Killer of Killers (16 page)

Jason paid no mind to the five men who just
entered the reception room of his laboratory but was quite aware
they watched his every move through an observation window. Four of
them were majestic men dressed in gray sports coats and black
slacks. One of the four stood taller than the others. It was
Charles Morgan, and he was standing next to Abraham Soriah, whose
leaner frame distinguished itself amongst the five.

Through the corner of his eye, Jason noted
Mr. Soriah wore a dark gray suit with a blue tie, spotted with
several Eternity symbols in white. And he figured it was right
about now his elder boss would utter the words,
Tell Benson I
will see him now
, to one of his men.

True to his expectation, the door to the main
lab opened, and Soriah’s man appeared. “Good morning, Dr. Benson,”
he said. “Mr. Soriah wants to see you right away.”

Jason looked up from his station and frowned.
He looked again to his monitor and clicked on several options, then
raised his head. “Lee, proceed with the biosynthesis of muscle
proteins, but let’s wait until stage three before we introduce the
oxandrolone.” His fingers continued a keyboard tap dance despite
the waiting messenger whose impatience grew obvious.

Jason added, “Wong, you keep tracking the
methandrostenolone in conjunction with the mitochondria, and be
sure a molecular balance is maintained in successive stages.” He
then quit the programs on his own computer and rose from his seat
to walk with the tall man in gray.

When Jason approached the open doors to
Soriah’s executive suite, he witnessed his white-haired employer
reclining on a sofa surrounded by female assistants who helped in
the removal of his coat and outer shirt. Pretty nurses smiled, and
Soriah smiled back as he braved the pricking of his age-spotted
skin. Charles Morgan sat opposite the main desk at an adjoining
computer post, reviewing facility reports on multiple plasma
screens.

The nurses exited with their specimens, and
Jason passed them when he entered the suite. Still wearing his lab
coat, he pulled on his fingers, cracking each knuckle until Soriah
noticed his arrival.

As a busty redhead buttoned his shirt, Soriah
blustered, “Ah, Dr. Benson, yes, I’ve been eager to hear what you
have for me today.” His gaze wandered to a pretty brunette standing
nearby with his coat and tie draped over her arm. He added, “Do
tell, won’t you?”

“We still can’t use an oral device, sir,”
Jason advised. “We just can’t get past the need for alkylation.
Otherwise, the liver breaks down the compounds before they reach
the blood stream. However, once the compounds have been chemically
treated, the required doses have damaged the livers of every
targeted subject.”

Nodding, Soriah asked, “Even those
in-house?”

Jason firmed his mouth. “Even them.”

“Well, we can’t have that. What about the
adhesive patches you were considering on my last visit?”

After a gulp, Jason answered, “The
transdermal patches that we tested couldn’t administer a sufficient
amount of the active ingredients to be effective. Every subject
using that method returned negative results.”

“Very well, Dr. Benson, but now tell me
you’ve made progress with our main objective. What are the most
recent results?”

“The latest run has reinforced cellular
repair. It’s why you feel stronger. But the process of reversal...
That one’s still a hurdle.” Jason searched for encouraging words.
“But I can assure you, Mr. Soriah, it has taken up my entire
effort. It’s my top priority.”

“Thank you, Dr. Benson. Your top priority is
my top priority. I don’t much see the point of living forever in
this old bag of bones.” Soriah smiled at Charles and then returned
his gaze to Jason. “Now then, we must address our list of
Eternals.”

“Our list of Eternals?”

“Yes, Dr. Benson, I’m glad you were
listening.” Soriah’s face darkened as he spoke in a voice that
wasn’t usual for him. It was more reprimanding than encouraging.
“Revisions are in order. We need to make very important changes,
and time is of the essence.”

“What will constitute these revisions?” Jason
asked.

“The program must be accelerated for one
thing,” Soriah answered. “We’ll start by increasing the degree of
transmutation. As soon as each steroid is converted, I want it
active in every category. Not in theory, mind you, and not just
in-house. I want it in the field immediately.”

“I understand,” Jason said.

