Green Lama-Mystic Warrior

by Kevin Olson

  “Uh, your eminence, er…”

  “He escaped your grasp. You sent your incompetent men and he made short work of them. Is this correct?”

  “Well, I…”

  “Is this correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I warned you, Mister Baxter. I told you the lowly training of your operatives would make them no match for the Green Lama. But you insisted you could handle him, did you not?”

  “He was just one man! Some schmo no one even knew!”

  “He is far from just one simple man. He is one of the most highly trained warriors in the world. He possesses more power in one hand than you could even imagine. You have failed and exposed us. Now I will have to handle this matter personally.”

  “Personally, sir? I thought I could…”

  “You have served me for long enough, Mister Baxter. Your services are no longer required.”

  “No longer needed? Look, I’ve worked my way up this organization for years! I’ll be damned if you think you’re just going to throw me by the wayside!”

  “I believe you misunderstand me, Mister Baxter.”

  The girls scattered to the floor as Vong Den shot up out of his lounge. He covered the fifteen feet between him and Baxter in a blink of the eye.

  He struck only once, a powerful, graceful thrust to Baxter’s throat. By the time, the lieutenant realized his throat was crushed, he was well past saving.

  Baxter’s corpse fell to the floor, his eyes still wide from the shock of his own death. Vong Den stood over him for just a second. A broad grin crossed his face. It felt good to work again. It seemed far too long since his last kill.

  He walked back to the lounge and picked up the phone receiver. Immediately the other end of the line picked up, the direct line always answered by one of his men.

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “Mister Good, Baxter has failed me in his task. Green Lama is in the city. Mobilize everyone. I want him caught.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Vong Den hung up the phone. His wishes were clear. Neither he nor Good had any need for pleasantries. He looked down at the three women. He silently beckoned them back to his body.

  He hadn’t felt this alive in years. Soon his prey would finally be in his grasp.

  fff

  Still in his street clothes, Jethro Dumont, the Green Lama, felt almost naked on the streets. He walked casually down the street. He had been on foot for nearly an hour now, making his way down the four miles of road between Mike Washington’s home and his nearest apartment safe house. He placed a half dozen of the rooms across the city, all in mind for the day he might need a spare costume or a place to hide from overanxious lawmen.

  He entered the building, climbed to the second floor and quickly found the spare key hidden in the potted plant across the hall from his door. He entered the apartment and headed to the bedroom.

  The tenant wasn’t here. He didn’t really live here on a regular basis. His job was just to maintain three of the safe houses, stopping in once every few days to make the home seem lived in. In this economy, it wasn’t unusual for someone to be working twelve or sixteen hour days to make ends meet, so the other residents wouldn’t be too suspicious of an irregular schedule.

  The closet was filled with a full wardrobe, from simple overalls and work clothes to three piece suits. Jethro chose a business suit, nothing too expensive, but far past the old, beat up clothes he currently wore. He quickly changed out of the old outfit and into the suit. It was properly sewn for his frame, just one of many outfits replicated by a discreet tailor.

  He checked his appearance in the full length mirror just to the left of the closet. He took a moment to properly tie his necktie, and then adjusted his attire until he was satisfied with his appearance. He couldn’t let people see Jethro Dumont in anything less than his best.

  He reached out to the mirror and found the latch hidden on its side. He clicked it open and the mirror swung out to reveal a second, hidden closet.

  Dumont pulled out the familiar green robe inside the secret chamber. He knew he would have great need of it in the days ahead.

  He checked the cloak’s many pockets and verified his stores of radioactive salts were in place. He picked up the card left for him by Perry Turner and the mysterious Sun. He went to the kitchen phone and dialed the number.

  “Treasury Department, may I help you?” The voice was unfamiliar. This man was certainly not Sun and he sounded nothing like Agent Turner.

  “Where’s Turner?”

  “He is out of the office at the moment. May I take your message or be of assistance?”

  “I need to meet with him immediately.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. He is not available. I am Special Agent Wendell Good. Perhaps there is some way I can help you?”

  “The pier. Lot 167. It’s a warehouse. Tell him to meet Washington there. Do you have that message?”

  Good was silent for a moment. “Yeah, sure, buddy. I…”

  “Enough chit chat. Tell him. It is of the utmost importance that he meets me there.”

  Dumont hung up the phone. He would need to move fast if he was to reach the pier by nightfall.

  fff

  It was well past dusk by the time Dumont exited his taxi at the edge of the city pier. He made his way on foot the last several blocks to Lot 167. He found a broken down old warehouse upon his arrival, its windows shattered and its interior completely black. It matched any number of other storage areas on the pier, all left with nothing to hold in the wake of the Depression. He donned his cloak as he reached the outskirts of the lot.

  The Green Lama snuck through the shadows of the warehouse, invisible to all but the most trained of his eyes. The green of his robes were just dark enough to meld with the darkness and his training taught him any number of stealth techniques to move him through the shadows.

