The Rasner Effect

by Mark Rosendorf

  Jake flashed a glance around the room. Where was his gun? He’d always considered himself more of a shooter than a hand-to-hand fighter. He’d been an expert marksman in the military and the executions he was assigned to during his days in the field were always from the opposite end of a firearm.

  Each of his guns, however, had been knocked all the way across the room. To retrieve either one would leave him an open target for the very quick Jun Sanaga.

  Then he remembered Jorge’s gun.

  Hadn’t the man fallen on top of it after getting shot in the back?

  Jake fumbled underneath Jorge’s heavy body, bounding back when one of Sanaga’s switchblades spiked in front of him, the point punching into Jorge’s back. Sanaga, now wielding just one blade, regained his balance and launched himself at Jake.

  Jake snapped the knife from Jorge’s back. He jabbed it up over his head. Sanaga’s knife grazed the side of Jake’s head, just above his ear. The warmth of his own blood washed over him. Sanaga slashed again. This time, Jake was ready. Metal clanged against metal. The blades deflected off each other as both men fought for balance. Blood flew into his left eye and turned his vision to a fog.

  Jake took a step back, blinking. He swiped the back of a hand on his face. Sanaga struck again. Jake sidestepped and spun to face the younger man.

  They circled, each waiting for the other to make a wrong move. Jake feigned with his knife. Sanaga did not flinch.

  Sanaga charged forward. His outstretched weapon slashed across Jake’s chest. The fabric tore, buttons flew. Jake felt nothing, but knew from experience, the pain would come later. Sanaga held the knife up, showing off a piece of Jake’s camouflage shirt. Blood tipped the knife. Sanaga threw a cocky grin and motioned for Jake to come at him, slipping the fabric off the blade as he did.

  Jake obliged, leaping over Jorge and pounding forward. Sanaga ducked and lunged, slicing Jake’s right shoulder with the blade. This time he did feel the pain. Instantly, the nerves in his hand went limp. Jake’s other hand flew up to touch the wound.

  Sanaga’s long, skinny leg shot up. The heel of his boot hammered Jake between the eyes. The momentum combined with the blood had blinded him. He staggered back.

  “You are a weak old man,” Sanaga said, his voice low and threatening. “You should lay down and die. I will help you.”

  Jake heaved his knife at Sanaga’s head. He knew he was playing into Sanaga’s game. To feed into emotion was a tactical mistake. Sanaga dodged Jake’s attack, his knife passed over the Asian’s head. Shit, what did it take to bring this man down?

  As his opponent straightened up, Jake dropped his head and charged. He thrust his shoulder into Sanaga’s mid-section and wrapped his arms around the lanky man’s body. Jake lifted Sanaga off his feet and drove him through the doorway, slamming him into the wall across the hallway.

  At impact, Sanaga forced his right knee into Jake’s ribs, followed by a jumping knee lift to Jake’s chin. More blood. Now Jake was pissed off. As he regrouped, Sanaga pointed the blade in his right hand at the center of Jake’s chest. He was going for the kill.

  Not if Jake had anything to say about it.

  He reached up above his head and suddenly felt a return of hope. He was directly underneath one of the many brass candlestick holders that decorated the upstairs hallway. They were old, but solid. For once, Jake found a quality in the general he liked. He wrenched the holder from its frame just as Sanaga lunged at him.

  He brought the heavy brass piece down across Sanaga’s wrist. Sanaga howled and the switchblade dropped to the floor. Sanaga backed off, his right wrist gripped in his left hand.

  A smile formed on Jake’s face. He got a strong grip on the candlestick holder and swung it like a baseball bat. There was a horrific thud as the knobby end struck the side of his head. Sanaga dropped like a stone.

  Jake put a few feet between himself and his faltering opponent. Sanaga was on his knees, clutching the side of his head. Jake couldn’t see the severity of the wound, there was so much blood. He was just glad there was a wound. “So, you’re human after all.”

  Stay down. Let this battle be over. He didn’t want to kill the only member of the Duke Organization he respected. Unlike the rest, Sanaga always had a certain set of morals and honor, warped as they were.

