Killer of Killers (8 page)

Glances over both of his shoulders revealed a
typical woman’s bedroom, well decorated, with pink walls trimmed in
white. The furniture appeared new and overtly luxurious. Trent
looked through the window and learned he was on a high level floor,
and the morning sunlight was only now silhouetting the New York
skyline. The clock on the nightstand had yet to strike six.

In front of Susie’s vanity mirror, Trent
studied his image. There were two bandages on his face, one on the
bridge of his nose, and one on his forehead. Removing them exposed
healing lacerations, but it was nothing that concerned him.
Something else occupied his mind—the awkward feeling of being naked
in an unfamiliar bedroom.

Trent began a search for his clothes, but
loud voices diverted his quest, and he cracked open the door to see
what was happening. At the end of the hall, there was another woman
berating Susie with a litany of foul words.

“You lying bitch!” the visiting woman
shrieked.

Trent made her out to be a variation of
Hispanic. Her cropped hair was topped in a pompadour, and the
sleeves of her shirt, rolled up to her shoulders, propped a pack of
cigarettes on one side. She was stocky and short, and not at all
feminine, either in her appearance or in the way she moved. In
fact, she swaggered like the men he fought in Japan.

“Leave me alone,” Susie inveighed. “I had to
help him.”

Trent commandeered a towel from the master
bathroom, wrapped it around his waist, and slinked through the
hallway for a better look. He was glad he did, because the angry
woman grabbed the collar of Susie’s bathrobe and landed a punch
square on her mouth.

The resounding
splat
convinced Trent
he’d seen enough. From behind, he snared the hostile woman by the
neck with a single hand and lifted her off the floor. His grip
blocked the external carotid arteries and jugular veins, allowing
her mere seconds of awareness. She tried to pry his fingers but to
no avail. Holding her aloft, Trent walked to the couch on the other
side of the room. By the time he reached it, she was a rag
doll.

Trent laid her on the cushions and then
turned to Susie. She was sitting on the carpet next to the china
cabinet with both of her hands tending a split lower lip. “What was
that all about?” he asked.

“You,” she said.

Trent knelt beside her. “Me? What’s her
problem?” He reached out and pulled her gently to his chest.

Susie rested her head and replied, “She
doesn’t like you.”

Trent responded, “No kidding.” It was
apparent the two women were involved in a lesbian relationship.
With a man in Susie’s bedroom and the sexual scent still fresh,
Susie’s friend proved to be a very jealous woman. But Trent decided
that he really couldn’t blame her. Susie’s exceptional beauty was
something any lover might covet.

“She thinks she owns me,” Susie continued.
“Her name’s Connie, and, well, we’ve been together for a couple
years now.”

“A couple years?”

“Well, yeah. I been with mens, but they
always try to boss me around like they own me, so when I met
Connie, I thought I’d try something different.” She lowered her
chin and added, “But no one ever hit me before.”

“And no one will ever hit you again,” Trent
assured her. “Not while I’m around, at least. And that’s something
I can promise.”

While they embraced, Trent took in his
surroundings. Susie’s apartment was high-end extravagant. The walls
were painted a lighter shade of pink than her bedroom but had the
same white trim, matching a pearl shag carpet. A wet bar adjoined
the dining room, which showcased a picture window dressed in
sparkling white curtains. Distant sounds of the waking city were
barely audible.

Once on their feet again, Trent’s weakened
physique reminded him it was running on low-energy and an empty
stomach. “How long have I been here?”

“This is the second day, baby, but don’t
worry, I took good care of you.”

“I know you did.” He wanted to wink, but
refrained.

Before Trent could say another word, the
front door swung inward, and three men wearing gray sports coats
filed into the room. Each one of them, formidably muscled, stood
well over six feet. Two were fair-skinned, and the third was brown.
Trent faced the intruders, instinctively putting Susie behind him,
but found himself wishing he wore more than a bath towel.

“Are you Trent Smith?” the tallest one asked
while pointing at Trent.

Trent noticed a black onyx ring on the man’s
middle finger, inlet with a golden design of a sideways figure
eight. “Yeah, so what?” he sneered. He felt Susie squeeze his arm
as if in warning to be careful with these men.

