Killer of Killers (39 page)

Trent pulled the man’s face to within inches
of his own. It was still another swarthy Turk in a black suit and
tie. But this one had a bushy mustache under his nose and an ugly
scar across his cheek.

Trent snarled, “What’s the matter, run out of
limousines?” He struggled to keep his rage in check and darted a
glance to the driver. He had yet to recover, so Trent focused on
the Turk. “You work for Manoukian, don’t you?”

Before the man could reply, Trent jerked his
collar and spoke again. “You better tell me the truth, because I
swear, by God, I swear if you don’t, you die.”

The Turk shouted, “I don’t, I don’t, by
Allah, I don’t!”

Trent clenched his teeth so hard his jaw
moved sideways. He reached inside the man’s coat and pulled out a
glossy black stiletto. “Right,” he said and threw it over his
shoulder. “I suppose you never heard of Soriah, either.”

“Soriah? I don’t know him.”

Trent was done talking. He raised his arm and
delivered a hammer strike, which crushed the brachial plexus nerves
at the base of the man’s neck. The force of the blow also shattered
his collarbone. The Turk opened his mouth, but before he made a
sound, his eyes rolled up, and his life ended.

Trent turned his head toward the driver who
was now fumbling with his seat belt. Circling the taxi, Trent
opened the driver’s door just as the cabby freed himself. He jumped
out and into a cross-lapel stranglehold.

Trent growled, “Why did you try to kill me?”
He knew the man couldn’t answer. He had his lapels pulled so tight
they choked off his airway. The man’s dark eyes strained to see the
corpse in the back seat. Trent hissed, “Yeah, that’s what happens
to murderers like you.”

The man moved his mouth as if trying to
speak, but Trent didn’t want to hear anything more. “You tried to
kill me,” he said, “and in my book that makes you a murderer.”

Trent held the
Gyakujuji Shime
until
the man’s scruffy chin dropped onto his lifeless chest. He then
returned to the first taxi, and through its open window he observed
what he believed to be a veteran cabby who no doubt bore witness to
many rumbles in this part of town. But he also saw hands that
jittered. Trent had jumped over a speeding car and dodged bullets
before ending the lives of two men, but that was no reason for
this
man to feel threatened—
unless he played a part in
their plan
.

While Trent looked him dead in the eye, the
cabby asked in a shaky voice, “Um, do you still need a ride to
JFK?”

Trent didn’t answer. He opened the door and
yanked the man off his seat by the collar of his shirt. “You set me
up, didn’t you?”

“Set you up? What do you mean?”

Trent initiated the stranglehold. “I mean you
pulled over on the far side, forcing me to cross the street. That’s
what I mean. Why didn’t you just make a U-turn and pull up next to
me?”

“Because—” An increase of pressure choked the
cabby silent.

But Trent changed his mind. Without knowing
why, he decided that he wanted to hear the man’s answer. He eased
the grip and narrowed his eyes. “Because what?”

“Because JFK is
that
way.” The cabby
pointed a trembling finger in the direction his taxi was
headed.

Trent released the hold. “What’s your
name?”

With an onslaught of coughs, the cabby
answered, “Rahul.”

“Well, Rahul, it’s nice to meet you. I’ll
take that ride.”

The cabby sighed in relief. “Okay.”

Epilogue

JFK
Airport

It was another airport, and Trent entered the
terminal, begrudging a long wait. While seated, he pulled the flash
drive from his pocket and fixed his gaze upon it. He still hadn’t
decided exactly what he was going to do with it. Shortly, he
noticed a very pretty blond woman sitting in the next row of seats,
and apparently, she had just noticed him, as well. He pushed the
flash drive back into his pocket and averted his eyes for the rest
of the wait.

In due course, Trent boarded the plane on
which his return to the West Coast was imminent. Following the line
of passengers, he found his aisle seat. As he sat down, he noticed
the blond woman from the terminal sitting next to him. When their
elbows touched on the common armrest, she turned her face to Trent
and smiled. He smiled back and then buckled his seat belt.

