Green Lama-Mystic Warrior

by Kevin Olson

  Turner glanced to Sun. His fiancée nodded only once.

  “I will work for you,” Turner said.

  “Excellent. Then you can help me uncover my only lead. He played his cards far too close to the table. In doing so, he exposed himself as an enemy to me and to all mankind. Tell me what you know of your colleague, Agent Good?”

  fff

  It was another full day before they made their move. Jethro Dumont spent the time in the city, never far from the local headquarters of the United States Department of the Treasury. Their base of operations was anything but spectacular, just a small office front in a multistory building a block down from the downtown police plaza. Turner gave him the details of the location. About twelve agents worked out of the building at any time, split evenly between basic Treasury investigators tasked with fraud issues and full Secret Service agents working against organized crime in the city. The agents currently operated without a senior officer in charge after the previous chief moved back to Washington to accept a higher post in Roosevelt’s administration. This left the agents all on equal footing. Their case load was a mess according to Turner with no one assigned officially to anything. It was the kind of situation that would allow an agent with criminal ties to flourish.

  It seemed Good was anything but his namesake. Turner filled the Lama in on the details of his fellow agent. John Good was a former leg breaker operating out of Chicago; he was famous for his tough guy image. But even then, it seemed he used his talents to help the rise of the Capone mob while helping local law enforcement corner any rising opposition. His commanding officer, probably as corrupt as he was, gave him the recommendation that brought Good to the federal level. Now he served an organized crime ring while working as an agent to bring organized crime down in the city.

  Good left the building multiple times over the course of the day and Jethro Dumont discreetly followed him to each of his meetings.

  His first stop was a local opium den. Jethro watched Good collect the profits there in an unmarked paper bag. Good casually threw it in the seat of his car before moving on to his next stop: a brothel near the pier. Again he received an unmarked paper bag, but this time he disappeared into a room for nearly a half hour with one of the madam’s ladies.

  He climbed back into his car and started back through the city. Over the course of the next several hours, he visited a pair of brothels, one in the less savory part of the city, one of the high rent district. He also stopped at the pier to meet what looked like the local opium distributors. At each stop, he picked up another bag almost certainly stuffed with American currency.

  It seemed all too clear that Good was the money man for the Black Ring. His position in the Treasury Department gave him air air of legitimacy. He used it to walk in and out of these dens of iniquity with few questions asked. Of course, someone investigating the mob might need to visit less savory locations. Few individuals in his own department would question a Treasury man, and no police officer would bat his eye at a Treasury agent carrying a bit too much money should they stop him. It was a nearly perfect con.

  At least to anyone other than the Green Lama.

  Good wasn’t just dirty. He was far more than a simple stooge. Jethro knew one of Vong Den’s lieutenants when he saw them. Good was of great importance to the Black Ring and therefore the perfect target for tracking down their leader. He made a clear mistake targeting the Lama back at the warehouse. He tipped his hand far too early.

  Now the Lama had his way in.

  They made their move, as planned, in the evening. Turner left with Good, both men exiting the building within seconds of one another. Turner chatted harmlessly with his corrupt coworker.

  The Green Lama watched from the shadows of a nearby alleyway and waited as they moved the several yards down the street to their cars. Sun sprang out from behind Good’s car as they approached. She held a gun in her hand and waved it wildly at Good.

  “Where is he? Where is my brother?”

  Good didn’t even bat an eye at the sight of the weapon.

  “You are making a mistake, miss,” Good said.

  “Am I? I think you know all about the Black Ring! Now tell me where my brother is!”

  Good smiled. He turned away from Sun and looked at Turner before he turned back to the woman. “You misunderstand me, Tsarong Sun. Your mistake is thinking that you and Perry here have the drop on me. In truth, you’ve walked into my trap.”

  Still in the shadows, the Green Lama saw them coming. At least a dozen figures emerged from all around them, as if out of nowhere. These were not the simpletons in warrior’s clothing that he defeated at Mike Washington’s home. These were the true acolytes of the Black Ring, the most trusted soldiers of Vong Den. These were Chinese warriors trained from childhood at the arts or death, raised to strike a kill from the shadows. Turner and Sun would be slaughtered.

  The Green Lama sprung from his hiding place, but it proved to be just another error in his plan. The Black Ring were already all around him, dropping down to surround him. They struck with cold, calculated fury. Within a second, they had him trapped, surrounded by the deadly blades of their ninjato.

  He could only hope they still underestimated him. Their ninjato were held with the skills of a true shadow warrior. These men knew how to use them, but they may not know who they used them against and the powers that he held.

  The Green Lama dodged a swing from the deadly blade of one assassin only to walk into another’s path. He threw a hand up as the ninjato silently swiped through the air. The back of his hand struck the flat of the blade and forced the deadly blow away.

  The Green Lama rolled back and away from that killer, but the move brought him near two more shadow warriors. His hands disappeared into the pockets of his cloak. They each wrapped around very specific bottles of his radioactive salts. He clutched both tightly as the assassins once again closed on him.

