Rise: Luthecker, #2

by Keith Domingue

  Chodak would live to eighty-seven, dying peacefully in his sleep, cardiac arrest the cause, while Choden would pass from this world at the age of eighty-five, the result of an infection due to a broken hip caused by a fall.

  Alex shook the images of these men’s lives from his mind and tried to stay focused on the moment. He reminded himself that the events he saw were far away, and that these two monks were deeply spiritual beings who did not fear death. He broke from his thoughts to find the brothers watching him with curiosity.

  “You are the pattern reader,” said Chodak.

  Alex thought about Chodak’s words a moment before replying. He sensed it was the brother’s own instincts that caused the men to reach this conclusion about him, and not simply the information shared in their previous communications.

  “Yes.”

  “A shaman,” Choden added, with a sense of declaration.

  It was a label that had been put on Alex before.

  “No, No, I told you; that’s not it at all. I just see patterns. In nature, in social constructs, in people.”

  “Mystic then,” Choden tried again.

  “No. Look—it’s not that mysterious. The universe is filled with countless patterns, some that intersect and some that do not but all of which are related, and collectively it’s something I call the momentum. These patterns are everywhere and part of everything, and we all see them. I just see them way better than anyone else.”

  The two brothers met Alex’s statement with blank stares, and Alex realized he was being impatient with them. It was a source of frustration for Alex, his own impatience, and the reactions it caused were a habit he continually worked hard to break. He took a deep breath to slow his thoughts and tried to explain.

  “The ocean tides, they follow a cycle, or a pattern. Birds migrate in a consistent pattern. Mathematics consists of nothing but patterns. Societies, human needs, all follow distinct patterns. Hell, most people have made every decision they are going to ever make by the time they are ten years old—everything beyond that is just reconciliation to those original choices, those original patterns of behavior. It’s not magic, it’s not mystical; it’s math.”

  Both men continued to smile at Alex.

  “And yet; you come here. A Holy place. A Mystic place. Seeking answers,” Chodak replied. “What is prayer, if not a repetitive mantra or pattern?”

  “You claim to see the lives of people. And how they will meet their end,” Choden continued. “My brother and I, our lives are open. We know who we are. We know why we are here. But what of your own life? Do you see your own end?”

  Alex sat back in his chair.“No. Not my life. I can’t…observe the observer. And I’m not completely foolproof with others, either.” Alex realized he was looking at the floor.

  “And the ones you love?”

  Alex slowly met the curious stares of the two brothers. “They’re part of me.”

  The constant smile remained intact on both the brother’s faces, and they nodded simultaneously, as if they had heard what they wanted to hear.

  “We will take you to the Potala Palace. At midnight, when all in the palace—all in Lhasa—is quiet. Please; meet us outside of this place at that time.”

  The two brothers got up from the table and bowed slightly at Alex. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Luthecker,” Choden stated.

  “Kunchin is very curious about you,” Chodak added, almost baiting Alex, before the brothers turned toward the exit.

  Alex watched the brothers walk away. He instinctively looked for Choden’s limp, knowing the unsteady gait would eventually lead to the fall and eventually to the man’s end many years from now. He saw it, the slight pronation of the hip that caused an unsteady list to the left. Chodak saw and expected the list as well, and he instinctively steadied his brother before the men disappeared out the door.

  3

  Los Angeles

  Master Winn Germaine sat on the edge of the Santa Monica beach lifeguard tower and watched two of his students, Chris Aldrich and Yaw Chinomso, spar with well-disciplined fury, using the weaponry of kali sticks. Kali, or Eskrima stick fighting, consisted of two or more combatants using a pair of two-and-a-half-foot bamboo sticks as an extension of empty-handed combat technique. A pair of Kali sticks in the hands of an expert was a whirlwind of movement and lethality, and both Chris and Yaw had been training with Master Winn long enough to qualify as experts.

