Killer of Killers (26 page)

“What about Shalom and Bulldog?”

“They’re dead, and they deserve to be
dead.”

“Why didn’t you kill me?”

“Are you a murderer?”

“Hell, no. I’m just a dumb-ass moose.”

Trent nodded. “So was Bullwinkle,” he
said.

The door to the stairwell opened, and the
limo’s chauffeur stumbled out. Appearing dazed and disoriented, he
was hardly able to stand. Moose pointed with his unbroken hand.
“Look, there goes the
real
Bruce.”

Trent recovered the driver’s coat, and after
taking off the hat, he handed both to the original owner. “Thanks
for letting me borrow these,” he said.

A clueless Bruce muttered, “No problem.”

As Bruce was putting his coat back on, Trent
added, “The cell-phone in your coat... You’d better call
nine-one-one for Jay.”

“Okay,” Bruce answered. “But...”

“But, what?”

“Can I have my boots back, too?”

Trent retrieved his sneakers and removed the
boots. “Now make that call,” he stressed.

* * * *

Moose watched the man who called himself
‘Somebody’
walk casually away. He kept watching until the
man vanished from sight. Then he stared at Bruce and Jay. They were
staring back. Several seconds of silence prevailed until he asked,
“Who the fuck is Bullwinkle?”

Chapter
Thirteen

Assassins and Rosebuds

After finding a restroom
to clean off the gore, Trent relished the streets of Manhattan,
relieved to be out in the open. He had never been claustrophobic,
but the experience in the underground parking lot seemed to affect
him somehow. Perhaps it was a lingering symptom of his flashback in
Frisco. If it hadn’t been for Samantha...

Yes, Samantha. Trent regretted leaving San
Francisco without speaking to her. He hoped she understood his
decision not to assist that weird friend of hers. But Trent shook
his head because he wanted to clear it, not cloud it further. Right
now, he treaded the East Coast, and that meant a drop-in on sweet
Susie Quinn. He’d worry about Samantha when he made it back
home.

Within the hour, Trent arrived at the
entrance to Susie’s high-income high-rise. He searched the rose
garden at the building’s base and spied a perfect bud. A swish of
his hand severed the stem, and the crimson gem was his.

* * * *

Inside his taxicab, Armin Gull could hardly
stand the rising heat of the midday sun. He endured it with no
complaint, and he was glad that he did. The man for whom his
cousins waited had finally appeared. Armin turned around to tell
them. They were popping and cleaning their blades, he guessed, to
keep themselves occupied. To Ali, he spouted, “The rose
garden!”

Ali responded, “I said keep your eyes on the
building
.”

“Yes, but look.”

Armin pointed through his open window. Ali
and Jamir turned and viewed the man in the rose patch half a block
away. He was plucking thorns from the stalk of a flower. Scowls no
longer twisted their faces, and the stilettos no longer held their
attention. They sheathed the blades, returned them to their coats,
and took out their .45 calibers. After dispelling the clips, they
checked their full loads, and then snapped them back in.

* * * *

Trent entered the building and walked with
his rosebud into the elevator. It was a carefree ascent until the
panels attracted his eyes, and he remembered the one he split in
St. Paul. As it did then, the smell of shorted circuits filled the
enclosure, and phantom fumes heated his skin. It was another
flashback! His pulse kicked into overdrive. Adrenaline rushed
through his veins. Again, the mirage of attackers returned. And
every second the cab raised him higher, the more real the specters
became.

Punches struck his stomach, and strangleholds
bound his neck. Trent swung his arms to block the ghostly blows,
and his fingers pried chokes that weren’t there. He labored to
breathe, and perspiration dripped from his brow. Vertigo forced him
against the wall.

The elevator’s deceleration slowed the
delusion, and swooshing doors swept his mind free. With a forearm
to his forehead, Trent blotted the sweat and then leaped from the
cubicle. The hallucination was done. Or was it? Shall his elevator
expectations consist evermore of angry apparitions?

Undeterred, Trent moved onward and crossed
the hallway. But when he turned the corner, he discovered someone
else knocking on Susie’s door. He paused to see what this was about
and observed a relatively small man with shaggy blond hair and
thick-lensed glasses. He was dressed in loose-fitting clothes that
included an oversized sweater in spite of the warm day.