  He flicked the stopper off each vial as he let them slowly encircle them. This time the shadow warriors did not attack wildly. They closed slowly, each ready to strike him down as he fought one of their brothers. He could feel their confidence. They thought they had him, even as he splashed the salt onto the skin of his hands.

  They came at him at once. He rose up and roared for all of them to hear.

  “Om mani padme hum!”

  He lashed out with the roar of thunder. When he struck, his hand exploded like a burst of lightning. Electricity struck his foe and instantly the would-be assassin flew into the air. He struck the wall of the alleyway and slumped down, not moving.

  The Green Lama’s hand ached but nowhere near how bad his broken enemy would when he awoke.

  He wasted not a second in contemplation of his beaten foe, as he had three more to stop. He turned and blasted another shadow warrior with a swift salt-powered strike to the solar plexus. He could already tell though that he would not escape unscathed.

  Two more warriors emerged to strike him from behind, faster than even he could react. He rolled forward with the blows, but still their ninjatos cut deep into his back, even as he found himself face to face with another shadow warrior.

  Blood flowed freely from his back and caked into his cloak as the Green Lama brought his hands up and blasted away the man in front of him before the shadow warrior could strike.

  He turned and blasted the two shadow warriors that struck him before with twin lightning fists, even as they closed to attack again. But the shadow warriors knew they faced a master and four more moved to close on him. They pummeled and slashed and the Lama could do nothing but fall to his knees, unable to strike back.

  The Green Lama reached again into his cloak and found another bottle of the salts. He hurled it to the ground as far in front of him as he could. The blast rang through the alleyway as the vial exploded with a burst of pure green fire. The shadow war
riors and the Lama were all hurled into the air. As he was ready for the force of the explosion and shielded from its flames by the assassins, the Lama was able to land on his feet and roll with the force of the blast. The Black Ring’s soldiers were not so lucky.

  The Green Lama stood alone, but the warriors were not all defeated, he realized, as he looked toward Good, Turner and Sun.

  His two allies were each flanked by a pair of the shadow warriors. Turner and Sun each had a ninjato held to their throat. Good stood between them, his hands calmly held behind him as he looked at the Green Lama.

  “You could very well survive this fight,” Good said. “You might even beat me and all these men. But your friends will die if you do not surrender right now.”

  “You monster! You will pay for this!”

  “Will I?” Good said. “I’m not so sure. Whatever the case, I will only extend my offer once more. Do you surrender? My master would have a word with you before you die.”

  The Green Lama knew he was outmaneuvered; for now. Again things were far from his control. But his goal had always been locating and beating Vong Den. If surrender would save his allies and take him to the Ring’s leader, it seemed his choice was all too simple.

  “I surrender. Take me to Vong Den.”

  fff

  They transported Jethro Dumont—ßsans his ceremonial robes—Perry Turner and Sun by car, but Good and his companions blindfolded them before throwing them in the back of a freight truck. The route was long and circuitous, far more than necessary, Jethro guessed. He knew that this was for his sake. They did not want him retracing his steps here easily should he escape their clutches.

  Caution was always Vong Den’s trademark. The criminal leader clearly had not changed since their last meeting in Hong Kong.

  After nearly an hour on the road, ticked off by Jethro one second at a time in his mind, they finally came to a stop. Still blindfolded, they were escorted on foot through the cool night air into a much warmer room.

  The heat here was almost furnace-like. It was a moist heat though, much like the natural steam rooms under the monastery in Tibet. The humidity in the air reminded him of the tropics on a hot summer day.

  Jethro heard the shuffling of feet across the rocks beneath their feet, the sound of creatures far from human. The pad was rough and low to the ground, perhaps a crocodile or alligator, but the creatures seemed far more massive.

  A hand to his back shoved Jethro Dumont to the ground. As he fell to his knees, the blindfold was yanked from his eyes.

  He stared up into the face of a massive beast, a dragon come alive.

  “Impressive, are they not?”

  The animal was a komodo dragon. Jethro recognized them from an encyclopedia only, as even in his travels he never encountered such a beast. It was almost as tall as him and nearly twenty feet in length from head to tail. The dragon was far larger than his near perfect memory could recall the beasts growing. And it was not alone. A second dragon growled in the distance.

  The dragon was pulled back toward the wall by a chain around its throat. Jethro could now see he was in a large antechamber. To each side of him, the great komodo dragons were chained to the side walls. In front of him sat a large throne. A familiar green robe sat across it, clearly delivered to Vong Den before the removal of his blindfold. Three young women were chained to it, almost certainly the concubines of Vong Den. His lascivious nature had been legendary in Hong Kong and it seemed little had changed about that since his arrival in the United States.

  Vong Den stood in front of his throne, alongside a figure dressed in heavy robes, ordained with the circle of the Black Ring. Vong Den was naked from the waist up. With no shirt, the mark that gave his organization its name was all too clear. A burnt ring of flesh formed a perfect circle around his heart, an old scar left there, the punishment placed on him upon his exile from the Tibetan lamasery.

  “My pets are quite rare creatures. They live only in the most remote of locations and these two specimens are the largest ever recorded. They were too beautiful for me to leave behind when I traveled from Hong Kong, where you and your man left me for dead all those years ago. And since I came here to see you killed, it seems apt to let my pets pick your bones.”

