Killer of Killers (27 page)

While viewing the corpse, Trent realized the
room was abnormally quiet. He examined his fists. They dripped with
the blood of a Soriah-paid killer. He whirled around. The other
killer was only now back on his feet, and he tried to escape, but a
hunchbacked hobble was all he could manage. Trent foot-swept him
from behind, and he belly-flopped to the carpet, where he rolled
onto his back looking helpless and afraid. Trent stood over him and
dropped to a knee, delivering the same fatal punch his accomplice
received. The man raised his arms, attempting to surrender, but the
pile-driving blow was irrevocable. After the impact, his arms
collapsed, and they would never rise again.

With tightened fists and elbows bent, Trent
arched his back and clenched his teeth. He resisted the urge to
scream, knowing it would release neither his fury nor his pain.
When he turned to Benson, still on the sofa, he viewed yet another
tragic development. A bullet had struck the eminent scientist. He
hustled over and knelt down beside him.

“I’m shot,” Benson groaned. He held his chest
with both of his hands, and blood filled the space between
them.

Trent said, “I’ll call an ambulance. You’ll
be all right.”

“No,” Benson responded, “this is it for me.
Listen, you have to take this.” He reached inside his pants pocket
and pulled out a small oblong object, hardly bigger than a stick of
gum.

Trent eyed the tiny thing. “What is it?”

“It’s a flash drive containing the complete
formula for Eternity. The history, the process, the experiments,
every step of the way. The whole thing.”

“Why are you giving it to me?”

“It’s the only copy. I destroyed all the
files at the lab. The computers, the backups, all of
it...gone.”

“Why?”

“Because, it’s finished.”

“Finished?”

Benson’s eyelids began a slow descent. He
parted his lips in a strained effort to speak. “It’s purr...”

Trent kept listening. “Come on, doc. Don’t
you die, too. You saved my life just now, remember? I owe you one.”
But Trent understood he was talking to a dead man. Benson no longer
breathed, and when Trent checked for a pulse, it couldn’t be found.
He lowered his head for a moment of silence. Then he took the
device from Benson’s blood-covered hand. He didn’t know what to do
with it. Was he now the guardian of Eternity? The keeper of the key
to immortality? No. He was a killer. A
killer of killers
.
And that’s all he wanted to be.

After some seconds, Trent realized he was
swirling in emotion. He found himself unprepared for this kind of
pain. Susie was dead, and he wanted justice. He killed the killers,
but achieved no solace. These assassins, sprawled on the carpet,
were mere puppets. It was Soriah pulling the strings, and those
strings needed to be slashed. Trent was going to make sure the old
man’s quest for a long life would be cut very short.

Sirens blared in the distance. Someone must
have heard the gunshots and called the police. They would be here
any minute, but Trent wasn’t going to repeat a mistake. Pocketing
the flash drive, he returned to Susie’s room, knelt at her side,
and kissed her cheek. Next, he took both of her hands and clasped
them together on top of her stomach. He checked for the rose in his
shirt. It was still there, so he placed it in her hands as he
planned to do when he plucked it from the garden. “Goodbye, Susie,”
he whispered, his eyes welling again. “It’s just not fair. You were
the most innocent of all these people. But now, look... Look what
they did to you.”

A second time, tears fell, soaking the
whiskers on Trent’s face. He tensed his lips. “If it takes me
forever, Susie, I promise. I... I promise...” Unable to finish, he
could only lower his head.

* * * *

Overcome with grief, Trent roamed the
streets, coping with the events that took place on this day. It
began with a flight from California to New York. No sooner did he
exit the plane, Charles Morgan greeted him with a strange proposal.
Next, he fulfilled his mission to slay the rapper. In addition, he
slew one of his bodyguards, but saved one as well. Then, he held
Susie as she died and avenged her by killing the assassins.
Finally, Eternity’s creator became an unexpected casualty, and
Trent possessed the only copy of the formula, which could well
become the most sought after prize in history.

What would he do with it? Trent didn’t even
know at this point. The
only
thing he knew was that a
problem needed eliminating, and the problem had a name—Abraham
Soriah.

