Killer of Killers (9 page)

“Okay, why?”

“Because you have killed three men in the
last two weeks,” Soriah gushed with a wry smile. “And all three
with your bare hands. Isn’t that true?”

“You find that impressive?”

“Well, considering that all three of these
men were themselves killers, I think it’s impressive.”

“I’m not admitting to killing anyone.”

“Come now, Mr. Smith, you don’t have to be
coy with me. I’m not the police. Believe me, if I had anything to
do with the police, anything at all, you would be behind bars right
now, but you’re not.”

“Look, Mr. Soriah, maybe I’m slow, but I
still don’t get where the
‘impressive’
part comes in.”

Soriah leaned forward. “Benjamin Stiles was
six feet, four, and three hundred and twenty pounds. Jeremiah Flint
was six, three, and two forty. Topu Tacau was six, six, and three
hundred and fifty pounds.” He calmly raised an eyebrow. “And you...
Five, nine, one ninety?”

“One ninety-five,” Trent said. “So who says I
killed them?”

“Mr. Smith, please, I told you already, I
have nothing to do with the police. You can trust me.”

“How do I know I can trust
you
?”

“Because I am a man who can cut his losses,
you see. Three men have been snuffed out, but we will move on.”

Trent studied his host. “So what were they to
you?”

“Well, they all worked for me in one way or
another. But it’s okay. All I want to know is who do
you
work for?”

Trent scowled. “I don’t work for anyone.”

“You don’t say.” Soriah’s gaze intensified.
“There’s no one paying you to be an assassin?” he asked. “There’s
no secret organization that’s awarded you a license to kill?”

“I don’t
need
a license to kill.”

Soriah chuckled and put his hands together,
but jutted an index finger toward Trent. “I like you, Mr. Smith. I
hope you realize that’s a good thing. However, I still must ask
you... Why do you kill people you never knew?”

“If I killed them,” Trent snarled, “it’s
because they deserved it.”

“You mean to tell me that you decided they
deserved to die?” Soriah paused and then added, “Who are you to
decide who deserves to die?”

Trent scowled again. “Who do I have to
be?”

Soriah leaned back. “I like that. You
are
special, aren’t you?” Once more he seemed to expect some
kind of a response, but after another silent moment, he asked,
“What would you say if I told you it could very well be true that
you may have saved my life?”

“How’s that?”

“I have a business partner, you see. His name
is Karl Manoukian. You may have heard of him. He has taken a
distrust of me, I’m afraid, and he did an unfortunate thing. He
recruited a man to kill me, but you killed him first. Isn’t that
simply grand?”

“You mean Stiles?”

“Yes.”

“The coroner’s report said Stiles died of
natural causes, as I understand it. So how are you so sure I killed
him?”

“Mr. Smith, I
arranged
for the
coroner’s office to report his death as natural, so Mr. Manoukian
wouldn’t conclude I was privy to his mischief.” Soriah kept his
gaze fixed on Trent. “If he knew that you killed Stiles, he would
probably think you work for
me
. Since I know that you don’t,
I would feel so much better to learn exactly who you
do
work
for.”

“I told you I work for no one, and that’s the
way I like it.”

“I see.” Soriah nodded and crumpled his brow.
“You work for no one, and that’s the way you like it.”

“Right.”

“That’s really too bad. I could use a man
with your extraordinary skills.”

“If you want Manoukian killed, you don’t need
me to do it.”

“No, Mr. Smith, I have better ways to deal
with my disillusioned partner.” Soriah’s eyes seemed to peer
straight into Trent’s brain. “I have something else in mind. Would
you be interested?”

“No.”

Soriah’s face soured, and he paused again, as
if carefully considering his next question. “If you don’t want to
work
for
me,” he said, “would you at least be willing to
work
with
me? I can make it worth your while. Would you be
interested in hearing what I have to offer?”

Trent thought for a moment. He figured it
wouldn’t hurt to listen before he walked. Besides, he still didn’t
know how Susie Q and the Global Girls fit into all of this. “Okay,
what do you have to offer?”

