Green Lama-Mystic Warrior

by Kevin Olson

  A number of these men carried firearms, both bolt action rifles and broom-handle Mauser pistols, which they had pulled off their backs or drawn from holsters upon gaining their footing. All of these weapons were well worn, appearing as if they had spent a good deal of time on some war-torn battlefield.

  A few attendees had the good sense to try to escape the reception by way of the elevator lobby. Their intentions were cut short as elevator doors opened to reveal several more black-clad warriors. They boldly stepped forward, blocking the escape path, and forcing the intended escapees back into the mass of people now held hostage.

  fff

  Every nerve in Jethro Dumont’s body seemed to explode, throwing him into overdrive, his senses cranked up, his awareness on high.

  He instantly calculated the enemies around the room.

  Everything was scarlet. Everything was madness. He was ready to move.

  But he suddenly stopped.

  His training took over, and he allowed himself one breath, one sharp intake of the pungent air of the room, and that was all that he needed.

  That single breath slowed him and provided a clear vision of what he now faced.

  This was the way of the enlightened.

  And this was the way of the Lama.

  His base instinct was that of man the killer, the hunter, the slayer of his fellow man. But Jethro Dumont had spent years training himself to rise above his own baser beast, to confront these dark days as a beacon of justice, not a deliverer of death.

  Another breath came, and then another. Each one deeper than the last, each expanding into his chest, moving through his blood stream, and opening up his consciousness to the spirit of a shared world.

  He was ready, and Jethro Dumont focused his attention on the armed invaders.

  Though black hoods hid their faces, Dumont could see just enough of their eyes to recognize that these men hailed from the East, either Chinese or Manchurian in origin.

  This assumption was confirmed as one of the men moved forward to address the crowd before him.

  “Silence!” he demanded, his English heavily accented. “You can give us what we demand, or you can die. It’s a simple proposition.”

  As the raiders spread through the room, Dumont used their movement as a counter to his own movements. Moving one arm to the side, he gently took Jean’s hand and moved themboth back against a wall.

  His other hand slid into the inner pocket of his jacket, gently taking hold of a small glass vial. Holding the cylinder tightly in his hand, Dumont used his thumb to quickly unscrew its tin cap, which fell to the museum floor with nary a sound.

  “My men will now move through the room. Give them all your valuables, both currency and jewelry.”

  Several of the dark men pulled canvas satchels from within the folds of their pants pockets. They moved menacingly into the personal space of each partygoer, sometimes shoving a chest, other times harshly gripping a bare arm, collecting any valuables for their sacks.

  Dumont and Jean slid along the wall, moving near a swinging door service entry, a large decorative planting to their side.

  And then he noticed something; several of the raiding party had closed in on Cheng and Mei, taking each by an arm, and then pulling them toward the elevator lobby.

  But their bodyguard wasn’t going along with the plan. As soon as Mei and Cheng were pulled away, he moved in to protect them. The towering Asian seemed to grow several inches as he reared back to strike, but it proved futile. For all his intensity, he was no match for a man who quickly moved up behind him and slammed the small of his back with the wooden butt of his bolt-action rifle.

  Dumont heard a loud crack, not sure if it was the sound of the wood splitting or the bodyguard’s spine. The man dropped to his knees, his head falling either in pain or disgrace.

  Another blow from the rifle butt struck the back of the man’s head and he was down.

  And though the bodyguard had failed, he had provided Jethro Dumont with the opportunity he needed to make a move of his own.

  As the room’s attention was focused on the struggle around Mei and Cheng, Dumont pushed Jean toward the service door.

  “Go,” he whispered. “Look for an escape or find a place to hide. Now!”

  Jean hesitated for a moment, the former Montana farm girl turned big city actress always wanted be in the center of the action, not running from it. But seeing the intensity on Dumont’s face, she decided to take his advice in light of their dire circumstances.

  As the vibrant redhead quickly slid past the swinging door, Dumont brought the glass vial to his lips. He quickly downed its bitter contents, a queer brew of radioactive salts developed by his ally, the esteemed radiologist Dr. Harrison Valco.

  These strange salts provided him with the rare ability to physically em-body his own powers of concentration. Though both fleeting and exhaust-ing in their use, he had found their near-instantaneous enhancements invaluable.

  One of the hooded thugs saw Dumont’s movements and moved on him threateningly, pressing his bolt action rifle up to the playboy’s chin.

  “What did you do? What is that?” he demanded in broken English, savage eyes looking at the test tube in Dumont’s hand.

  “Just taking my medicine,” he replied, slowly raising the small tube, his assailant’s eye following the reflections within the moving glass. Dumont’s fingers suddenly opened, allowing the fragile glass to fall to the floor where it shattered upon impact.

  That was all the distraction that Dumont needed.

  He brought his hand to the bicep of the hooded gunman, delivering a powerful electrical pulse to the man’s body.

  With the aid of the radioactive salts, Dumont had become an electrical conductor; able to focus the static electricity within his own body, and then pass it through as pulses to anyone he touched.

  The delivery of these pulses had an immediate effect, overwhelming the man’s normal nerve traffic, throwing the body into spasms as the brain’s communications with the muscles was interrupted.