Trent used a street phone and dialed
Samantha’s number. She didn’t answer, but her voice mail kicked in.
He said, “Yes, Samantha, it’s me. Sorry about last week. Tell
Manoukian I changed my mind. Yeah, I don’t believe it, either.” He
hung up and hoped he made the right decision. As soon as he was
ready, he would fly to San Francisco and commence Soriah’s
downfall.

But Trent wasn’t ready just yet. He resumed
his aimless walk. He took the flash drive from his pocket and
frowned. He wanted to smash it, but he couldn’t bring himself to do
it. Aside from the anti-aging factor, it contained the cure for
disease. That meant no more cancer, no more illness, no more pain
and suffering for humanity. He thought of children in the hospitals
with their lives hanging in the balance. He thought of his own
parents. If this Eternity, or some form of it, had been available
when they died, maybe they wouldn’t have. It could have made up for
all the years he missed while training in Japan.

Trent still couldn’t shake the compulsion to
destroy it and leave humanity to its natural destiny. As he
considered the quandary, he felt himself swelling with stark
indignation. First Bernstein, now Benson decamped with the drug. He
wondered how Soriah was taking the news.

* * * *

“He what?” Abraham leaped from his seat,
holding his phone in disbelief. He slammed it down and activated
the loudspeaker. “Charles, you must hear this. It’s
mind-boggling!”

Charles stepped to the desk and listened as
the dismal tidings continued. “Yes, sir, it’s true.” The projecting
voice belonged to the Chief of Security at Abraham’s Minnesota
laboratory. “The computer programs are deleted and all the files
destroyed. There’s nothing left. Nothing.”

Charles spoke. “Did you try all the backup
systems and reserves? Did you check the vaults for all the backups
there?”

“Yes,” the chief replied. “There’s nothing
left.”

Struggling to maintain his composure, Abraham
asked, “What about Doctors Lee and Wong? Where are they?”

“They’re still here,” the chief answered.

“Can they reproduce the formula? Get them on
the phone.”

Moments later, a timid voice spoke in a
Chinese accent. “This is Dr. Lee.”

“Can you or can you not recreate the
formula?”

“It’s all gone,” Dr. Lee confirmed. “Dr. Wong
and I were working on derivatives. Those files are gone, too. All
the equations and calculations leading up to the base product and
beyond have been deleted. Nothing is salvageable, not even a single
file of our own work over the past three years.”

Abraham asked, “What is the status of our
existing supply?”

“The production vats are intact.”

“How much do we have left? How long will it
last?”

“At the rate we’re packing, about five
months.”

“And after that?” Abraham closed his
eyes.

“After our current supply is packaged, we
cannot continue the production of any additional serum.”

It was the answer Abraham feared. “Can’t you
analyze existing samples and duplicate the formula?”

“It’s not as easy as that,” Dr. Lee replied.
“This was a product of several years’ research, involving the minds
of many leading scientists. Micro-analyzing the serum is one thing,
but there is a process of sub-atomic breakdowns, molecular ratios,
transmutations, and the synthesizing of hormonal properties. The
entire database has been destroyed. We don’t even know where to
begin. We would need Dr. Benson for that, or Dr. Bernstein’s
research, if it is available.”

“Well, it’s not,” Abraham jeered. “Where is
Benson? Where did he go?”

“We don’t know,” Dr. Lee responded. “We don’t
know where he is. We are so sorry.”

Abraham took a moment to assess his latest
crisis. What compelled Benson to do this? It couldn’t be E Wing. He
had come to terms with that. It was something else. Could he have
solved the problem of age reversal? Despite the catastrophe,
Abraham felt his heart jump.
That must be it!
Perhaps the
pheromone rage was corrected, as well. Benson finally completed the
formula and figures he holds all the cards. He wants more money—or
more power. It didn’t matter. Whatever he wanted, Abraham was
confident he could provide it. The puzzle was complete. He just
needed to reacquire it.

To his security chief, still on the line,
Abraham spoke again. “Charles and I will be there by this evening.
Buckle everything down in the meantime, and let no one leave the
premises.”

Abraham turned to Charles. “Better give Mr.
Manoukian a call and let him know what’s happening.” He was going
to stop there, but then he thought to add, “Speaking of Mr.
Manoukian, have our lawyers prepared the papers?”