“That’s not all,” Soriah continued. “First
and foremost, we need to remove our
at risk
subjects from
Eternal-X stage. We’ll be putting them into a new category. Charles
will work with you on this, and he’ll supervise the new listing
every step of the way.”

Scratching his cheek, Jason asked, “Do you
still want me to keep the incoming data confidential?”

“Absolutely. Your results will be channeled
through me. I want no one else advised, and that most definitely
includes both of your assistants from the People’s Republic.”

“Yes, sir.” Jason tried his best to hide the
contempt he felt for his working arrangement. He hated having a
boss looking over his shoulder, a sentiment he inherited from his
former colleague, Dr. Samuel Bernstein. It was Dr. Bernstein who
insisted on working without supervision, and Karl Manoukian created
a perfect solution here in the Northern Minnesota wilderness.

When Abraham Soriah took over, the late Dr.
Bernstein often lamented that ‘Big Brother’ had arrived. No
research was promoted or advanced without Soriah’s personal
approval, and he alone designated all variants of the drug for
specific recipients.

“There is one more thing, Dr. Benson,” Soriah
said. “As you know, we’ve experienced too much trouble stemming
from unauthorized use, and I need that to stop. My Specials have
already taken care of the West Coast problem, but I want you to
seal off the East Coast, personally. We need to run a tighter ship.
Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Mr. Soriah.”

Soriah walked to his desk, but before taking
his seat, he turned to face Jason again. “Remember, the consequence
of further leaks will be very serious for everyone involved in our
program.”

Soriah’s voice had a dire ring to it, and
Jason understood. It was he who provided for the Global Girls after
the demise of the Bernstein twins. Did the old man find out? He
must be suspicious at any rate, and Jason didn’t dare affront
Soriah’s orders. Or did he? Just who had the real power? He could
impair the entire network as Bernstein had done. Even the backup
systems put in place to safeguard such an act—he could damage them,
too. It seemed to Jason that his association with Eternity
Laboratories should be appreciated much more than Abraham Soriah
apparently did.

Soriah snapped his fingers. “Well, let’s go,
Dr. Benson, get to it.”

Jason leaped with a start. “Yes sir, Mr.
Soriah, right away.” And with a quick pivot, he hastened from the
room.

* * * *

Abraham proceeded to access his computer, but
Charles had noticed his gloomy mood. “Are you okay?” he asked.

Abraham shook his head. “It’s just so
maddening that the world’s top biochemist has to be such a
pipsqueak.”

Charles chuckled but made no comment.

“Well, what’s so funny?” Abraham asked.

“I haven’t heard that word since I was a kid,
that’s all.”

“So what’s the word they use nowadays? Wimp?
Nerd?”

“My mother might have said
Country
,”
Charles answered.

Abraham raised an eyebrow. “She was a great
lady.”

“She was,” Charles agreed. “I just wish...”
He stopped for a moment, straightened his posture, and then said,
“I’ll see to Benson, now.”

Abraham nodded. “Go easy on him. I shouldn’t
have been so rough on the poor rascal.”

Charles turned his head. He was glad to see
the softer side of his aging employer. “Sure, Abe,” he said.

Charles proceeded to exit the large office.
Overseeing revisions of the Eternal list was his first order of
business. Getting it to the proper recipient was the second. But
when he reached the door, the cell phone chimed from within his
coat. “This is Charles.” After listening for several moments, he
said, “Thank you,” and then turned around. “Abraham... You’ll
recall you asked me to keep an eye on Trent Smith.”

“Ah, yes. The unpredictable Mr. Smith. Do
tell.”

“He’s just arrived in Minnesota.”

Chapter Nine

The Twin Cities

Minneapolis bustled with
excitement, and although Trent walked amongst the numerous
celebrants, he didn’t share in their merriment. It was about Nick
Martin. The aging rock star was in town to perform with his
original band,
The Buzz Boys
. He was long past his prime,
but he still drew hordes of graying diehards who gladly swapped a
college fund for scalper-priced tickets. Apparently, most of his
fans cared nothing of the storm that embroiled their idol those
years ago. What seemed more important to them was the fact that he
was in town, and they were in line to see him.