  He found the front gates locked, secured by heavy chains and padlocks. He could pick them, but just removing them would make more noise than he would like. He moved around the building to find another point of entry.

  He found a side door to the building unlocked and leaning slightly open. He thought it strange to see any lot in the area left unsecured. It invited squatters in a city with so many homeless men and women just fighting to stay alive. The Lama could only guess that the Black Ring’s presence was known here and the threat of their actions was enough to keep all but the least intelligent away from Lot 167.

  The building was dark and empty. Even with his highly trained senses, the Green Lama couldn’t see through the blackness. He worked his way toward the front of the building and the secured doors. Once he reached them, it took only seconds to find the switch for the main lights near them.

  Power flowed into the room with a low hum. Light flooded the dirty empty room. Much to the Lama’s dismay, it also exposed the body in the center of the large open warehouse.

  The Lama ran to the still form, but he already suspected there was no hope for the man. The body lay on his stomach and the Lama carefully rolled him over. He was fair skinned and dark haired. His eyes sat open and vacant, all life gone from them.

  The Lama quickly checked the man’s pockets, in search of any form of identification or any clue of the man’s identity whatsoever. He found nothing save a single piece of jewelry, a thick band carved from the darkest obsidian. A Black Ring, clearly a mark left by the man’s killers.

  “Stop where you are! Raise your hands above your head or we will shoot!”

  The Lama turned toward the side door from which he entered. Three plain clothed federal agents held their sidearms on him. He recognized the voice of the speaker almost instantly; this was the Treasury Department man that answered his call earlier. But why would he follow the call, instead of passing the message to Turn
er?

  Clearly these men didn’t know who he was or why he was here. They were armed and saw him standing over a dead body as they entered. The Green Lama knew when he faced trouble, but this was all too pat. All too easily set up.

  “Agent Good, I told you to send Turner, not come yourself.”

  “I don’t know who the hell you are, but I told you he wasn’t around. I just thought it would be a good idea to check out a call from a mystery man. Looks like I managed to walk in at just the right moment.”

  “You can’t honestly think I would call you here and then kill a man? I’m no fool. No, I don’t think that is what is happening here at all. I think I have been set up.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Good said. “You need to raise your hands above your head and surrender or we will shoot.”

  “I cannot do that. I am afraid I cannot remain. I have too much to do if I am to stop the Black Ring. Do you know of them, Agent Good?”

  “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Good’s gun lowered slightly. The Lama could see the sweat bead on his head. He was nervous, scared of something.

  Good quickly strengthened his grip on his gun. “Stay there and raise your hands or I will shoot! You’re not leaving the scene of this crime, guilty or innocent.”

  “I did not kill this man.” The Green Lama rose to his feet. His right hand slipped into his robe, found the pocket hidden inside. “But I may know who did.”

  “You can tell us all about it at police headquarters,” Good said.

  “Alas, that is not what will happen today.”

  The Green Lama opened his hand and slammed the vial of radioactive salts down hard on the ground. The salts exploded into a flash of dazzling light, one of Tsarong’s latest creations for his crime fighting endeavors. The Lama closed his own eyes just before the vial shattered, but even through his eyelids, he could see the blinding white light.

  He kept his eyes closed as he charged forward, straight toward the Treasury agents and his only path to escape. He heard them yell, felt the shift in air currents as they waved their weapons wildly in hope of finding their green-cloaked target.

  The Lama leapt into the air as he reached the agents, splitting his legs and driving each one into the chest of an agent. The two men sprawled to the ground, but before Lama even landed, he knew neither was Good.

  Good had gone quiet, probably dropped to the ground. He knew the defenses against blind fighting, an interesting bit of knowledge for a simple Treasury agent. The Lama would have to keep a close eye on this one, but not now. He still needed to find Turner and the woman that called herself Sun.

  The Lama ran out into the night and let the shadows cloak his trail.

  The salts exploded into a flash of dazzling light…

  He fought the fury rising inside him, silently chanted mantras of serenity. Too much was outside his control. It was not a feeling he liked.

  He would need to take the initiative and for that he would need new allies.

  fff

  Perry Turner and Sun stood outside the apartment building of Mike Washington. Thy conferred with the remaining uniformed officers. The police seemed rather annoyed at their continued presence at the crime scene; so many hours after the agents of the Black Ring were carted away.

  The Green Lama waited in the shadows as Turner finished with them. When the last officer climbed into his car and pulled away, the Lama swooped down from his hiding place, a fire escape on the building directly across from his, Mike’s, old apartment. He landed just inches in front of Turner and Sun’s car as they approached it.

  The Treasury agent and the mystery woman stopped short. Turner’s hand flashed to his side, wrapping around the handle of his gun.

  The Green Lama rose to his full height. His face was cloaked by his heavy hood despite these two individuals clearly knowing his true identity.