“Just today,” Charles said.

“Good, then make the arrangements for a
meeting. It may as well be at the lab. Have him meet us there
tomorrow.”

Just as the words passed Abraham’s lips, the
desk phone rang. Charles picked it up. “This is Charles.” A pause.
“That’s correct.” Another pause. “Thank you.” Charles returned the
phone to the desktop.

Noting Charles’ alarmed expression, Abraham
asked, “What is it?”

“That was our man at NYPD,” Charles answered.
“They found Benson right here in New York. He’s dead.”

Abraham scrunched his eyes. “Where? How?”

“Susie Quinn’s apartment. She’s one of the
Global Girls. She’s dead, also, and two of our Turks. There was a
brawl. Shots were fired.” Charles put a hand over his brow.
“They’re all dead.”

Abraham grimaced. “Did they find
anything?”

Before Charles could answer, Abraham
continued. “You’ve got to get over there.” He spoke with tenacity.
“Find out if anything’s retrievable, like a disc or a flash drive,
a memory stick,
anything
!”

Minutes later, Abraham observed Charles exit
his office accompanied by two of his equally tall Specials. For the
crisis at hand, Abraham was confident Charles was the man to make
it right. He pressed the button to his interoffice intercom.
“Imelda, notify the flight crew. We’re going back to Minnesota. And
we’re leaving tonight.”

* * * *

Police officers were still cordoning off the
crime scene when Charles and his two assistants emerged from the
elevator. They walked down the hall to Susie Quinn’s apartment,
where Charles was sure he’d find Detective Maurice Williams in
charge. Detective Williams was a middle-aged black man and a thirty
year NYPD veteran who always seemed to be in charge of any and all
investigations that involved Soriah Enterprises.

Charles noted that the police had already
abided by Abraham’s preliminary expectations. All press and related
paparazzi were forbidden, but Charles, and anyone with him, was
granted direct access and immediate audience. As he approached,
Detective Williams was the first to greet him and the first to
speak. “Damn, do you guys ever wear anything different?”

Charles ignored the small talk. “What do you
have for me?”

Williams gestured to the corpse on the sofa
and the two black-suited heaps on the floor. They had yet to be
covered. “Be my guest,” he said. “And there’s another one in the
bedroom. A woman.”

Charles walked to the sofa, where lay the
unmoving body of the man he knew to be Dr. Jason Benson.

Williams spoke. “A single bullet to his
chest, from what I can see. Tell your boss we’ll have an autopsy
ready by mid-week.”

“Has anyone touched them?” Charles asked.

“Hell, we just got here ourselves,” the
detective grumbled. “If I’d have stopped to take a piss, you’d have
been here before
me
.”

Charles eyed his assistants. “Andy, search
these bodies. Start with Benson. Bill, you check the back room.” As
Andy and Bill parted, Charles dropped his gaze to what remained of
the Turks. Lowering himself to a squat, he examined their bloodied
faces, noting one in particular frozen in horror. He spied the
splintered door, the wrecked furniture, and the bullet holes in the
wall.

Williams spoke again. “They were Soriah
Specials, weren’t they?”

“Yes, they were,” Charles confirmed. “Now
look at them. Both have had their lower frontal bone smashed, the
nasal bone pulverized, and the lacrimal bone completely crushed,
along with the upper maxilla.”

“Yeah, right,” the detective sneered. “We
found two switchblades on the floor and two semis outside, I’d
guess thrown out this window here.” He gestured toward the open
window, but Charles’ eyes weren’t on the stocky policeman.
Regardless, Williams continued. “Only one of the handguns has been
discharged, but we believe it’s the weapon that killed your
egghead.”

Charles remained silent, pondering his own
assessments.

The detective added, “The lady in the bedroom
was stabbed. Probably by one of these switchblades. We’ll check
them for blood and prints. They’re fancy stilettos made in
Europe.”

Charles still remained silent.

Williams then pointed, successively, toward
each of the Turks. “As far as your two Specials are concerned, we
can’t find the weapon that did them in. We’ll keep looking.”

“For what?” Charles asked. “A baseball
bat?”

“Well, some kind of club or blunt object.
Brass knuckles maybe.”