Less than jubilant, Trent found a place in
line and weathered the summer winds that buffeted the crowd outside
the arena. As the line inched forward, he moved along with his
hands in the pockets of his blue jeans.

“I love Nicky Martin,” a middle-aged woman
screamed when the gatekeeper scanned her ticket. She was just ahead
of Trent, and her blind allegiance to the murdering singer turned
his stomach. He found solace, however, in a small gathering of
protesters outside the gates. They carried signs that proclaimed
the performer a cold-blooded killer. Many of their banners
questioned why would someone acquitted of murder release a new song
called
I’m Your Reaper.
Trent approved of pickets
challenging devotion to detestable stars—particularly those stars
who had taken the lives of helpless innocents.

Most of Martin’s obsequious followers paid
them no mind. Some cursed them, and others made obscene gestures.
Many did both. Trent smiled, pleased that there were those who
remembered the victims and the criminal deed, and he nodded as they
placed the singer’s latest hit in its proper context.

Upon entering the amphitheater, Trent bulled
his way to the front section of the main floor. This was the mosh
pit, and it was only for those hard-core addicts brave enough to
bear a frenzied mob. When the musicians appeared, more freaks
poured in, turning it into a melting pot of sweltering bodies. The
constant push caused a steady press of sweating skin.

Close by, several young women struggled to
keep their place. Performers strutted over the stage, and many of
the ladies flashed the band to get their attention. Figuring they
would be the ones most likely invited to the backstage party after
the show, Trent made himself a part of their pack.

When the revelry hit a crescendo, a wild-eyed
blond girl chose the climax of the band’s latest hit to lift her
blouse. As she bounced her endowment for the musicians, a close-by
pervert reached over and grabbed a handful. Trent saw the woman’s
scornful disapproval and her unsuccessful attempts to keep the jerk
from taking advantage, so he reached over and snared him in a
wristlock—the
katate tori.

With his bones on the verge of breaking, the
groper screamed an agonized apology, audible even above the loud
music. After a sadistic twist for extra measure, Trent released the
offending arm. The misfit wouldn’t be doing anything else with that
hand for the rest of the week. Seeing what he did to protect her,
the lady attached herself to Trent from that point on.

For the heated climate, the singer pulled off
his own shirt. He threw it to the rabid audience where it ripped to
shreds in a sea of hands. Trent spied the Eternity pendant hanging
from Martin’s neck, but knowing its meaning lessened not his
resolve. Tonight he would see justice entertained as thoroughly as
these mindless minions.

Trent lasted through the performance with
tested patience. While Martin’s worshippers surrendered to
hysteria, he retained a stern determination. During the encore, the
front man pointed at the females whom he wanted backstage, and the
flashing girl on Trent’s shoulder was one of them.

The concert ended, the performers took their
bows, and Martin made it known to the ushers whom to admit.
Fortunately for Trent, the rock star made a generalized gesture to
the women in his direction, so when they made their way through the
group of stagehands, he was arm in arm with the ladies all the way.
Only one other male was amongst them—the husband of another adoring
fan, who also was liberal with her exhibitionism.

Within minutes, Trent reclined in the
backstage lounge with the musicians, their girlfriends, several
groupies, and half a dozen overweight bodyguards. Partiers served
alcohol, marijuana, and cocaine, but Trent’s glass never drained,
his lungs remained unpolluted, and his nose stayed clean. Drugs
repulsed him. Just being near the despicable substances made him
feel defiled, but he endured his revulsion for the greater
objective.

Heavier drugs complicated his predicament.
Lighters heated spoons, and needles punctured veins. It was needles
Trent hated most.

After observing the same, and clearly sharing
Trent’s sentiments, many revelers called it a night and bid the
band farewell. The singer gawked at his departing fans, and his
failed attempts to call them back seemed to distress him. He pouted
like a child whose playmates ran away. When roadies offered needles
to the other man from the audience, the man politely declined, and
he too rose to leave. He moved to collect his drunken wife, but
this time Martin jumped up and insisted they indulge.