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Authors: Mark M. DeRobertis

Tags: #murder, #japan, #drugs, #martial arts, #immortality

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BOOK: Killer of Killers
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Disgusted by the brazen debauchery, Trent
took the furthest seat and kicked his feet onto the tabletop. He
leaned his chair against the wall and crossed his arms to endure
the indecent festivities.

Over the course of the night, Trent learned
the dancers were known as the ‘Global Girls’ and alternated as
waitresses to accommodate their customers. In waitress mode they
donned a G-string matched with an equally skimpy brassiere. Two
doors with horizontal windows sandwiched the stage at floor level.
After a lady vanished behind one, she reappeared through the other,
carrying a full platter of illicit delights. It seemed they offered
all varieties of alcoholic beverages and every kind of recreational
drug on the house. The patrons complied with generous tips,
however, as the waitressing stints ended with rows of cash tucked
into and around the straps of the girls’ skimpy outfits, or piled
atop their circular serving trays.

Trent noted the performers included sultry
white women, stunning black women, and alluring Asian ladies
representing the Orient. The exotic cast also included pert
Polynesians and spicy Senoritas. Although billed as the Global
Girls, Trent figured they were probably—each and every one of
them—born and raised in New York City.

Despite their uninhibited state of undress,
the men were not allowed to grope the girls or request sexual
favors. The attendees performed their carnal acts only on the women
with whom they arrived. Trent was amused that the establishment
provided drugs, alcohol, and bawdy entertainment, but it was a
‘bring your own prostitute’ deal.

Hours passed, and as the party progressed,
Trent remained apart and undiscovered. Eventually, however, one of
the black dancers, taking her turn as a waitress, noticed him
sitting alone in the back and with his feet still on the table. At
first, she hesitated, but then she approached him.

Her skin was the shade of chocolate,
accentuating rows of pearls around her neck. Large breasts above a
tiny waist defied gravity, and thick, firm thighs tapered smoothly
to her knees. Golden earrings dangled behind long, black hair that
fell loosely over her shoulders, flowing in waves. As she neared,
Trent straightened his chair and returned his feet to the
floor.

A closer view of the woman lessened Trent’s
wonder not in the least. Over-the-top make-up fancied her face, and
dark, slanted eyes conveyed a riveting and mystical charm. Her nose
was small, and her mouth was narrow, full-lipped, and glossed with
burgundy lipstick. She was truly one of the most impressive women
he had ever seen.

In a velvety soft voice, she asked, “Hi,
baby, whatcha doin’ way back here all by yourself?”

Trent shrugged his shoulders, hoping she’d
simply move on. Instead, she circled the table toward his chair and
asked, “Cat got your tongue?”

“No,” Trent said.

She rested a hand on the tabletop and put the
other on her hip. “Is there anything I kin get you?”

“Um, no.”

Trent expected the encounter to be brief, but
to his utter surprise, the woman twirled around and plopped onto
his lap. She swung an arm around the back of his neck. “You’re a
cutie,” she said, as she dragged the tip of her finger down the
bridge of his nose. “I’ve never seen you before, cuz if I did, I’d
remember. Are you a first timer?”

“Um, yeah,” Trent confessed. He tried to keep
his mind on why he was there and not on the nearly naked seductress
sitting on him.

“You know, we’re allowed to give lap dances,”
she purred into his ear. “Would you like that?” She seemed eager to
please him. “An’ you kin touch me anywhere, except for here...” She
put her hand beneath her magnificent breasts. “...and here.” She
dropped her hand to the triangular patch of silver fabric between
her thighs.

The woman surprised Trent again by straddling
him and beginning a steady thrust against his groin.

Trent was about to free himself from the
predicament when he happened to notice the room’s far door swing
open. He pinned his gaze to it and sobered when he recognized the
man walking through. It was the big Samoan in the black suit. He
was scanning the room as if searching for something—or perhaps he
was searching for some
one.

In an effort to remain undetected, Trent
squeezed the woman’s back, pressed his mouth onto hers, and
delivered a passionate kiss. At first, she seemed surprised, but
then she returned his embrace, slid her fingers through his hair,
and became an equally willing participant.