  Dumont immediately grasped the man’s rifle before trembling hands dropped it to the floor. With his other arm, he twisted the man to deposit him out of view behind a large, potted monsterio delicio plant.

  ...his attacker was Asian...

  Kneeling over his attacker, Dumont pulled his black hood away. As he suspected, his attacker was Asian in origin, appearing to be Chinese.

  But his appearance was odd. Looking more closely, Dumont saw that the man was entirely hairless, his head completely bald, but he was also bare of any eyebrows or lashes.

  Looking down at the hands which had borne the rifle, Dumont saw that they too were devoid of any type of body hair.

  A curiosity for a later time, Dumont thought. It was time to live in the moment in which he had control; it was time to take the now.

  First, he stripped the hood from his disabled enemy and then drew it over his own head. Accompanied by the dark suit he wore, he hoped that the hood would provide him an extra moment or two to move amongst the enemy before they realized that he was an impostor.

  Next, he brought up the man’s rifle, though choosing to hold it by the barrel, its scratched wooden butt facing outward.

  Life would not be intentionally taken this night. The principles of humanity and justice could coexist.

  But though he held the life force as being sacred, he would still move like water through his enemies. Savage and swift.

  Dumont found Cheng and Mei being hustled toward the elevator lobby.

  This was the reason for the attack. Jewelry or cash were merely spoils of war. The true prize was the diplomat and his wife.

  Dumont started to make his way toward the kidnappers.

  The room was in chaos. People were charging toward the elevators,
trying to escape the bloodshed and gunfire. Their panic only led to death and injury, as the black-hooded assailants let loose a round of bullets at the massing crowd.

  Several people fell to the ground, victims of the cruel act, while the remaining people cowered from the gunfire and turned to run back into the exhibition room.

  Now was the time for his attack, to protect the innocents around him, no matter at what risk to himself.

  Dumont moved, and he moved decisively.

  Taking a few running strides toward the crowd of terrified partygoers, he leaped up and atop a serving table. His feet barely touched the tabletop as he used the surface to propel himself up and over the crowd streaming around him.

  His body sailed through the air, almost stalling in flight as his eyes aligned on the kidnappers holding Mei and Cheng, waiting for one of the elevator doors to open.

  Dumont hit the floor in an arched swan dive roll, his head tucked, the floor abruptly meeting his hands and shoulders. He rode the momentum down his back to his tailbone and then ending the roll by coming to his feet.

  He was in the very midst of the kidnappers, men shocked to see one of their fellow hooded attackers suddenly among them with unclear intent. A swift forward snap kick sent the Mauser flying free from the hand of their supposed leader. Dumont’s leg, never returning to the floor, delivered several, rapid kicks to the man’s hooded head, knocking the mask off and the man to the floor.

  Without hesitation, Dumont spun to the men holding Mei. Dumont immediately executed a hard snap punch. His arm straightened, his wrist twisting, as the blow fell alongside Mei’s head and directly into the face of the man holding the beautiful woman from behind.

  Dumont both felt and heard the resounding crunch of bone through the fabric of the mask. The man lost his grip on Mei as he fell to the floor.

  At the same time, Mei lurched forward, falling into Dumont’s arm, dark hair brushing the rough material of his mask. He never slowed, though focusing on the final target in front of him. One hand pulled Mei’s form tightly against him, both to protect her and swing her out of his way.

  Dumont instantly struck the man holding Cheng.

  Since the hooded assailant held a gun to Cheng’s head, Dumont’s strike was much less overt. With Mei pulled to the side, Dumont simply slid an arm around Cheng and gripped slightly above the outer hip of his captor. His fingers quickly dug deep into the pressure point around the body’s liver meridian as he let loose one final directed burst of static electricity.

  Though the offensive benefits of the radioactive salts were quickly depleted, Dumont prayed to Buddha that he had one last vestige of power left.

  And he did.

  As if standing in a pool of water that was electrified, the hooded captor was frozen in place, his body stiff as the electrical charge took control of his muscles. Combined with the intensity of a charge being delivered directly to his liver’s pressure point, the man was helpless, his gun falling from his hand, his hold on Cheng loosened.

  And as Dumont drew his hand away, Cheng simply stepped free.

  Mei’s hand suddenly shot forward and pulled the mask from Dumont’s head. She was shocked to see the socialite that she had just met standing in front of her. Her alabaster eyes were a mixture of both surprise at what she just witnessed and admiration for the fighting skills presented to her.

  But Dumont had little time to savor her admiration.

  From his peripheral vision, he picked up one last remaining gunman, now targeting him with his pistol. Based on a rapid assessment of his surroundings, Dumont saw little opportunity for cover; his best chance lay in continual movement. His hopes were not high, but his options were slim to none.

  A single shot suddenly rang out and Jethro braced for impact. None came.

  Instead a fatal bullet felled his stalker. Like a marionette cut from his strings, he dropped to the ground.

  Dumont turned to see Jean Farrell, her auburn curls brushed back off her right shoulder, holding a battered bolt-action rifle in a bladed shooting stance.