It occurred to Trent that it might be the
scientist Susie talked about, Dr. Jason Benson. The big forehead
between his glasses and untidy hair convinced Trent he was right.
The scruffy man looked upset as he waited for the door to open. It
didn’t, so he knocked again. His stressful manner and the lack of
response at Susie’s door gave Trent a bad feeling. He stepped into
view and asked, “Are you Dr. Benson?”

The man jumped. “Who are you?”

“I’m a friend of Susie’s, that’s who. Are you
Benson or not?”

“Why, yes, I’m Benson. Um... Dr.
Jason
Benson, actually.”

“Well, you’ll forgive me if I just call you
Benson.”

Benson nodded sheepishly.

Trent scowled at the man. “So what do you
want with Susie?”

Benson wasn’t listening. His magnified eyes
were staring, and to Trent it made him look like a goofy character
from a Japanese cartoon.

“I know you,” Benson suddenly claimed.
“You’re the man who killed Jeremiah Flint and Topu Tacau at the
Flip Flop Club, aren’t you?”

“Who told you that?”

“The girls told me. They told me everything.
Susie got you out of there, and it’s a good thing, too, because if
she didn’t, Toka would have killed you, that’s for sure.”

“Toka? Who’s... Never mind, that’s enough
about me.” Trent pointed his rose at Benson’s face. “What about
you? What are you doing here?”

“I came here to warn the girls. They’ve got
to give up their supply of Eternity, right away.”

“Slow down, man. Warn the girls? Why? What’s
going on?”

“Soriah knows about the leaks.” Benson
lowered his voice. “He knows it’s me. He’s cracking down on
unauthorized users. The Global Girls are the only ones I gave it
to. They have to give it back. Or else.”

Trent didn’t care about Benson’s problems,
but he did care about the girls, especially Susie. “Or else,
what?”

Benson turned his head in a frantic search
down the hall. “Specials will come. I’m risking my neck just being
here.”

Trent noted the man’s anxiety. He remembered
Susie saying they’d have to kill her to take the drug away. It
didn’t bode well. He asked, “If Specials are coming, why are
you
here?”

“Because I was at the club last night. It was
opening night for the return of the Global Girls since, well, you
know, since that night.”

“Yeah, I know about that night. So what
happened?”

“All the girls returned their supply except
for Susie. She never showed up, and she doesn’t answer her
telephone.”

Trent’s gut filled with fear for the first
time in his life. He wriggled the doorknob and stuck the rose’s
stem through a buttonhole at the top of his shirt. After snarling
“Get out of the way,” he delivered a powerful kick, and the door
flew wide in a gust of pulverized paint and wooden splinters.

Trent rushed in with Benson right behind him.
He called out, “Susie, are you here?” and then ran to the master
bedroom. When he reached it, his heart dropped. There was Susie,
lying face up on the bed in a bathrobe, her dark skin beaded in
sweat. Though the front of her body looked undamaged, the mattress
was a slosh of blood. Trent hollered, “Susie!” and shot to the
bedside.

Susie slowly opened her eyes, but they were
glazed and unfocused. “Trent? Is that you?”

“It’s me. What happened?” He scanned her from
head to toe and found a gash in her side. He shouted to Benson who
remained in the doorway, “Someone stabbed her! Quick, give me a
rag, a sheet,
anything!
”

Benson snatched a towel from the bathroom.
Trent placed it on the wound but realized it wouldn’t help. Susie
was dying. “What happened?” he asked again. “Who did this to
you?”

Susie turned her head to Trent. “I knew you
would come.” Her voice was barely audible. “I knew you’d come back
to me.” She raised a blood-smeared hand, and Trent held it against
his chest.

“Who did this to you?”

“I waited for you, Trent. I waited for you,
and see? Here you are.”

“Susie, no, you didn’t have to wait for
me.”

“Oh, baby, didn’t you know? I’ll wait for
you, forever.”

Trent was at a loss for words. He watched
helplessly Susie’s eyes close and her breathing discontinue. “No,
Susie, please,” he beseeched, “don’t die.” His tone faltered.
“Please...don’t die.”

Trent looked at Benson.
“You! You’re the
doctor!”
he shouted.
“You can save her!”
But the reality
of Susie’s death settled upon him, and he knew there was nothing
Benson or anyone else could do.

As if thinking the same, Benson removed the
glasses from his tear-streaked face and rubbed his eyes. He turned
and wobbled from the room.

