Killer of Killers (11 page)

The young Latino wedged the pistol into his
belt. “Wait here.” He slipped inside the house. Emerging minutes
later, he said, “Okay.”

Amman entered the main room and witnessed
again the gangbangers celebrating nothing in particular, as it
seemed to be a daily occurrence. Dancing girls threw their skirts
up, and the many youths hooted and hollered. Amman sidestepped the
puddles of beer on the floor, and ducked beneath the hovering smoke
of tobacco and weed.

Seconds later, he faced Rico, who smiled and
spread his arms in a mock welcome. “Hey, homes,” the gang leader
crowed, “iss a fass month.”

Shaking his head, Amman said, “Vee have to
talk in private.”

Rico’s smile deadened. “Alfredo comes or no
talkin’, hombre.”

On cue, Alfredo stood up with his chest
puffed out, and his chin jutted forward. He squared off with Amman,
nearly matching him in bodily bulk.

Gritting his teeth behind tensed lips, Amman
nodded.

Moments later, they gathered in a back room
where Rico sat in a heavy chair. Alfredo stood next to him with his
arms folded. Rico looked confused and asked, “So whas up?”

Amman narrowed his eyes. “I need the bag
back.”

“Fuckin’ sheet!” Rico sneered. “You got my
dough in yur coat, and now you want yur bag back?” He burst into
laughter so hard his eyes welled.

Alfredo wasn’t laughing. He reached into his
shirt for what Amman knew would be a gun. Before he could bring it
out, Amman sprang the blade from the stiletto hidden in the palm of
his hand, and in a blinding slash, opened Alfredo’s throat.

Blood spattered over the seated gang leader,
who watched in horror his compadre fall to the floor. He reached
for a pistol in his belt, but Amman acted faster, putting the knife
to his neck while seizing a bundle of hair. “Keep your hands up,”
he growled.

With the blade against his skin, Rico threw
his arms into the air.

Amman pulled Rico’s head back by the grip of
curls. “No skinny, little monkey-man laughs at me!
Now vehr is
the bag?
”

“All right, all right!” Rico cried. “You can
have it. And deh bread, too, just watch deh knife, will ya?”

“
I said vehr is the bag?
” Amman
boomed. He lifted Rico by his hair and pushed the blade through the
first layer of skin.

“It’s
here
,” Rico claimed. “In dat
closet, over dehr.”

Amman forced Rico to the door. “Open it.”

“Take deh knife off my neck first,
hijo de
puta
.”

Amman removed the blade from Rico’s neck, but
retained a handful of hair. Rico opened the door and revealed the
black leather bag. As Amman eyed his objective, he noticed Rico’s
hand shifting toward his belt. He jerked Rico’s head back. “You
think I let you shoot me?”

Straining against the grip, Rico’s face
contorted with defiance. Then his eyes bulged, and a gasp escaped
his mouth. To the hilt, Amman plunged his blade through Rico’s
side, slicing the renal artery. Only after twisting it, twice and
thrice, did he free it from Rico’s flesh. Blood spurted from the
wound, and he permitted the dying man to fall at his feet. He wiped
the blade on a hanging garment, triggered its sheathing, and
returned it to his coat.

Once again, Amman confronted the pulsing
beats, and once again, he maneuvered through oblivious partiers,
this time carrying the black leather bag. Throwing the door open,
he passed the stern lookout.

“Hey, hombre.”

Amman pivoted, ready to share his steel a
third time on the night.

“You forgot this,” the youth said as he held
out the .45 caliber.

Amman possessed it and hastened his return to
the street.

* * * *

Walking down a crowded Manhattan avenue was
not his favorite pastime, but with his business in New York
concluded, Trent reflected on his East Coast experience. He came
here to kill a man, and he killed two. As a bonus, he found a
dazzling lover who adored him. And to top it all off, he met a
billionaire megalomaniac who talked about miracle drugs and
treatment programs. Trent couldn’t really make sense of what he
heard, but he harbored no regrets. What he had to do now was choose
his next move. His only uncertainty stemmed from whether he should
return to California or call on Susie one more time.

