Agent M: Testament (The Agent M Series Book 2) (36 page)

That name sounded familiar. Thought Michael wasn’t well versed in current Asian gang culture, there were many symbols and key phrases that certain gangs used to incite fear into their enemies. He didn’t find any similarly designed tattoos on the scrawny punk he interrogated a few days ago but at least now he had something solid to search for.

“It may be a small lead but that’s all I’ve got for now. Please do what you can Michael.”

“Understood Commander.”

Nicole stayed silent on the other end. She didn’t hang up. This drew more curiosity from her subordinate.

“Michael?” She started.

Her tone was much softer and weaker than before. Certainly not like her usual self. The FBI agent was pondering about that for the last couple of days but the mission took precedence above all else.

“Yes Nicole,” he replied trying his best to match her tone and sound sympathetic.

She remained quiet on the other end for some time.

“No. It’s nothing.” Nicole was starting to sound like her usual self. “We’ll talk once you get back to HQ.”

Michael took a moment to think before responding.

“Understood,” were the only words in his arsenal that could comfort her now.

The line went silent. She finally had the courage to hang up. Michael placed the phone back in his jacket pocket and turned his attention back at the bar. He couldn’t let his mind wander or be distracted now. The link between Ryoo Myung-Dae and his supplier could be sitting in that very bar. There was no use wasting any time out here.

Michael began taking a brisk pace for the door. If Davis had been looking elsewhere, he would have missed it completely. The FBI agent quickened his steps. He took notes of all of the surrounding areas and features just in case one of the goons inside decided to run. The space in this area was wide but Michael was able to make out more than enough details should it come to that.

The FBI agent smashed his foot into the door and vaulted the wooden structure straight into the bar. Hinges shattered and sent bits of metal and bolts flying into the dank and stuffy air. A sole pool table sat underneath a dim single-bulb lamp with a pair of shirtless players staring back at Michael in disgust. Their tattered pants and worn shoes seemed to compliment the copious amount of tattoos covering every inch of their exposed skin. Light trails of smoke traveled upwards and filled the top layer of the building in a thick layer of fog. Two more similarly styled individuals stood pressed against the wall next to another closed door with lit cigarettes dangling on their lips. Every one of them had their heads shaved; another sign of unity among gangs.

American southern rock music blared in the background. The bar was all the way in the back wall with only a handful of choice liquor bottles. The bartender was nowhere in sight. That was usually the sign of a gang hide-out masked as a bar to get government employees off of their case.

The initial scan of this place hinted at all of the right signs. The denizens did not appear to like the FBI agent’s choice of entrance. Michael gave each of them a deep look and searched for any specific gang symbols that symbolize the information he’d received from Nicole. Most of their tattoos were of the standard flair. Raging animals, tough text, and images depicting death all seemed to find their place on their bodies. Michael had a hunch about this place. He would not let up this investigation without a proper search.

“Who the hell are you?” One of the pool players shouted in Korean.

He stood up with cue still in hand and bounced it gently off his shoulder. This casual display of intimidation may have worked on the locals but Michael was far from impressed.

As the man drew closer Michael noticed a few finer details in the man’s features. Specifically one he had hoped to find. On his neck was a small but distinct image of a golden knife pointing up towards the back of his ear. That was a very peculiar choice for that type of tattoo. It made total sense to those who had a complete understanding of the human anatomy. There is a small section of skin right over the part of the head where the jaw meets the skull. If someone were to take a small needle and strike that area, it would lead directly to the brain and would more than likely kill the person instantly depending on the length of the blade. That was all Michael needed to see to confirm he’d found the right place.

“I’m looking for Ryoo Myung-Dae,” Michael started. “I’m told his dogs like to hide out here.”

The quick little insult was meant to incite their rage. It did more than that. The pool player that approached him spat some obscenity in Korean that had too many hints of slang for Michael to decipher immediately. He drew back the pool cue and swung it with every ounce of strength his semi-muscular frame could summon. The strike was aimed squarely at the FBI agent’s jaw, more than likely hoping to shut him up.

“What’s going on in here?”

The young Paladin asked the obvious as soon as he reached the door. He had just caught up to the sounds of action only to find himself inches away from it.

Michael shot out his left hand and caught the cue in mid strike. A short vibration tickled his palm. Supposedly this was pain. The gang member desperately tried to push the cue through and finish the swing but Michael’s arm remained stiff and firm. His opponent’s efforts barely registered. With one quick snap, Michael crushed the section of the wooden cue that he once possessed. Tiny splinters and fragments of the formally whole weapon rained down as he opened his palm showing both a symbol of his strength as well as the futility of his opponent’s actions.

The gang member jaw stood ajar in complete disbelief. He swung the newly miniscule pool cue once more with amplified force. The weapon’s reduced range and girth didn’t dissuade his determination. Michael swayed from the first initial swings. They were so off-balance and clumsy; typical for this lot of criminals. He effortlessly avoided an overhand swing and caught the gang member’s skull. Michael opposed the momentum of his attacker and slid his leg behind. He slammed the gang member to the ground with a thud the resonated in the entire bar. It wasn’t enough to knock him out cold. Michael made sure of that. He needed one of these goons to retain the ability to answer questions later. The fates of the other three were not so lucky.

“Get him!” One of them shouted as they all rushed to Michael’s position.

The FBI agent stepped forward past his first victim and prepared to counter the perpetual sloppy assault by the remaining companions. Michael pressed his leg against the pool table and thrust it forward. It skidded across the ground screeching in defiance and sandwiched the other pool player flat against the wall. Michael could hear knees cracking instantaneously. There was no way he’d be able to walk let alone move from that spot without assistance. Another one down in the blink of an eye with only two left to go.