Trent forced himself to let Susie lay in
peace. Tears fell from his eyes and soaked the hair on his upper
lip and chin. He looked at Susie’s face and jutted his jaw forward.
Even in death she retained the beauty for which he marveled the
night they met. Hate replaced his sorrow, and he would vent it. He
stood up and looked around. Nothing was different from the last
time he visited. There were no signs of a struggle and no trace of
a weapon.

It was an anger-ridden Trent who stormed out
of the room. He found Benson slouched on the sofa. “Do you know the
Specials who did this?”

Benson didn’t seem to hear the question.
“It’s my fault,” he cried in self-guilt. “I gave it to her. If I
didn’t, then—”

“Then what?” Trent snapped. “She wouldn’t
have been murdered?” He paused to calm down. “It’s not your fault.
You didn’t kill her. It was Soriah’s men.” Trent paced the room.
“They’ll pay for this, and so will Soriah.”

A deep voice growled, “What
about
Soriah?”

Trent spun around. There were two tall and
stocky men standing just inside the shattered entrance. Both of
them were the meanest looking brutes he had ever seen. Olive
complexioned, like ethnic Mediterranean, they could be Greek,
Italian, or some kind of Arab, but it didn’t matter. Trent wanted
justice, and their timing was perfect. They stood side-by-side
wearing black suits and ties, which to Trent was trademark
Soriah-wear.
“You killed an innocent woman!”
he roared.
“And now you’re going to pay!”

The two men traded glances and then reached
into their respective coats. In a flash, Trent closed the distance
just as they produced their .45 calibers. Simultaneous wristlocks
dropped both guns to the floor.

In response, the bruisers stiff-armed Trent,
and in the moment they pushed him away, the closer man bent down to
recover his gun. It was a fleeting moment. Before he could reach
it, Trent pummeled him off of his feet and through the doorway with
a combination side-kick, three sixty.

The second man produced his stiletto and
sprang a polished blade. He thrust a killing strike, but Trent’s
lightning fast forearm strike disarmed him, and with an equally
fast pivot, he flipped him across the room. It was a
Tsurikomi
Goshi
delivered with the speed and ease of a seasoned
expert
.
The large man smashed into the china cabinet, which
wrought an avalanche of shattered glass, dinnerware, and broken
wood.

Back on his feet and returned to the doorway,
the first man hedged when he saw his partner buried in the
wreckage, and it was in that instant Trent launched a barrage of
punches to his head. The savage onslaught drove the man out of the
apartment and down the length of the corridor. Trent culminated the
offensive with a three sixty-jump kick, which bounced the heavy man
off the end wall and onto his oversized gut.

Beyond rage, Trent bolted back to the
apartment, but when he reached the doorway, he heard Benson holler,
“Look out!”

Trent hit the deck just as multiple shots
spattered holes in the wall behind him. He saw the shooter adjust
his aim, so he darted past the partition of the living room and
kitchen. Still, the shooting continued. The gunman was apparently
trying to visualize a moving target from the partition’s opposite
side, and his bullets riddled the length of the wall. Then the
shooting stopped, and Trent heard footsteps approaching the closer
end of the partition. Just as the man peeked around the corner,
Trent sprang from the far end in a mad dash and delivered a
crushing hammer strike to the base of his neck. The blow impacted
the intercostal nerves on his upper spine, causing him to drop the
pistol and sent him crashing through the dining room furniture. In
the pause, Trent snatched both guns off the floor and tossed them
out of the open window.

The downed man was only stunned, but before
Trent could press his advantage, he heard the successive thumps of
running feet from the outer corridor. He ran to the tattered
entrance and squatted beside it, like he did at the club when he
fought the Samoan.

With blade in hand, the suited bruiser
blasted through, but tripped over Trent’s extended leg and flopped
on Susie’s coffee table, smashing it flat. As he struggled to rise,
Trent fired a paralyzing lunge punch, targeting the transverse
cervical nerve below the corner of his jaw. The force of the impact
spun the man’s body a three quarter turn and landed him on his
hind-side. It was now Trent fired his mightiest punch between the
man’s eyes. It was a lethal version of the
Cho Tou
, which
smashed both the supratrochlear and supraorbital nerves into the
skull. Crushed nasal bones splintered through the frontal lobe of
the brain, and the man died on the spot.