  Both shirtless warriors, their upper bodies rippling with muscularity, sweated profusely under the blazing-hot sun as they carefully circled one another, less than two hundred feet from the calm of the ocean waves. The sand in mid-afternoon absorbed the heat of the sun to blistering temperatures, and both men used every ounce of discipline they had to ignore their burning feet. Winn leaned forward and focused on the two men as Chris unexpectedly lunged at Yaw with a series of strikes aimed at his opponent’s knee/wrist/skull in a barely-visible blur. Yaw parried the strikes easily with his sticks and launched an attack of his own, which Chris defended with equally expert precision. The high-speed strike/counter strike of their clashing sticks sounded like a burst of automatic weapon fire.

  Winn smiled at the exchange technique.

  A crowd was beginning to gather, not unusual when members of his group took their workouts to the beach. Winn scanned the faces in the crowd, and that’s when he noticed a black Cadillac Escalade with tinted windows sitting in the parking lot.

  “Stop,” Winn called out to Yaw and Chris as he hopped off his perch on the lifeguard tower.

  Chris and Yaw immediately ceased combat and put their sticks aside. They shook hands with one another as they caught their breath. Then they approached their respective equipment bags and rummaged through them for towels and bottles of water.

  “What is it?” Yaw asked Winn.

  Winn nodded toward the Escalade.

  Yaw glanced over at the vehicle before looking back at Winn.“Is that who I think it is?”

  “I believe so.”

  “You need us to back you up?” Chris added as he pulled on a T-shirt.

  “No. He wouldn’t arrive in such a manner if he intended threat. Meet me at the apartment in an hour.”

  “Gotcha.” Yaw gulped several swallows of water before he asked, “Any word from Alex and Nikki?”

  “No. Nothing yet.”

  “Should we be worried?”

  “No. I would know if there were a…problem,” Winn replied. As Alex’s self-awareness grew, Winn became more sensitive to the potential struggle that lay ahead for his top student. “Good work today. I’ll see you in an hour,” he added, before walking across the sand toward the waiting black Escalade.

  “You’re getting on the wrong people’s radar, Winn,” Rooker said, from behind the wheel of his Escalade.

  Winn said nothing as he stood at the driver’s side window, eyes locked on the driver.

  “Look; I leased you that block in Watts and kept it hazard-free for you, even after that craziness with private security and the heat I got from all the other sets. And I did this because I think we’re doin’ some good after all those years of bad. But that doesn’t mean you can just go off and do whatever you want and mess with whoever you want.”

  Rooker lowered his sunglasses, so he could look Winn in the eye.“I’m gonna pay you the respect of being blunt, my brother. If you stole product from Lucas Parks’ organization, Safe Block goes away.”

  “They are not product; they are people.”

  “Not in the real world. Look, you know I appreciate what you’re doin’, freein’ slaves and all, but you can’t change everything all at once. That’s the cold and brutal truth. And if you mess with the wrong players, nobody wins. Now word has it that a shipment of twelve people from Mexico headed to Germany got jacked at the port in Long Beach. Was that you?”

  “Would it matter?”

  “It does if it was part of Parks’ down-line. It’s gonna matter to him.”

  Winn studied Rooker a momen
t. A sharp-featured black man in his fifties, the slight stubble from his shaved head showed hints of grey. Winn noted that Rooker still wore the oversized platinum watch on his wrist and the diamond stud in his ear that had defined him as a man when he was twenty.

  “Parks got sprung this morning. Just so you know. He’s gonna run an inventory of all his businesses down to the last detail. So you best steer clear of his product if you know what’s good for you. Consider yourself warned.” Rooker twisted the ignition key of the Escalade as if to drive his point home, and the SUV roared to life. He gave Winn one last look before he slammed the Escalade in gear and pulled the vehicle away so abruptly that it caused Winn to instinctively take a step back.

  Winn watched the Escalade as it turned out of the parking lot and disappeared out onto the Pacific Coast Highway.