One of the gang members was at least taking this threat seriously. He produced a small switchblade knife from his pocket and ran at the FBI agent with an impressive amount of gusto. The blade slashed the air that Michael once breathed. They weren’t precise or measured strikes in the slightest. Their complete lack of training gave Michael the idea that he may have chosen the right place. That or they were too intoxicated to put up a formidable defense. Either way, the FBI agent would get the answers he sought.

Wild slashes continued to whiz and slice into the open air. Normally he’d defer to his Kevlar laced trench coat to block the attack and protect his skin. This black suit offered no such luxury. Michael relied to his combat training to stop this threat with minimum effort. By allowing the gang member to continue exhausting his energy, soon enough he’ll deplete all of his strength. That opening would allow the FBI agent the moment he needed to end this conflict without dropping a bead of sweat. It was the essence of the Yamatera style after all.

The gang member soon caught wind of his complied failures. Instead of continuing to swing openly and wild, he tucked the knife near his waist and thrust it forward at the FBI agent’s center mass. This was the most precise strike of the night. Sadly, one that was already well telegraphed.

Michael spread each finger wide on his extended hand and caught the oncoming fist carrying the blade. A mere half inch separated the FBI agent’s finger from the sharp steel appendage threatening to spill his blood all over this bar. The blade hovered between Michael’s middle and ring finger. He clasped the knuckles of the gang member and using the same strength he demonstrated on the pool cue, he crushed every bone underneath his skin. The poor soul dropped immediately clutching his newly broken fist. He cried and swore in his native language. Even the added adrenaline of the battle couldn’t overcome the overwhelming pain of having your fist turned into dust within the fleshy pockets of skin. Michael delivered a well measured kick to his jaw and silenced him for good.

Only one sole soldier of the gangster crew stood between the FBI agent and certain victory. If Michael actually gave these men any consideration, he would have thought they were fairly brave. It takes a lot of chutzpah to stare doom in the face and keep coming after it. That or they were a couple of eggs short of a complete breakfast.

The remaining gang member used only his fists but swung them with such bravado he could convince others they were mighty hammers blessed by all the gods one could imagine. Michael would have loved to end this quickly by taking another punch to the face. The thought of giving this guy the satisfaction of landing one didn’t sit well either. The FBI agent easily blocked the initial onslaught of blows. Openings were easily created and found all over his opponent’s offensive flurry. Michael stepped in between a wild haymaker and drilled his elbow into the gang member’s gut. Spit flew wild as every atom of oxygen was sucked out of his system. He tried to drop to his knees but Michael caught him by the neck before he could taste the sweet freedom of the floor. With one mighty push, the FBI shot the gang member into the air. His back slammed against the jukebox destroying it and rendering the machine silent. His flailing legs caught the skull of the other pinned gang member. They collided so hard and fast it sounded like one simultaneous explosion of bone and flesh. Both of them dropped unconscious next to each other. Michael couldn’t have asked for a better ending.

A sharp metal click could be heard from behind. The FBI agent knew that sound all too well. The last conscious gang member had drawn a short-barreled .38 revolver. He snapped the hammer back. Michael quickly reached for his own pistol within his shoulder holster in quick succession. The gang member barely caught the move being performed and he was staring at him the entire time. Michael’s sights quickly aimed for his defiant opponent’s skull before he could even raise his own weapon in a remotely threatening manner. With a sharp squeeze Michael discharged his weapon. The bullet tore through the chamber of the Glock and whizzed towards the gang member’s forehead.

Sharp metal ringing filled the quiet halls of the bar where the rock music once played. The large resonating echo stung into the air and left a sharp impression on those who were still conscious. The bullet ricocheted up and dug into the smoke filled ceiling. Michael instantly knew something was wrong when he didn’t see the familiar crimson dust explode through his sights. The barely conscious gang member dropped to the ground with a large gash on his forehead. Standing before him was the ever vigilant presence of the young Paladin known as Davis. He took a casual stance in front of the gang member with a shining silver staff that stood almost as tall as he was in one outstretched hand. Michael had no idea where this holy man hid or when he procured such a weapon. He’d eyed that cassock from head to toe. There was no way he’d be able to hide a staff of that size on his person and it certainly wasn’t lying around a place like this. The staff was finely crafted, almost gleaming in both magnitude and quality.

“My apologies Michael,” Davis calmly stated as he drew the staff away from its protective stance. “I know I’m not supposed to interfere in these matters but I cannot stand idly by while you attempt to take the life of another.”

He looked down on the fallen gang member flailing in pain. The staff struck him hard but not enough to completely knock him out. Much better than the alternative.

“This man may have evil residing in his heart but he can still be redeemed. As long as you are under my watch there will be no killing, guilty or otherwise. Is that clear?”

Michael did not like the sound of that as much as he didn’t like the idea of taking orders from anyone other than Nicole Wells. Their partnership had been tolerable up to this point but Davis has seriously crossed a line. Michael stared him down with an icy gaze. The young Paladin didn’t falter or change his expression in the slightest. Thou shalt not kill may have been a religious commandment but in Michael’s experience, it was barely an afterthought.

The FBI agent holstered his weapon. There wasn’t a need to start a fight here with someone that he still relied upon. That may change when they touch down in America but for the time being, Davis would be spared Michael’s defiance. There was still the matter of information gather to attend to anyways.

The gang member continued to squeal in pain. Michael grasped his throat, lifted him off the ground, and slammed him into a nearby wall so quickly people would believe they heard thunder clapping would soon be heard in neighboring streets. The gang member winded and moaned with the iron claw-like grip attempting to seal his throat shut.

“I’m not going to ask again,” Michael stated.