Trent made sure his face stayed hidden and
was thankful the woman had a lavish hair-do. The Samoan patrolled
the room, and when he was at a point nearest them, he shot them
only a glance. Trent maintained the moment until the giant
bodyguard slipped through the opposite door.

Deciding it was time for air, Trent leaned
back and gazed into the woman’s eyes, which seemed to melt as he
watched. “Oh, you’re so gentle,” she cooed. “I could take you
home.”

Trent was at a loss for words.

“I want seconds,” she added and sealed her
lips against his for another go round. Trent was happy to oblige.
With the threat of eviction abated, he made sure the second kiss
was even better than the first. In due course, the woman restarted
her pelvic motions.

At this point, Trent realized his body was
responding. Not wanting to lose himself to the decadence of the
night, he decided it was enough. He stopped the kiss and put his
hands on her hips to nudge them away while trying his best not to
offend her. But just as he started, the door through which the huge
bodyguard exited, slowly reopened. Trent ceased his effort until he
saw who it was this time. Sure enough, it was his Samoan nemesis
again, so he resumed the kiss with his best effort yet. Tilting his
head, Trent was sure to keep the black-suited giant in sight
through the strands of her hair. The Samoan glanced again in
Trent’s direction and then wandered the raunchy room.

Meanwhile, the Nubian beauty didn’t hold
back. As though pleased that Trent had stopped resisting, she
renewed the lap dance with a greater passion than before. She
discontinued the kiss only to say, “I want you to know, this one’s
on me,” and then she held him like she’d never let go.

Her hips moved slowly at first, then faster,
then slowly again. She changed to a circular motion, faster, and
then slowly yet again. “Mmmmhh...”

She finally stopped when her eyes closed, and
her skin shimmied with a climax, accompanied by an earthy groan.
“Oooh, Ooooh!”

Trent was successful in his effort to
suppress his own pleasure, made less difficult by the presence of
the sinister Samoan. Then, as if deciding all was well, the Samoan
exited the room, Trent hoped, for the last time.

Recovering from her ecstasy, the dancer
moaned, “Oh, Jesus.”

“No, I’m Trent,” he said with a smile.

“Not you, silly.” She returned his smile and
tenderly pinched the beard on his chin. “But you know what? If you
let your hair grow long, I bet you would look just like him.” She
gazed at Trent for several seconds. “I’m Susie Q,” she said, “and I
hope I see you more often. I think you’re a keeper.”

Again, Trent found himself wordless until she
asked, “Are you sure I can’t get you somethin’?”

“There’s nothing in the world that can top
what you just brought,” Trent replied with a grin.

Susie’s smile widened, but then she rose from
Trent’s lap and rejoined her swanky sisters atop the radiant and
multi-colored stage.

Within the hour, a trickling of exiting
patrons clued Trent to the party’s imminent end. Still, he kept his
eyes peeled for the Samoan, not sure what his plan of action would
be if the brown bruiser returned.

* * * *

It was near six a.m. when the music stopped.
The floodlights ignited, and the dancers withdrew from the stage
only to reappear on the floor minutes later, wearing various
colored jumpsuits. Trent watched them move about, pushing linen
carts and clearing off tabletops. The DJ exchanged goodbyes with
the last of the celebrants, and when they left, Jeremiah Flint,
passed out on his table, was the sole attendee besides Trent still
in the room. Even the two prostitutes had departed long before.

The Global Girls focused their chores at the
front of the room where the action had been heavy. Carefully
cleaning around the slumbering Flint, they left him and his table
untouched. Shortly, Susie parted from the others and strolled in
Trent’s direction. While clearing his table, she leaned over close
to his ear and whispered, “Are you here to kill Flint?”

Trent made his best effort not to appear
shocked, but he knew he failed when Susie added, “Look, I know
you’re no pervert, you don’t do drugs, and you don’t drink. You’re
not a cop, and you sure as hell ain’t no customer.”

Bewildered, Trent asked, “How do you know all
that?”

“We’ve been waiting for someone to kill that
creep for a long time. And since Benjamin got it a couple weeks
ago, us girls figure he’s next.”

Her reasoning was still beyond Trent. “What
if I am?”

“We’ll be out of here in a couple minutes,
and the mop-up crew doesn’t get here ’til seven. But you gotta
hurry before TT comes back.”