“You have an appointment with Mr. Soriah,”
the same man advised. “You don’t want to be late.”

Trent furrowed his brow. “Mr. who?”

“That’s my boss,” Susie said. “You don’t want
to be late.”

“What does he want with me?” Trent looked
into the eyes of each man. They retained their cold expressions,
and even Susie didn’t answer. None of them seemed willing to talk.
Maybe nobody knew.

Trent edged his eyes to Susie. “Do you know
these guys?”

“Well, I don’t know them personally, but I
know who they are.” She seemed to choose her words carefully. “They
work for the same man I do.”

“You mean Abraham Soriah?”

“Yeah.”

“How is it you work for Soriah?”

Susie looked at Trent like he should have
known already. “He owns the Flip Flop Club along with about half of
Manhattan...”

Trent understood. Although he was loath to
meek compliance, the prospect of fighting three muscle-bound titans
butt-naked didn’t appeal to him. He preferred a diplomatic
approach. “So what’s he like?”

Susie shrugged. “He’s all right.”

“What do you mean ‘all right’?”

“Well, if you play your cards right, he’s all
right.”

Trent thought about it and then asked his
last question. “And what if you happen to play the wrong card?”

“Just don’t.”

As Trent considered his options, the woman on
the sofa began to stir. “Oooohhhh,” she groaned.

The man with the ring, who seemed to be in
charge, turned to her and blustered, “You, shut up!”

Just as the woman named Connie opened her
eyes, the ringed man yanked her off the sofa and dragged her toward
the door. “Go fuck yourself, you goddamn bull-dyke!” The words
accompanied a two-handed toss through the corridor, where she
slammed against the opposite wall and limped away.

Trent glared at the man. “You’re pretty
tough, aren’t you?”

“Tough enough to handle the likes of you,” he
sneered.

“Are you sure? I’m not a sleeping woman.”

“Look,” the ringed man snarled, “it’s like I
said. You have an appointment with Mr. Soriah. Are you ready or
not?”

“Do you mind if I clean up and get dressed
first?”

The man nodded. “Mr. Soriah would prefer
that, so make it quick.”

Trent turned to Susie for the whereabouts of
his clothes.

“They’re in my closet, baby, I cleaned them
for you.”

Trent found his clothes where Susie said they
were, put them on, and returned to the living room. As Soriah’s men
led him down the corridor, he asked, “Can we get something to eat
on the way?”

* * * *

The clatter of fading footsteps convinced
Susie that the next few hours were hers alone. She leaned into her
sofa and considered the consequence of her recent decisions.
Abruptly, the pain in her lip interrupted her reflection. She
touched the injured membrane and looked at the blood on her finger.
Then up she sprang on the way to her room. She knew what she had to
do.

Chapter Five

Beholden to No One

Trent found himself in the
highest levels of Manhattan’s tallest building—the world famous
Soriah Skyway. His three lofty ushers had left him inside a
spacious and lavishly decorated office, which seemed fit for a
king. Trent sat by himself on a black leather sofa, but he wasn’t
alone in the marble-floored room. Two tall black men wearing black
suits and ties stood straight and motionless astride a large
resplendent desk. Both were about six feet, six inches tall, and
kept their hands clasped in front of their respective belts. Each
man stared unblinking and straight, making Trent think they were
looking at something behind him. Whenever he turned around to see
what that might be, however, he couldn’t determine anything that
would hold their eyes so effectively.

After several minutes with the frozen
sentinels, Trent thought he would break the ice. “So, how’re you
guys doing?”

Neither man reacted. Trent couldn’t even tell
if they were breathing. Nevertheless, he had no doubt that if he
were to try something impermissible, their response would be
instantaneous. For now, he would bear it because, if for no other
reason, he was curious as to why the reclusive billionaire would
make such an extensive effort to meet him.

Rather than attempting another dialogue with
the black-suited black men, Trent observed his surroundings and
noted several references to athletics. Trophies and plaques
representing many different sports adorned the walls. Among the
awards were those honoring baseball, football, tennis, and boxing.
A section dedicated to basketball dominated the exhibit. Framed
photos and prints featured several well-known personalities of
competition. Some of them contained the image of a tall and
square-jawed older man, standing beside or shaking hands with
whichever athlete happened to be the star of the day.