Soriah’s face beamed. “First, I want to see
you in action for myself.” He flipped a switch on his desktop, and
the section of floor on which Trent sat fell straight to the level
below. Reacting instantly, Trent leaped just in time to catch the
edge of the rift. Before he could pull himself out, however, the
black guard on Soriah’s left sprang forth. With a kick to Trent’s
chest, he knocked Trent back into the pit.

Being as skilled in falling as he was in
fighting, Trent landed uninjured, rolling to his feet. Next, the
sofa on which he had been sitting lowered, and a sliding platform
filled the resulting gap. Trent stood in a bare and flat square in
which he felt quite at home.

Soriah walked to the rim. “Welcome to my
private arena, Mr. Smith. It is the same size as a fighting ring,
as I’m sure you have noticed. But there is one difference. Instead
of ropes, what this ring has is electrified walls. Be sure not to
touch them, or you will receive a good jolt.” He smiled, giving
Trent the impression that he was actually looking forward to the
shocking event.

With brazen zeal, the aged magnate snapped
his fingers, and the guard who kicked Trent responded by leaping
into the chasm with the grace of a jaguar. He approached Trent with
extended arms and open hands. It was clear he had martial arts
training of his own.

Trent dismissed the starting bow and assumed
his
Kokutsu-Dachi
stance. The guard initiated a series of
arm swings, hatchet chops, straight, forward, and reverse punches,
roundhouses and uppercuts. With every strike, Trent was able to
duck and dodge, deflect or block the blows.

Without pause, Soriah’s man launched a series
of combinations, but Trent continued to evade the multiple attacks.
Then the guard resorted to a flurry of kicks. They were front
kicks, jump kicks, and reverse kicks. He didn’t let up for a
second, yet Trent remained unscathed.

Appearing frustrated, the guard feinted to
his right, but fired a punch from his left. With an instant
reaction, Trent pinned the incoming fist over his right shoulder,
locked the elbow, and wrenched him downward in an arm bar.

Forced to his knees and wincing in pain, the
man tried to free himself by aiming a strike at Trent’s groin.
Trent kicked the punch awry and answered the dirty effort with a
vindictive twist of the locked appendage. Soriah’s man let out a
chilling scream, after which Trent released the arm bent awkward
and useless, its elbow disjointed.

Cradling his injury, the guard backed off,
hunched over in obvious agony. He raised his face to Soriah above.
Looking resolved, the white-haired mogul snapped his fingers to the
other black man who responded by leaping into the pit, as did the
first.

The second guard launched himself straight at
Trent with a burst of punches and kicks, alternating both arms and
both legs. Trent easily dodged and parried the strikes until his
backward motion brought him near the wall. Remembering Soriah’s
warning, he swerved his way along the perimeter, keeping his eyes
on the nonstop barrage.

Trent’s circular path backed him closer to
the first man, who was trying in vain to reposition his elbow. He
ran at Trent from behind and launched himself with a flying double
kick. Sensing the human missile approaching his blindside, Trent
turned and caught the soaring legs in midair and, using the
hurdler’s momentum, swung him into the other man closing in.

The impact knocked both of Soriah’s men into
the wall, causing electric shocks to bolt through their bodies.
Loud and uneven crackling filled the air, as did the stench of
burning flesh.

A dismayed Soriah hurried back to his desk
and shut off the power. He also hit the switch raising the square
to its normal level. Once the platform secured, the sofa
reappeared. Standing straight with his arms at his sides, Trent
glared at the man behind the desk. To his surprise, there were two
new bodyguards positioned as before, but this time they were
Caucasian giants.

Before anyone could say anything, a team of
medics hustled into the room, placed the unconscious men onto
gurneys, and carted them away.

“Please,” Soriah began, as he gestured to the
couch.

“I don’t think so,” Trent sneered.

“Oh, don’t be indignant,” the old man said.
“I wanted to see you in action, and I must say, I was right to be
impressed with you. After all, you just defeated my two best
fighters without throwing a single punch.”

Trent remained silent. To him, this Soriah
character was a typical self-centered brat, just like movie
stars.

Soriah spoke again. “Please, Mr. Smith, won’t
you sit down? We still have a lot to discuss.”