  “You always were melodramatic, Vong Den. You swore you would destroy Tsarong and me back in Hong Kong. Instead we left you floating face down in the Pacific. Clearly you survived, but your luck won’t hold a second time. This time you will end up in jail or dead, mark my words.”

  “Impressive, are they not?”

  Vong Den’s gut shook as he chuckled. “On this we can agree. One of us dies today. But it will not be me. I will enjoy watching your demise, Jethro Dumont.”

  “We will see,” Jethro simply said.

  The shadow warriors came in from behind him. Before he could move, he felt the salts forced into the wounds on his back. The pain was massive, but he knew the purpose of the radioactive salts. They would heal him, staunch the remaining flow of blood and leave him a fighting chance in the coming battle. It was an almost honorable move on Vong Den’s part.

  Turner and Sun were pulled to the side of the room, near one of the komodo dragons. A pair of shadow warriors flanked each of them. Their ninjatos were out and ready to strike down either of the pair should Jethro not cooperate with Vong Den’s plans. A single command would mean his allies’ deaths, of this Jethro had no doubt.

  “Strike them down and you will be next,” Jethro said to Vong Den and his men. “No one will stop my fury should another innocent die this day. Now face me, Vong Den. Let us end this.”

  “Fight you? I have no interest in fighting you. The last time I made that mistake, you soundly beat me. I do not make the same mistake twice. No, I have chosen someone quite special to face you.

  The robed man stepped forward. He grabbed the front of his white robes and pulled them slowly down and off of him. Bare chested, dressed in a simple gi and painted with the Black Ring around his heart, he was still instantly recognizable without his usual accoutrements. Jethro stood across from his old friend Tsarong.

  His friend’s eyes were glassy, clearly muddled by some drug or dark power.

  “You fiend! What have you done to him?”

  “It was quite fascinating, actually,” Vong Den said. “My men found him working in a simple ethnic store, working as a fishmonger. He was completely unaware of his history and answered only to the name Ping. But he was so poor, he was more than willing to speak with me and hear the offer of the Black Ring. It proved quite easy from that point to dose him with the correct mix of drugs to make him my loyal servant. From there, it seemed more than fitting that you die at the hands of your best friend!”

  Without another word from Vong Den, Tsarong lunged toward Jethro Dumont. Jethro ducked out of the way of the deadly blow; the shot had been aimed at his jaw and certainly would have snapped his neck. It was quite clear Vong Den did not exaggerate. Tsarong would not hesitate to kill him.

  Jethro rose up and struck his friend with a forearm to the sternum. It was a move designed to cause pain and momentarily disable his foe without any permanent damage. Tsarong took the blow without even a grimace.

  Tsarong delivered a spinning strike in return. The blow sent Jethro tumbling to the ground.

  He was in trouble. He could not kill his oldest ally, even with his mind subsumed by Vong Den’s drugs. But Tsarong would kill him if he could not get through to his friend.

  “Tsarong, you don’t have to do this. You don’t have to fight me!”

  Tsarong said nothing. He just closed with Jethro and threw a hard punch toward Jethro’s head. Jethro twisted his neck to avoid it. He rolled across the ground.

  His former friend did not let up for a second, striking again and again as Jethro dodged his way back. He struck the side of Vong Den’s throne.
Jethro knew he was cornered, unable to escape his friend’s deadly strikes.

  “Tsarong, please remember!”

  He loomed over Jethro, his hand raised and ready to deliver the final killing blow. Jethro knew this was it. He had no escape and his friend would not listen to him, would not remember.

  “Tsarong, stop!”

  Sun’s words cut through the air. Tsarong hesitated, his hand shook, but did not strike. He looked across the room and met Sun’s eyes.

  “Tsarong, he is your friend. You must remember!”

  Tsarong’s fist continued to shake. Jethro reached up and grabbed his friend’s arm, clenched it tightly in his grip. “You don’t have to do this, brother. We can fight together. You must only remember. And perhaps I can help you with that. Perhaps….”

  Jethro’s hand closed tightly around his friend’s arm. He clenched his eyes shut and centered his chi. With one perfect breath, he found his inner calm and felt the words rise on his lips.

  “Om! Ma-ni pad-me Hum!”

  Tsarong’s body shook as if struck by lightning. His eyes grew wide as he threw his head back and screamed.

  The komodo dragons joined his roar a moment later.

  “Release them,” Vong Den said. The panic was evident in his voice. “Release the dragons and kill them all!”

  The dragon’s chains slackened and the two massive lizards rushed forward. An unfortunate shadow warrior stood in the path of one and was quickly trampled and skewered by the dragon’s claws.

  It was clear the beasts were trained only to kill, not to discern ally from enemy. Nothing would stand in their path of destruction. Nothing but the Green Lama.

  Jethro charged the nearest beast as it finished tearing the shadow warrior to pieces. He drove one fist hard into the dragon’s snout. The blow was enough to stun the massive beast, but would only give it pause momentarily.