Was that Abraham Soriah? The aged and
wrinkled face reminded Trent of his Japanese mentor, and the many
wall mounts instilled the memory of his first visit to the shihan’s
home.

Trent was but a teenager, and the academy’s
master gestured to the single plaque upon his own lacquered wall.
It depicted the four cardinal directions, and its center displayed
red Japanese characters pasted on a field of black.

Shoji explained the meaning:
“The North
point shows the first way to view the world in which we live. It
represents honor, integrity, and strong character. Always embrace
wisdom and humility.

“
The East point is the second way. Just as
the sun rises in the east, consider it enlightenment. Keep your
mind clear and open, so that you may accept new ideas and new
concepts.

“
The South point is the third way. Trust
the art and trust your intuition. Make use of experience to
identify truth and to achieve rational thought. As a martial artist
you must never forget that mastery over form is not your ultimate
goal. It is the individual interpretation of form that reveals your
inner self.

“
And the West, the fourth way, represents
introspection. Accept what you see when you confront yourself.
Recognize your flaws and your boundaries as a human being.
Acknowledge and value your mortality.

“
It is not a style, but an attitude we all
must nurture and personify, not only as a martial artist, but as an
offspring of this world we share.”

* * * *

In a room directly beneath the opulent
office, a sophisticated computer scheme built into the wall
evidenced rare technology and covert purpose. Abraham Soriah stood
in front of it, and he scrutinized the view screen. Beside him sat
his right hand man, Charles Morgan, and he also scrutinized the
screen, which displayed a grid superimposed over a close-up of
Trent Smith’s face. A moving cursor highlighted Smith’s facial
features, and with a clicking mouse, Charles commanded the input of
data.

Next, the monitor zoomed into an image of
Trent Smith’s hand. Within seconds, he happened to grip the glassy
smooth front portion of the armrest, and Abraham blurted,
“Now!”

Electronic scanners transferred the
fingerprints into the computer’s hard drive, and the text
Download Complete
flashed over the screen. Satisfied,
Abraham said, “Well done, Charles.” He turned around and walked to
a darker part of the room, where he lowered himself into a
cushioned and high-backed chair. “It’s time I met this most
interesting person. You know what to do.”

* * * *

Waiting in Soriah’s office was becoming a
problem for Trent. Being idle was not to his liking, and being
bored was infinitely worse, as the prints and exhibits were no
longer interesting. Returning his gaze to the desk, it occurred to
him there was no chair behind it. He fantasized a trap door sliding
open, and then rising up would be the head honcho atop some kind of
electronic lift.

Trent smiled with that image in mind. Seconds
later, an electronic buzz snapped him from the daydream. To his
amazement, an elderly man rose into view, sitting in a black chair
atop an electronic lift. He reclined, passively examining Trent as
if he had been there the entire time.

“You gotta be kidding me,” Trent muttered
under his breath. It seemed like, whether in a dream or in a flight
of the imagination, everything suddenly became real in this world
of Abraham Soriah’s.

The man’s face was long and thin, and his
pale skin wrinkled ear-to-ear. White hair, still full atop his
head, was combed back and well coifed. Cold, gray eyes, set deeply
beneath snow-white eyebrows, were laser sharp. He was clean-shaven,
and the jaw that looked strong in the wall-mounted photos had
withered into a crooked and weak attachment to his face.

The old man spoke first. “You are Trent
Smith?”

“Yes, and you are Abraham Soriah?”

“Yes, have you heard of me?”

“Everyone’s heard of you,” Trent
acknowledged, “although I’m at a loss as to how you’ve heard of
me.”

“Well, to be honest, Mr. Smith, I have only
heard of you recently. But I must say, what I have heard has been
very impressive. Yes, very impressive, indeed.” Soriah seemed to be
waiting for some kind of response, but after several silent
moments, he asked, “Aren’t you curious as to why someone like me is
so impressed with someone like you?”