  This is a serious problem, Winn thought to himself. Lucas Parks, a notorious arms and drug dealer for the better part of two decades, had been primarily domiciled overseas before an elaborate sting by U.S. authorities brought him back to American soil, resulting in his capture nearly two years ago. Parks had been known to run his organization from behind bars, but incarceration had succeeded in limiting his effectiveness. If he was currently out of jail and in Los Angeles, he would be out for vengeance against his enemies. And that could very well spell the end of everything Winn was working toward.

  “She just went down.”

  “I’m just going to take a peek.”

  “If you wake her up, I swear I’m going to punch you,” a sleep-deprived Camilla Ramirez whispered to Yaw.

  “I won’t, I promise. I just want to see my daughter,” Yaw whispered back, giving Camilla a quick kiss before disappearing into the bedroom.

  Camilla took a deep breath for patience and turned to Chris. “How was training?” she whispered to him, a touch of envy in her voice.

  “It was good. Hot out though,” Chris answered as he carefully set down his gear bag so as not to make noise.

  “I can’t wait to get back at it.”

  “When’s that going to be?”

  “Soon. I hope. I figure when she’s six months old.”

  “Can’t Yaw watch her, and you come out once in a while?”

  “He’s begged me to. It’s not him. It’s just…she’s my little Kylie. And she’s not sleeping. Which means I’m not sleeping. Chris, I’m so exhausted, I can’t even think straight. I can barely concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, let alone training. I might get hurt. Or I might hurt someone. I just need to wait.”

  “Well, whenever you’re ready. We all miss you and want you back.”

  “Thank you. And I will be back. I promise.” She gave Chris an appreciative smile that disappeared when the small squawk of an infant interrupted. Camilla rolled her weary eyes before heading toward the bedroom.

  Chris made himself at home and went to the kitchen in search of something cold to drink. Camilla has mellowed considerably since becoming a mother, Chris thought. She had always shown maternal instincts with the group, but now that she had a child, she had become more cautious and protective than she had been in the past. He also knew that, despite her claims, Camilla’s recent absence from training had to do with more than the fatigue of a sleepless Kylie.

  Camilla, Yaw, and their daughter occupied one of the two-bedroom apartments in the one block section of 108th Street in Watts that Winn had rented from Rooker just over a year ago. The streets and housing in the area, now free of drugs, prostitution, or violence of any kind—per Winn’s agreement with Rooker—had flourished. Its inhabitants kept the neighborhood immaculate, a requisite for staying there, but it was also pride and gratitude from those who had been brought to this place. The apartment units were temporarily occupied by refugees, who at some point had been considered someone’s property and headed toward some form of slavery before Winn, Yaw, Chris, Camilla, Nikki, and Alex intervened. And there was every race and nationality imaginable when it came to these refugees. The global slave trade had grown into a multi-billion dollar underground business over the last decade, with millions of indentured workers trafficked like cattle all over the world; not only for sex, but hard labor. The latter being linked occasionally to well-known multi-national corporations. Winn and his small band of warriors could barely make an impact on the numbers that were moved through the southwest part of the United States alone. When word got out among the various races about the Safe Block in Watts, each group, be it Chinese, Vietnamese, African, Cambodian, Mexican, Ukrainian, North Korean, or any other, would pitch in to help finance the liberation of their own. And it was Camilla, using the apartment as her central office, who processed them all.

  Once a group of newly freed individuals arrived, she took charge of the transition. She made sure that she found someone from the refugee’s country of origin who spoke their native language, someone who could act as liaison while she helped the immigrants move toward citizenship, find employment, permanent housing, or simply ensure that they arrived back at their home countries safe and sound.

  It had not all gone smoothly at first. Slave traders, who have their merchandise stolen, do not take to it kindly, and on more than one occasion Yaw, Chris, Camilla, Alex, Nikki, and even Winn had to resort to their martial arts expertise to keep the traders at bay. But once the LAPD understood what was happening on Safe Block, they immediately stood behind the effort and provided protection. The officers took this unofficial and voluntary detail quite seriously, and now, once a refugee was inside Safe Block, he or she was considered “behind the blue curtain”. And not even the Russian mob dared cross the blue curtain.