  Sanaga raised his head and eyed Jake with a look that spoke as clear as words. He intended to attack again—and kill. But his knifes were out of reach. He had no way to…

  A Chinese star whizzed through the air, aimed for the head.

  Jake ducked, but not fast enough. One of the six razor-sharp edges nicked his temple. Jake just had time to hope Sanaga hadn’t poisoned the tips when the thin man leaped up and dove at Jake with his right leg outstretched. Maybe dizzy from the head wound, maybe blinded by anger, Jake didn’t know, but Sanaga’s aim was off. The Asian bounced off the hallway wall, but whirled and threw a jumping sidekick at Jake. This missed too.

  Frustration made Sanaga sloppy. His cool and calm demeanor had waned. Jake took this as a personal victory.

  He realized he’d reached the top of the rounded staircase. Below, the dark house was silent. Seeing Jake’s momentary distraction, Sanaga charged. He jumped in the air launching another flying front kick to Jake’s chest.

  Jake nabbed Sanaga’s right leg and hooked it between his arms just as he took the glancing blow to his chest. The force stole Jake’s balance. He fell backward, still gripping Sanaga’s leg.

  Both men tumbled down the circular staircase. Every third or fourth step Jake was on the bottom. The riser’s edges felt like daggers in his spine, his thighs, his head. About the middle of the staircase, their bodies broke apart. Jake struggled to stop his downhill momentum, but couldn’t ’til he’d rolled another half dozen steps.

  The hand-to-hand battle was not going his way. He needed to gain his feet and get back on offense to end this conflict. On pure adrenalin, coupled with desperation, Jake rose to his feet, bracing his back against the smooth circular wall. His fists clenched before him. Ready.

  And so was Sanaga—two steps above. A soft curse squeezed between his lips.

  Sanaga spun and hit a roundhouse kick, gathering speed as he dropped toward Jake. Jake took the blow in the ribcage and launched backward off the steps with his arms and legs flailing in all directions. He plummeted the rest of the way down, colliding with the wooden floor at the bottom of the stairs. His head took most of the damage. He saw stars.

  He shook it off to see Jun Sanaga kneeling on the fifth step. He hunched over. Jake hoped the wounds had done his opponent in, the fight over, but Sanaga pulled himself upright. Jake’s exultation shattered seeing Sanaga reach into his right leather boot and pull out a crescent dagger.

  Jake’s brain ordered him to move, roll out of the way, but his body wouldn’t respond.

  Sanaga pointed the blade at Jake. Both his legs bent at the knees, he prepared to jump.

  Roll, come on, roll! Jake begged his body, but he received no response. He felt himself staring helplessly up into dark determined eyes.

  Sanaga’s self-assured look turned to one of stunned concern as two red beams bounced off his chest. Rapid gunfire echoed throughout the house as a series of bullets hit Sanaga’s body.

  Sanaga convulsed. With his black shirt drenched in blood, he finally dropped. Jake found that now he could move. He rolled over and peered up. Two men stood holding automatic machineguns. Jake recognized them as the two soldiers who accompanied General Straker at the dollar store, only now they dressed in navy-blue SWAT uniforms. The taller of the two soldiers walked up to Jake and offered a hand to help him up. Jake slapped the hand away.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Jake shouted as he helped himself up to his knees.

  “The general assigned us as your back-up,” the taller soldier explained. “We were instructed to enter the conflict if you lost control of the situation.”

  “The situation was under control.”

  “Not from
what I saw, Mister Scarberry.”

  Jake placed both of his hands against the oak floor and pushed himself to his feet. Pain shot through every inch of him, but he wouldn’t give Straker’s troops the satisfaction of seeing him wince.

  “I was playing possum, trying to lure him in. I was just about to take him out.”

  “Well now it’s done. He’s taken out.”

  Jake let out an aggravated groan as he stepped up into the soldier’s face. “I wanted him alive so I could question him. Yeah, you killed him, but now we don’t know where the rest of the group is staying. We’re no closer now to finding Rasner than before we got here! Now how the hell do we…”

  “They came in a white van,” the second soldier interrupted.

