swampfox.weebly.com/
http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6433847.Mark_M_DeRobertis
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