  Camilla exited the bedroom cradling a small pink bundle, with Yaw right behind her, just as there was a gentle knock at the front door. Camilla nodded to Chris, who opened the door. It was Master Winn.

  Winn entered and immediately approached Camilla, smiling at the three-month-old Kylie. Like all infants, Kylie had the ability to disarm any and all who encountered her innocence.

  “What did Rooker want?” Yaw asked as he watched Winn hold out a finger for the infant to grab.

  “We have a problem,” Winn whispered in reply, careful with his tone, careful of the sensitive ears of the baby.

  “Lucas Parks is free, and he’s in Los Angeles.”

  4

  Dollar

  Eddie Dollar Monday ate the last bite of his breakfast burrito before washing it down with a final gulp of strong Oaxacan coffee. Los Arcos, his favorite restaurant in what was known as the “gastronomic district” of Tijuana, had the best egg and bean burritos, and Eddie always ordered the near quarter-pound delicacy for his 11am brunch meal. Satisfied, he wiped his mouth with a napkin before getting up and tossing an American twenty-dollar bill on the table, more than triple the cost of the breakfast.

  “Thank you, Jose,” he said to his smiling waiter, slipping on his sunglasses before exiting the restaurant and stepping out onto the busy street.

  Dollar, as both his friends and many of his enemies called him, had grown to enjoy the routine of his life in Mexico. Protected by the powerful Calderon cartel, he moved about the city of Tijuana quite freely and enjoyed both the variety of restaurants as well as the thriving nightlife. Although he was not allowed to leave the city, the arrangement provided for him by the Cartel was comfortable and a far better option than the alternative.

  He left the restaurant district and casually made his way down the residential street of Colonia Aviacon toward the high-rise apartment complex where he lived. His life was simple now, as the only requirements the cartel had of him were that he allow his apartment to be used as a stash house for money, drugs, or occasionally people. Dollar had to do nothing other than babysit, and he was smart enough to never ask any questions. In exchange for this, and more importantly his testimony against Lucas Parks two years ago, he was given this comfortable but contained life and, over time, found himself quite happy. He had often thought he might use his ample free time to write a book, but th
e distractions in the densely-populated Mexican city were great, and the writing had yet to materialize.

  Dollar nodded to the doorman as he entered his apartment complex and made his way to the elevator. He lived on the third floor of a five-story building in a well- furnished, comfortable two-bedroom unit. As he entered the elevator, he checked his phone for the time. The cartel had texted him to be at his apartment for a 12:30pm delivery, which was fifteen minutes from now. As the elevator doors opened on his floor and he walked to his apartment, Dollar’s thoughts moved away from his appointment and toward dinner that evening. He had begun seeing a local girl, Maria Yco, who, at age twenty, was fifteen years his junior. She was pleasant and, at first, provided a warm distraction from the boredom. Not long ago, he realized that he was beginning to have real feelings for her, something he didn’t believe was possible at the outset, but a reality he was becoming more and more comfortable with. The thought of marriage and family had briefly crossed his mind, which he knew would make Maria happy. She had promised to come over later that afternoon and make him Tamales for dinner, and he looked forward to a nice evening at home for once—not at a club or restaurant. He had to admit that life outside of running drugs for Lucas Parks was pretty good.

  After he opened the door and entered his apartment, he stopped, immediately sensing something amiss. He heard and felt, simultaneously, the sharp crack on his skull from a blunt object he never saw, just before everything went white, and he collapsed to the floor unconscious.

  Dollar woke with a start, choking and confused as cold water from a small bucket splashed into his mouth and nostrils. Panicked and disoriented, his eyelids fluttered from the water, bright light, and intense pain. The ache started at the base of his skull, radiated down his shoulders and behind his eyes. It was while vomiting on himself that he realized his hands were tied behind him, his chest and legs strapped to the chair he was seated in.