  “Excuse me?”

  “We’re tracking it from a satellite hook-up,” The calmer of the two soldiers explained. “We’ll know where Rasner’s going before he even gets there.”

  Jake still wanted to be angry, but he was more impressed than enraged. Apparently, Straker had more resources in place than he’d let on. “Okay, then let’s get this show on the road. But I do want to make one thing clear.”

  The taller of the two soldiers relaxed his hold of the weapon attached to a strap around his right shoulder. He folded his arms and waited with an expression of boredom.

  “When we find them, I handle this alone,” Jake demanded. “I don’t like working with other people, especially Straker’s people.”

  The soldier remained silent, giving Jake a hard stare. “We will remain back until the very moment you need us, those are our orders. And it’s up to my judgment when that moment is.”

  Jeeze, this man was just as arrogant as Straker.

  Jake considered punching him in the mouth. It would alleviate a bit of the frustration he felt over the failed battle with Sanaga. He thought better of it, though. The satisfaction would hardly be worth the trouble it would cause.

  “Fine,” Jake reluctantly agreed.

  Jake turned and eyed Sanaga’s body, draped across the steps like a puppet that had its strings cut. He’d been ripped apart by the force of the bullets that had torn through him. Jake had a great deal of disdain for the Duke Organization, but this was the one man he felt deserved better. On the other hand, Sanaga was the type of soldier who would want to die in battle.

  “We’ll call for a clean-up crew,” the soldier shouted at Jake, “We have a first-aid kit in the van. We’ll clean you up as well.”

  Jake took one last look at the corpse. He couldn’t help but feel dirtied by the entire situation. He couldn’t wait for the mission to be over, even if it did mean going back to that menial civilian life. He was already unhappy with how things progressed, but he would see it through. Then again, he really didn’t have a choice in the matter, as had been the case the last time he worked for Straker.

  “Are you coming or not?” The lead soldier called from the front door. It stood open, fresh cool air wafted through making Jake realize how hot it was inside this place.

  “Yeah, I’m coming, let’s go get ’em.”

  He turned away from Sanaga and followed the soldiers out.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Clara stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. She had washed her hands several times, yet traces of blood remained in the cracks of her palms as well as her fingernails. The evening stayed clear in her mind. She could still feel the resistance against her wrist as she jammed the knife through her half-sister’s throat. Could still see the blood gushing down the little girl’s neck with each breath she tried to take. Still hear the sound of her mother’s screams. Clara vividly remembered her mother lunging for her in an attempt to either save or avenge her precious three-year-old daughter. Her precious Kimberly. That was just moments before the tone of her mother’s screams changed, from outrage and shock to pain as Jen shot her in the back to halt her attack.

  Clara once again examined the bloodstains on her hands. Would it ever come out? Ever? Clara now wore a black T-shirt she found on a hanger in the vestibule closet. The shirt was stylish and feminine enough she figured it was probably Jen’s. Then again, it could have been Derrick’s. On the floor in a heap lay her blue happy-face shirt. She’d really liked that shirt, with the happy, smiley face, but—she kicked at it, sending it up in the air. It fluttered down to drape over the shower curtain rod—she’d never wear it again. Never wanted to look at it again.

  Then again, maybe she should keep it as her killing shirt. She could wear it on every mission. She wouldn’t wash it—ever. It would bear the memories of each job. Right shoulder stain, her mother. The spot over the left breast—their next target.

  Clara flopped on the toilet seat. The shirt stared down at her, one of the smiling eyes and the mouth. She couldn’t help grinning. Sad really. All she could think about was the shirt and not the fact she’d killed someone. Half her flesh and blood.

  I should feel guilty, shouldn’t I?