Just yesterday she saved him in the Flip Flop
Club, yet the time that had passed seemed much longer than that. It
was late afternoon of the second day, and the city lights already
emblazoned the sky with colors diverse as the crowds underneath.
People buzzed in all directions, bumping and pushing, and to Trent
it was insufferable. He observed the monoliths above, and wondered
how many more
idealists
lay hidden behind those walls of
brick and steel. He didn’t care. It was time to check down the list
in his head for the next killer walking free. Knowing that it
probably would be another of Soriah’s
Eternals
, Trent
considered he should have taken advantage of his opportunistic
meeting with the elderly executive and learned more about this
treatment program. He dismissed the thought, because his stomach
was ever reminding him that it needed his attention, too.

Searching for a place to eat, Trent happened
upon a newspaper stand. The front-page headline was noteworthy,
particularly to him. It read
Nick Martin World Tour Begins in
Minneapolis.
Performance dates were listed as subtitles, and
Trent mentally filed the news for when he needed it.

For now, he returned his attention to the
gnawing hunger pangs disrupting his stomach. The café across the
street looked inviting, and once inside, his first stop was the
washroom. While rinsing his hands, Trent examined his face in the
mirror. Just as he considered the need for a shave, he remembered
the two lacerations. They were no longer visible. No trace at all.
He dragged his fingers over his nose and forehead, but there was
nothing. Earlier in the day, each cut looked to be healing well,
but there should have been some kind of scar.

Was it the medicine Soriah talked about? Did
he get a dose of it? How? Was he injected while he was senseless?
Trent’s mind flashed on the prick he received in his dream, and he
fixed a hand to his shoulder. That’s it! Someone must have given
him a shot. Forgetting about food, he stormed out of the diner on a
beeline to Susie’s. Amorous intent notwithstanding, he had to find
out just what else did she do while he slept so secure in her
bed.

* * * *

Susie was alone in her apartment, hoping her
new boyfriend would meet the approval of her stringent employer.
Multiple phone calls occupied most of her day since the towering
trio took him away. Her Global sisters expected every detail for
helping her bring the tenebrous gentleman home. Some of them told
her to forget about him, he would never be heard from again. Others
told her that if she didn’t hang on to him, Soriah most definitely
would. The billionaire took pride in surrounding himself with the
finest people on the planet. He employed the biggest and strongest
men, the sexiest and most beautiful women, and the smartest, most
formative scientists. Soriah would find a place in his empire for a
man like Trent Smith.

In her powder blue shorts and a white crop
top, Susie shuffled about the kitchen, preparing dinner. She was
cooking for two. Always the romantic, she envisioned a candlelit
dinner with the new man in her life, but that necessitated the
condition he was still in Manhattan and, more importantly, still
alive.

Susie’s anxiety was not unfounded because she
knew Abraham Soriah would get what he wanted. She just wasn’t sure
exactly what he wanted with Trent Smith. Whether it was revenge for
killing Jeremiah Flint or an offer of employment, she could only
guess. She knew it was likely she would never see him again, but
that didn’t keep her from hoping he’d be knocking on her door at
any given moment.

Two quick knocks made Susie believe her hopes
were rewarded, and she dashed to the door with a teenaged
exuberance. She looked through the spy hole and jumped in the air,
overflowing with joy.

* * * *

Outside Susie’s apartment, Trent waited for
but a moment when the door swooshed open and out popped the
gorgeous woman who clamped him in arms of ebony. Her eyes filled
with tears, and she let loose an outpour of sobs.

Trent asked, “Why are you crying?”

Susie looked up with those exquisitely
slanted eyes filled with tears, and just as she tried to speak, she
broke down again. Trent didn’t know how to respond. All he could do
was hold her. When they entered her apartment and sat on the sofa,
she said, “I wasn’t sure if I’d ever see you again.”

“You were really scared for me.”

“Baby, when you left with those mens, I
thought you’d be better off fighting TT again.”

Susie’s use of a double plural in the word
men
amused Trent, because, for him, it added to her charm.
Since he had many questions, and she mentioned TT, he decided to
begin with him. “Did TT work for Flint or for Soriah?”

“TT was what they call a Soriah Special,”
Susie explained. “That means he was one of Soriah’s toughest
bodyguards. They’re the meanest mens you ever saw. Anytime Soriah
wants something done, he sends one of them.”