“Hi,” she said. “I’m Jennifer.”

“Hi,” Trent replied. “I’m Trent.” He really
didn’t want to talk, but a long flight loomed, so he resigned
himself to the inevitable conversation.

“These early flights are killers,” she
purred. “Do you happen to know what time it is?”

Trent looked at his watch and then into her
eyes, which struck him as did Samantha’s. They sparkled and, like
Samantha’s, possessed a magical charm. “Yeah, it’s six
o’clock.”

Jennifer smiled again and said, “Excuse me. I
have to use the potty-room before we take off.”

“Sure.” Trent pulled back to allow her access
to the aisle. As she sidestepped before him, he couldn’t help but
notice the woman’s hourglass figure, short skirt, and shapely legs.
Again, he thought of Samantha.

Minutes later, she returned, but this time
Trent decided to stand up and permit a clear path to her window
seat. When she sat down, her hem pulled up, and he spied a small
circular bandage on the front of her thigh beneath her nylons. “You
know, that’s a good idea,” he said. “It’s going to be a long
flight, isn’t it?”

Trent made his way to the tiny washroom and
locked the door. Standing in front of the small mirror, he stared
at the grim face staring back. Then he rolled up the sleeve of his
shirt, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a thin black case.
Opening it, he removed a diminutive syringe and plucked its plastic
cap. He put the needle against his bicep.

Images of Susie filled his mind. She had
saved his life, but for all his skill, he couldn’t save hers.
Samantha’s smiling face followed. Their brief moments of intimacy
seemed eternally stamped into his consciousness. He wondered if the
pain in his heart would be just as permanent.

Trent pushed the needle deep into his muscle
and thumbed the plunger down. A rush flowed through his body, and
he shook his head clear of it.

Taking his seat again, Trent’s gaze entwined
that of the smiling blond. He returned the smile, but just as he
hoped she wouldn’t speak, she said, “I don’t really like flying, do
you?”

“No, never did.”

“So, Trent, tell me... What do you do?”

Trent crumpled his brow. “What do I do?”
Already, he tired of the small talk. He didn’t want it to continue,
but he didn’t want it to be evident. He may be a killer, but he
wasn’t rude.

Acknowledgments

I would like to dedicate
Killer of
Killers
to my brother, Rick, for his idea to write books when
we were still kids.

I would also like to dedicate 
Killer
of Killers
 to my wife, Elizabeth, and my two sons, Mark
Anthony and Michael, for their continued love and support.

I would like to personally thank Shihan Russ
Rhodes and his senseis at the Pacific Coast Academy of Martial Arts
in Los Gatos, California, whose interviews, techniques, and
philosophies contributed to the creation and completion of
Killer of Killers
.

I would also like to thank Dr. Mheir
Doursounian and Dr. Bruce Edward Jacobsen for their advice and
knowledge, which I put to good use throughout the storyline of
Killer of Killers
.

Finally, I would like to thank Nancy
Schumacher, Tom Dahedl, Caroline Andrus, Sherry Derr-Wille, and the
entire staff at Mélange Books for their parts in making
Killer
of Killers
available to the reading public.

About the Author

Mark M.
DeRobertis
is an art teacher in San Jose, CA. He holds a
Master’s Degree in Education, Administration and Supervision, a
Bachelor’s Degree in Art, and a California Teaching Credential, all
of which he earned at San Jose State University. In addition to
creative writing, his specialties include painting, drawing, and
ceramic sculpture. Mark has written four novels:
Killer of
Killers
,
The Vase
,
Killer Eyes
, and
John Dunn,
Heart of a Zulu
.

Contact the author at:

http://metazoid.blogspot.com/

http://swampfox.weebly.com/

http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6433847.Mark_M_DeRobertis

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