  “We need to speak, Agent Turner. And you have been less than truthful with me, young lady. Your name is not Sun, just as mine was not truly Mike Washington. Nor do I think you are now or have ever been employed by the Secret Service or the Department of the Treasury.”

  “I see your memory has returned, my Lama.” Sun dropped to one knee and bowed her head, a mark of supplication the Green Lama knew well. The villagers below the monastery used it in the presence of a learned monk, a holy man. It was the bow of those that knew the ancient order of monks he trained under in Tibet, the bow of the people that the missing Tsarong called his own.

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Tsarong Sun. My brother is your sworn ally. He asked me to visit in his last letter home, many months ago, but after all the traveling I have done; I came to a city where he seems to never have existed. I feared he rested in the hands of the Black Ring, so I contacted the man that helped me get into your country, Agent Turner.”

  “Helped you get into the country?” the Lama said.

  “I was not a legal immigrant and knew nothing about papers when I boarded the boat that took me from China to the city of Los Angeles. I was lucky enough to meet Agent Turner aboard the boat and he helped me file the right paperwork while aboard and well…”

  “What Sun is trying to say is that we fell in love,” Turner said. “We wait only to find her brother before we set the date for our marriage.”

  The Lama looked between the man and woman in front of him.

  “I see. This is not what I expected. I supposed something more nefarious may be at work, but no matter. If this is truly the case, I wish you both the best. But first, we have more pressing matters to attend.”

  “Like finding my brother and destroying the Black Ring,” Sun said. “We must make them pay for kidnapping my brother.”

  “I’m not so sure they kidnapped your brother in the first place,” the Green Lama said. “The men that came for Mike Washington were clearly agents of the Black Ring, but they had no idea of my location until they tracked you to his home.”

  “His?” Turner said.

  The Green Lama ignored the lingering question. “The Black Ring are a foul lot. Their origins rest in the South China Sea, a band of pirates and brigands that date back a hundred years, though they did not gain a formal name until they were organized by their latest leader. I fought them in Hong Kong before I ever made my return to America. I thought I destroyed them, but it seems they have followed be back to these shores. I fear this crime wave may be my fault.”

  “How so?”

  The Lama did not meet Turner’s eyes as the question lingered in the air.

  “I knew their leader, a man named Vong Den. Both Tsarong and I did.”

  “You knew him,” Sun said. “How?”

  “He was a member of the order until he killed one of our brothers. I had been there only a few weeks at the time, but I watched as he was expelled from our ranks. He fought like a mad man, but even his skills were not enough to defeat all the masters. They branded him with a mark of shame; a black circle burnt into his chest and expelled him from Tibet forever.”

  The Lama shook his head. “He was on the path to becoming a true lama. He could have been in my stead had he not walked the dark path he chose.”

  “If my brother knew this, could he have altered your memory, perhaps as a way to hide you from this Vong Den? Could he be responsible for your Mike Washington alias?”

  “I think not,” the Green Lama said. “He has the needed skills in hypnosis to perform such a feat, but I am not sure if he could work their power on me. More importantly, I do not think he would commit such a heinous act, even to protect me.”

  “Heinous,” Turner said. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “In order to submerge my identity under that of another, the hypnotist needed to create another person, a wholly generated human over my own psyche. Mike Washington wa
s as real as you or I. When my mind returned and I escaped the Black Ring’s assassins, he died, lost forever. His memories remain, but they are only a phantom of the man. Mike Washington is a dead man, whether or not a body remains.”

  Turner said nothing. Sun reached out a hand, rested it on the Lama’s shoulder.

  “I am sorry. I feel your pain, great lama. If only I could ease it.”

  The Green Lama nodded his head. “Your concern is enough. Thank you, Tsarong Sun.”

  “I’m sorry for your…” Turner paused, chewing his lip. “…loss, I suppose is the best word. But it doesn’t change the fact the Black Ring is out there and they want you dead, at least if Mike’s apartment is any sign.”

  “That much is clear,” the Green Lama said. “And they seem more than willing to use the city’s police to accomplish that goal. They abandoned their warehouse meeting place and left one of their own dead on the site. They did all of this to set me up, to make the Green Lama appear to be a murderer. I suspect the murdered man most likely was the one behind the failed attack, if Vong Den’s past treatment of his lieutenants is any sign. But even if the police do learn his identity, the Black Ring covers their tracks well enough to keep his name off any wanted lists.”

  Turner shook his head. “But if the dead man has no ties and the people you cut down here know nothing, we’re back at square one. How do we find the Black Ring and this Vong Den?”

  “You know much about me, Agent Turner, more than even some of my agents are aware. I will find this Vong Den and destroy him, but before I accept the assistance from you I must know this. I must have an answer if you are willing to give me what is necessary to trust you. Will you sit in my service, answer to my needs, as long as you are needed?”

  “Service? What do you…?”

  “Will you aid me or will you not?”