  For several moments, Clara sat and stared at the bloodstained shirt, trying to dredge up the proper emotion. Nothing. No, she did feel something. Powerful. In control. Perhaps for the first time in her life. No, she hadn’t enjoyed the experience; she could never like the act of killing. What was it then? She thought for a very long time, getting up and putting her elbows on the windowsill. The sun came up, spreading yellow and pink darts through the trees. Pine trees maybe. Clara didn’t know. Damn, she was from the city. City kids didn’t know trees. They knew crowded sidewalks and integrated schools.

  Now Jen, she enjoyed killing. Clara shivered recalling her maniacal laugh as they scampered down those apartment building steps.

  As Jen predicted, no police arrived. All the screaming her mother had done and not a soul had phoned for help. At some point, though, the cops would arrive, they’d have to. Would anybody recognize her? She visited her mom only like two or three times in that building a few years ago. She’d changed a lot in that period of time. But was it enough? Damn, she didn’t want to go to jail.

  Clara went to the mirror and examined her reflection. Nope. No sorrow. No regret. Nothing.

  “The bitch deserved it,” she whispered at the stone cold face staring back at her. “They both did.”

  Downstairs, the front door slammed. The sound was quickly followed by shouting and heavy footsteps heading to the kitchen. Clara exited the bathroom, leaving the shirt dangling on the rod—a blue badge of courage—and ran downstairs.

  In the kitchen, Derrick sat in his rolling chair, his face chalk white. Rick paced around and around the table, like a merry-go-round. He wore a mask of rage and something else. Clara thought she recognized it as confusion, but that couldn’t be, not Mr. Rasner, one of the smartest people she knew. He always had the answers. Sometimes knew the questions before they were asked. Jen wore a bit of confusion too as Rick strode around the room. Jen planted her hands on her hips and watched his journey.

  She’d wait for just the right time to break in and ask questions. What could’ve happened? Rick had left with Derrick, Sanaga and Jorge, but came back with just Derrick.

  Who’d done the shouting? She hadn’t been able to tell with the bathroom door shut.

  Derrick wheeled the chair up to the table, forcing Rick to alter his path. He pressed the ON button to boot up his laptop. Moments later, he typed something. Soon after that, he shook his head in frustration.

  What the hell?

  “I take it the mission did not go well?” Jen asked with a sarcastic smile.

  Rick’s answer was to smack the digital clock radio off the counter as he passed. The radio hit the floor with a crack. The glass in front of the digital numbers broke. The plastic case split open like a boil. Its innards gaped the same way Clara’s half-sister’s had on that daybed.

  “I see,” Jen quipped.

  Rick stopped only long enough to roar, “It was a set-up! Straker wasn’t even fucking there. That fucking merc was waiting for us!”

  Jen’s smirk died. “Scarberry.”


  “Right,” Derrick said, looking up from the computer only briefly. His words were clipped, tense. “We had to leave Jun and Jorge there. Chances are they’re dead.”

  “What happened?”

  Derrick threw an accusatory glare at Rick. “We sort of abandoned them.”

  Rick clenched his fists and looked at the refrigerator, then the stove, and countertop. He seemed to be looking for something to punch. His eyes rested on Clara, standing in the doorway. He pulled his fist back and dropped it at his side. Then he took a step toward her.

  “What?” Rick demanded with a rage she had never seen from him before. Clara stumbled backward, trying to get out of the room. She’d been on the receiving end of punches before and wasn’t in a hurry to do so again.

  Rick unclenched his fists and turned his head away. He leaned forward and placed his hands across the table. His cheeks were red, his eyes bloodshot. “I don’t get it, how could they have known?” Rick slammed his palms. This time Derrick steadied the computer before it could move. Rick looked at Jen, still angry and more than a little embarrassed.

  “What is there not to get?” Derrick muttered still eyeing his computer screen. There was an awkward silence that made him glance up.

  “You have something to say?”

  “Not like it would matter. You never listened to what I had to say back then, I doubt seven years of humility would change that.”

  Rick rolled his eyes and turned back to Jen who now leaned against the refrigerator with her arms folded across her chest.

  “Straker wasn’t even there, Jennifer,” Rick continued. “It was all one huge set-up! It was like they knew what we were up to before we even got there.”