  Dumont was not surprised. He had told her to hide, but his fiery friend from Oklahoma must have liberated a rifle from one of the downed men and decided to take action into her own hands.

  Through their past adventures, he could think of very few times that she had ever listened to any advice he had imparted.

  “One cannot change the course of the roaring river,” he thought, “One can only decide on how far they choose to follow it.”

  Dumont’s eyes met Jean’s. She simply raised a beautifully arched brow to him and nodded her head, both of them then surveying the room to assure that the danger had been eliminated.

  fff

  It took some time for the calm to be restored to the Museum of Modern Art. Soon after Jean Farrell had dispatched the last of the raiders, New York City’s finest had arrived on the scene, responding to a call of shots fired.

  It was disorder at first, the police attempting to comprehend the horrendous nature of the attack, separating the victims from the attackers, the wounded from the dead.

  It was only when Lt. John Caraway, head of the New York Police Department’s Special Crime Squad, took control of the scene that the crime scene was properly secured.

  Dumont stayed on a bit longer than most of the guests, as Caraway had become sociable with the well-traveled playboy since his return to the city.

  As the NYPD’s Special Crime Squad gathered the raiders, they unmasked each of them unceremoniously. Dumont expected to find that the unmasked attackers were of Chinese origin, but he was surprised to find out that they all shared the same, off-putting characteristic of utter hairlessness.

  Each was bald, but their lack of hair extended over the remainder of their bodies as well. Each man shared an odd, waxy appearance, though their hard looks made clear that these were men accustomed to blood and the battlefield.

  Why such as a queer, shared characteristic as total hairlessness? This was a peculiar occurrence, one best suited to the tradecraft of the Green Lama.

  Prior to Cheng and Mei leaving with their bodyguard, Dumont pre-sented them with a request: would they entertain a visit from his friend, Rev. Dr. Pali, an ordained priest in the Lamaist sect of Buddhism?

  He felt that Pali would be a spiritual reprieve for the couple, a holy man able to bring great comfort in times of trial, but also one who had proven valuable as a consultant to the New York Police Force in exotic and esoteric criminal investigations.

  Cheng easily agreed to seeing Pali first thing in the morning, believing that the visit would bring great support to his wife, while helping them both come to terms with the evening’s misfortunes.

  fff

  In the late pre-dawn hours of a new day, a small butter candle illumi-nated a Buddhist shine in an uptown apartment house. Jethro Dumont sat in front of a mirror, but the man gazing back at him was no longer the Manhattan socialite.

  His skin was now a ruddy shade of brown, his face fuller. Arched brows, one a bit higher and somewhat inquisitive in its positioning, framed warm eyes. A touch of gray ran through his temples, enhancing the trustworthiness of his features.

  Jethro Dumont was gone, replaced by Buddhist priest and revered teacher Rev. Dr. Pali.

  The transformation into Dr. Pali was more than assuming a false identity for Dumont. Certainly his make-up was flawless, having trained under the tutelage of Marcel du Plessis, one of the greatest make-up artists of the time.

  No, taking on the role of the wise Buddhist touched Dumont deeply. Dr. Pali was the man that Jethro Dumont wished to be; strong, wise, and compassionate, easily in control of his emotions and existing purely within the flow of the universe.

  The man now known as Dr. Pali stood up from his dressing table and walked along a wall of bookshelves, rows and rows of everything
from obscure Buddhist texts to modern scientific journals. Stopping at a long bench, he pressed a concealed button hidden in its edge. A microphone rose up from its interior as Pali leaned forward. Hesitating for the sending antenna to click into place on his apartment rooftop, he then proceeded to speak with a firm voice into the microphone.

  “Calling Jean Farrell. Calling Jean Farrell. Nimitta, Nibbána; lobba, dosa, moha. Calling Jean Farrell....”

  It didn’t take long. Soon, a salty voice descended from a ceiling-mounted speaker system.

  “Jean Farrell coming in. How can I be of service?”

  “Justice and truth seek your assistance,” Pali stated in the strong voice of the Green Lama. “A woman recently came to Police Headquarters at 240 Centre Street, hairless and carrying the severed head of her boyfriend. Little is known of the events surrounding her plight.”

  “I saw the story in yesterday’s Sentinel. Quite disturbing,” Jean replied.

  “Find the woman and ascertain the details of her situation.” The Green Lama commanded. “My best guess would be that the police have her under observation at New York Hospital-Cornell Medical Center.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out,” Jean responded, her voice far more enthusiastic than it had a right to be.

  Without a goodby, he terminated their connection. It was nearing sunrise, and the Green Lama had much work to do.

  fff

  The holy man arrived at the brownstone as the pale morning sunlight cast vertical bands of light across the shadows of Lafayette Street.

  He was wearing a deep green business suit, almost black when not being touched by the rays of the sun. Under the suit, he wore a light green ecclesiastical shirt and collar, the sacred symbol of Om engraved in black on the clergyman’s collar. A silk scarf of brilliant red hung down over his shoulders, bringing a flash of style to the otherwise orthodox clergy garb.