“TT... Is that—”

“The big guy!”

“Flint’s bodyguard?”

“He’s the only one allowed in here, and he
means business.” Susie sounded worried. “He usually dozes off at
the bar by now, but not for long. If he catches you anywhere near
Flint, he’ll stomp the life out of you.”

“Why do you want Flint dead, and what’s he
got to do with Stiles?”

“Flint’s wife was one of us. And the family
that Benjamin killed? The twins? They were Global Girls, too.”

Susie turned to leave, but pivoted again to
ask, “Are you the one who killed Benjamin?” She must not have
expected an answer because she didn’t wait for one. Instead, she
winked and scuttled back to the other women who were now filing
into the adjacent room behind the stage.

Trent didn’t really know what to make of the
information he just received, but the floor was empty except for
Flint, and he knew he was well advised. He stood up, stretched, and
crossed the room to the slumped movie star. An eerie sight it was,
every table stripped but one draped red, its flickering candle
competing with overhead spotlights. He had no intention of killing
a sleeping man, so he started poking him, again and again.

When Flint finally awakened, he looked at
Trent with confused eyes. After several moments, he grumbled, “So
who the hell are you?”

Trent answered, “A critic.” In the next
instant, he shot forth a finger strike, piercing Flint’s throat
just above the collarbone. His trachea crushed, the man gagged for
air with both of his hands clasping his neck. Then his eyes rolled
up, and he doubled over on the tabletop, knocking the candle to its
side. Trent watched the melted wax blot the crimson cloth until it
doused the flame, producing a smoky wraith that drifted to the
ceiling.

It was then he noticed the medallion. The
same one he observed on Stiles’ lifeless chest. It rested next to
Flint’s head, and this time Trent studied the sideways eight. It
was sleek and highly stylized with the loops flaring upward. It was
the symbol for eternity, and he pondered its connection to Stiles
and Flint. On an impulse, he grabbed the medallion and plucked it
free.

While inspecting it more closely, Trent’s
ears caught the creak of the door behind him. He whirled around.
Facing him was the mammoth TT, who looked like he wasn’t quite sure
what to make of Trent.

“What are you, a thief?”

“No,” Trent replied, choosing not to
volunteer what he really was.

“I don’t even care,” the bodyguard snarled,
“because you’re gonna be dead.” He clenched his fists and started
forward.

After pushing the medallion into the pocket
of his jeans, Trent assumed a back stance—the
Kokutsu-Dachi.
TT seemed to recognize the martial arts posture. He slowed his
approach but never stopped advancing and fired a pile driving
roundhouse punch. With a quick pivot, Trent parried the swing and
fired a hard punch of his own, which landed squarely on the bridge
of TT’s nose. It stopped his forward progress and snapped his head
back.

Undeterred, TT again started forward with his
eyes glaring ferociously over nostrils trickling scarlet. Once
more, Trent pivoted and launched a front kick to the bodyguard’s
midsection, halting him a second time. A follow up roundhouse jump
kick forced TT backward. Completing the combination with a three
sixty-jump kick from a running start sent the Samoan reeling with
his arms flailing until he crashed through a table, and then
another, shattering both into a hundred bits of kindling.

* * * *

Behind the doors on either side of the stage,
several pairs of eyes lined the horizontal windows. One pair of
eyes belonged to Susie. After witnessing Trent win the first round
so convincingly, she turned to Alicia, the red-haired girl next to
her, and proclaimed, “That’s my boyfriend.”

Alicia replied, “Which one?”

“The cute one, stupid!”

Susie looked back through the window and
gasped when she saw her new darling heaved across the room and
slammed against the wall. “Come on, baby,” she uttered through the
door, “show him who’s boss.”

* * * *

Trent recovered from the impact before the
Samoan could press the advantage. He sprang to his feet just as TT
charged, scowling, with both of his arms extended. Unnerved, Trent
shot his right leg between TT’s gaping hands, stopping his momentum
with a heel to his face. Then, with dazzling speed, a reverse
roundhouse jump kick deflected TT’s body through the underside of
several tables, rippling a successive crunch of shattered table
legs.

BOOK: Killer of Killers
5.62Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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