Trent pointed at the sofa. “If you think I’m
sitting in that thing again...”

“No, Mr. Smith, here.”

Soriah flipped another switch, and a much
smaller section of floor slid open in front of his desk, and only
inches from its center. Up came a single seat chair, not unlike the
one Soriah enjoyed.

“So what does this one do, drop into an Iron
Maiden?”

“Mr. Smith, surely you’re joking.”

Trent wasn’t sure at all, but he
was
sure he wouldn’t be sitting anywhere in this office again. Not with
the old man at the controls. He approached the desk and examined
the two bodyguards. Like their Negroid counterparts, they were each
six feet, six and athletically built. Both men kept their eyes
fixed directly ahead and their hands clasped in front of their
respective belts.

Trent was losing his patience. “Are you going
to sic them on me, too?”

“No, Mr. Smith, you easily defeated my first
team, why would I expect a different result with my second?”

As Soriah was speaking, Trent noticed the
designs on his tie were the same as those he observed on the
medallions. Remembering the one he put in his pocket, he patted the
outside of his jeans. It was no longer there.

Trent’s patience expired. “Look, Mr. Soriah,
it’s been fun. But it’s time you told me what it is you
want
from me.”

“Mr. Smith, may I call you Trent?”

“Why not?”

“Trent...” Soriah smiled, but his face
remained sullen. “I have been around for a long time, and I have
seen and accomplished more than I have time to describe. Suffice it
to say, I strive to be the best at what I do, at everything I do.
And I have succeeded.”

Trent shrugged. “So what?”

“So I have a dream...”

“So did Martin Luther King.”

“Mister, uh, Trent, please bear with me. You
have no idea of the scope of what you have stumbled into. What if I
told you we have developed a medicine that can heal injuries twice
as fast as normal? Or ten times as fast as normal? What would you
say?”

“I’d say you would become even richer than
you are already.”

“You wouldn’t think that it would be
something wonderful?”

“What does it have to do with me?”

“For one thing,” Soriah answered, “there is
the issue of my Eternals.”

“Eternals?”

“It’s a pet name that I’ve given to our test
subjects. I’m referring to brave men who have volunteered—”

“To be walking experiments?” Trent cut in,
“like Stiles and Flint?”

“Stiles and Flint were undergoing
treatments,” Soriah explained, “and it is very important that these
treatments are not interrupted.”

“Not interrupted? I take it you mean it’s
very important that your men aren’t killed.”

Soriah wasn’t quick to reply. Instead, his
eyes seemed to crystalize. “Well, yes,” he finally said, “generally
speaking, I do need my people to stay alive. Otherwise, the term
Eternals
would not be applicable. I would hope that was
obvious. Even to a man like you.”

“What makes you think I’ll be killing more of
your Eternals?” Just as Trent asked, he saw the truth. “These
celebrity murderers... How many of them are walking free because of
you? All of them?” He cursed himself for not seeing it sooner. “I
take it your treatments have a side effect. It goes like this:
without warning one of your so-called
‘Eternals’
will
succumb to a sudden and uncontrollable homicidal rage.”

Soriah closed his eyes. “Well, something like
that.”

“Something like that? This new
‘medicine’
of yours is just a new kind of anabolic steroid
then. Or would you have me believe that it isn’t?”

“Mr. Smith, we are getting off the point. I
can promise you that we have every intention of keeping this
problem under control.”

“Intentions didn’t save the Bernstein family.
And they didn’t prevent the murders of Mrs. Flint and her daughter.
How many other innocent people are buried in the ground as a result
of your drug?”

Soriah glared at Trent, and he paused before
answering. “It’s true we’ve had setbacks,” he admitted, “but what
journey into the future hasn’t? When you learn the results of our
research, I am confident you will understand why this program is
worth the risks.”

“Worth the risks?” Trent echoed with
contempt. “I don’t give a rat’s ass if your athletes heal in time
for their next meaningless playoff game. How do you justify paying
for that with the lives of helpless innocents?”

“You’d care if a child healed from third
degree burns faster than normal, wouldn’t you?” Soriah straightened
his back and squared his shoulders while waiting for what Trent
knew was the only answer to that question.