“Something like what?”

“Something like anything. If Soriah wants it
done, and it takes someone strong, he sends one. Sometimes more
than one. Like today.”

“You mean all three of those guys that busted
in here this morning were Soriah Specials?”

Snuggled close, Susie looked into Trent’s
eyes and nodded.

“So why was TT protecting Flint?”

“Because Flint insisted on a Soriah Special
for a personal bodyguard ever since he got off his murder charge.
That’s why TT was allowed into the Global Room. All of the other
bodyguards work for their own bosses, but TT worked only for
Abraham Soriah.”

“Just how many celebrities are associated
with Soriah?”

“A lot. I would say mostly pro athletes,
because Soriah loves sports. He used to be an athlete, too, back in
the old days. It’s what all the girls say.”

“What about so many of these other
celebrities, like movie stars, singers, and politicians? I mean the
ones who’ve been let off for murder. There’s got to be dozens of
them.”

“Well, I know a lot of them are protected by
Soriah. Nick Martin, Bobby Day, Shalom DaBomb, and Buddy
Robinson.”

Trent nodded as she spoke the names, because
each one was on his list. Nick Martin, a famous, albeit aging, rock
star, acquitted of murdering his manager and girlfriend, now
enjoyed the success of a new song called
I’m Your Reaper
.
Shalom DaBomb, a rapper charged with murder, but found guilty of
manslaughter, never saw a day in prison. Bobby Day, a professional
baseball player, had his murder charges dropped because of legal
loopholes and never missed a game in his athletic career.

Finally, Buddy Robinson, the Minnesota state
senator now serving his fifth consecutive term, had the most
interesting story of all. Despite indisputable evidence to the
contrary, his lawyers convinced a jury that he wasn’t the fiend who
committed the bloody carnage in his home. Subsequently, the
gruesome murders of his wife, sister-in-law, and two nieces were
never solved.

Was it all about this drug of Soriah’s? If it
triggers murderous rage, why does he continue making it available?
Was there some secret that made killing acceptable, and he simply
considered it collateral damage?

Even if this quick-healing potion was real,
and Trent was beginning to believe it, why did Soriah need those
who murdered under its influence to remain above the law? Trent’s
next question was clear. “Do you know anything about this drug of
Soriah’s that all these people are using?”

Susie’s eyes darted from side to side, and
her skin blushed to a darker shade of chocolate. “Yeah, I know
about it,” she admitted.

“Does it cause people to become crazy
killers, and then Soriah gets them off the hook?”

“Not everyone.”

“Not everyone gets off the hook, or not
everyone becomes a crazy killer?”

“Not everyone becomes a crazy killer.”

“Why not?”

Just as he asked, Trent remembered Susie’s
split lip from this morning’s altercation. Yet now, as he beheld
her luscious mouth up close, there was no evidence it ever
happened. No scab, no bruise, nothing. “Wait a minute. What
happened to your busted lip?”

“It healed.”

“Yeah, I see that, and you know what? So did
the cuts on my face.”

Susie looked away, briefly, but it was enough
to convince Trent that she had used the medicine on herself and on
him, as well.

“Come on, Susie, spill it. What’s with this
stuff? If you put some of it in me, I need to know more about
it.”

“Well, I’m not supposed to have any,” Susie
confessed. “None of us are. We’re not part of the treatment
program, but we managed to get some anyway.”

“What do you mean, ‘we’?”

“The Global Girls.”

“How many of you?”

“Well, all of us. Soriah doesn’t know. If he
did, we’d be in big trouble.” She lowered her chin to her chest,
but at the same time looked up at Trent from the corner of her
eye.

“Okay, let’s go back to why it doesn’t affect
everyone violently. Are you sure? Do you know why?”

“It only affects people that way if they’re
hotheads already. If you don’t want to hurt anyone, you won’t.
That’s what Jason said.”

“Jason?” Trent frowned. “So who’s Jason?”
This was getting more complicated with every turn. “Is he another
Soriah Special?”

“No, silly.” Susie smiled and playfully
slapped Trent’s chest. “Jason’s the one who took over for Dr.
Bernstein.”