Killer of Killers

Killer of Killers

by Mark DeRobertis

Published by

Melange Books, LLC

White Bear Lake, MN 55110

www.melange-books.com

Killer of Killers, Copyright 2012 by Mark M. DeRobertis

Second Edition Copyright 2013

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should go to melange-books.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-61235-453-8

Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Published in the United States of America.

Cover Design by Caroline Andrus

KILLER OF KILLERS

by Mark M. DeRobertis

He was the world’s greatest martial artist – a master of the world's deadliest art. Once revered, he became feared, and for that he blamed his homeland. America was no longer the land of the free and the home of the brave. It had become the land of murder and the home of corruption. But for a man like Trent Smith – it was the perfect hunting ground.

Biochemists have invented a drug that cures all disease and stops aging, but a New York industrialist has kept it secret for a specific purpose. He wants to form an exclusive fraternity of immortal supermen, all of whom are beholden to him. Only one thing puts a kink in his plan – the drug's side effects, which include wild surges of increased sexuality and unpredictable flares of homicidal rage.

Trent Smith has trained in Japan for over twenty years and he has his own agenda. He vows to avenge the innocents slain by the ever-growing number of American celebrities who murder with impunity. But when a dying scientist gives him the only copy of the secret formula, he must decide if the miraculous benefit is worth the toll it takes on the prodigious people who use it and their credulous victims who don't.

Killer of Killers is an action-packed martial arts thriller that pits one man's quest for justice against the wonders of medical science. But wonders for some are horrors for others in a secret society ruled by greed, malice, and a singular objective to attain eternal youth.

All things seemed in their kinds to be my enemies...

It seemed then to my apprehension to proceed from indignation,

wrath, and as it were a gnashing of teeth against me.

Richard Norwood,

English Puritan,

1638

A true fanatic, his promptings were reasons enough for his actions.

Robert E. Howard,

Red Shadows,

1928

The question is not whether we will be extremists,

but what kind of extremists we will be.

Martin Luther King, Jr.,

American Civil Rights Leader,

1963

Table of Contents

Killer of Killers

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

About the Author

Previews

Prologue

JFK Airport

It was a long time coming, but he made the decision, and Dr. Samuel Bernstein rushed through the terminal a different man. He wanted no more the role of absentee father and no more the bane of negligent husband. No more research facility half a continent away. Never again would he sweat ice in humid vaults of bubbling vats and sterile test tubes. And no more nightmares—the waking screams in halls of horror, the dire consequence of scientific arrogance, soul-chilling visions of a holocaust revisited.

Never again. For Samuel, the sprawling biological laboratory in the Minnesota wilderness would forever be a memory. A bad one. He carried a black leather bag in one hand and pressed a cell phone against his ear with the other. Finally, an answer. Samuel? It was Martha, his wife.

Yes, yes, where are you?

I’m in the car, waiting. Hurry, before they chase me away.

* * * *

Traffic was light, and Samuel gunned his BMW, passing cars as if they crawled. Though red lights in the mirror likely meant the end, it was a risk he had to take. Where are the twins? Are they packed?

At home, and they’re very upset. They still don’t know why you’re doing this. You haven’t told us anything.

I can’t explain. Right now, we must disappear. All of us, disappear.

Samuel, you’re scaring me. What happened? Why can’t you tell me?

After pulling off the freeway and speeding through his neighborhood, Samuel screeched his car to a stop in the driveway of his tract home. Inside, hurry, he urged, but upon the porch, his keys slipped from his grasp and rattled to the doorstep. Merciful God, he groaned, not now.

Just as he spoke, the door unlatched from within. Samuel hoped to see his daughters, but when the door opened, his hope turned to dread. You!

The man’s name was Stiles, and he was huge—a veritable giant dressed in a dark suit and tie. A wide-brimmed fedora topped his black face, which split into a broad smile of shiny white teeth. Dr. Bernstein, he boomed, how nice of you to not keep me waiting.

Where are my daughters? Samuel snapped.

Never mind them. Hand over the disc. I’m not playin’ around.

Samuel hesitated, but his wife didn’t. She dodged the suited titan and bolted through the doorway. Samuel shouted, Martha, wait!

"Wait, my ass, Stiles growled. He seized the lapels of Samuel’s coat. I want the disc first and then the bag. And if you don’t get smart and hand them over right this minute—"

Chilling screams turned Stiles’ head, and Samuel squirmed free of him. He dashed to a head-on collision with his wife at the staircase. They’re dead! she wailed. Tears streaked her twisted face. She clung to Samuel, gulping air between agonized howls.

No! Samuel cried while craning his neck to the upper floor. Then he glared at the hulk behind him. You murderer. You’ll never get the disc. Never in a million years!

Stiles said, I told you I wasn’t playin’ around. A vicious backhand knocked Samuel’s glasses off his face, and a punch to his jaw sent him over the coffee table and sprawled on the living room carpet.

Martha screamed, Stop it! Stop it! but to no avail. Samuel was dazed, and he realized that Stiles was rummaging through all of his pockets. He saw Martha with a broomstick. She whipped the man’s back again and again. At first, Stiles seemed oblivious to the effort, but she continued the flogging until he turned a frightful head.

* * * *

Josh Jones preferred a low profile, and he regretted his continuing inability to have one. He blamed his blond hair, extreme height, and movie star looks more than anything else. It’s why he dropped Benjamin off at the wayward doctor’s home. Let him get the credit for recovering the disc.

In his white Mercedes, Josh cruised the quiet street, and as he circled back to the Bernstein residence, he spied the parked BMW. He pulled over, stepped out of his Mercedes, and squeezed an electronic key in his light gray sports coat. The Beemer’s trunk popped, and he peeked inside. There sat a black leather bag. Hello, he said. With a small bolt cutter, he broke the bag’s padlock, examined its contents, and transferred it to the trunk of his Mercedes. That was easy enough.

Standing tall, Josh panned the well-kept houses lining the street. The tranquil scene triggered memories of a carefree youth. Just as chirping birds and a cool breeze embellished the reverie, crashing wood and shattering glass assailed his ears. He spotted neighbors peeping through windows. Benjamin, he said under his breath. What the hell?

Josh burst into the home, agape and unbelieving. Benjamin was brutally pummeling the unmoving Bernstein, spattering blood with every blow. It was only when Josh snared a wrist on its back swing did the bedlam end.

What the hell are you doing? Josh yelled. He peered at the beaten doctor beneath his partner and witnessed a bloodied body that didn’t breathe. "You killed him. What the fuck. You killed him."

A quarter pivot revealed the doctor’s wife slumped on the kitchen tile. What? Her, too? Josh hustled to the woman and touched her neck. What the fuck. She’s dead, too.

Benjamin stood up and yanked on his breast-pocket handkerchief. He removed his hat and wiped crimson spots from his skin. With a shrug, he muttered, I... I didn’t mean it.

Josh walked over to his colleague. Being the taller man, he looked down at him and sneered, You didn’t mean it? Are you kidding?

You gotta believe me. All I remember is the screaming. I couldn’t even find the disc. The damn fool wouldn’t tell me where it was.

For christsake, man, it’s in the bag with the rest of the stuff. Just now I took it from their trunk.

You mean we got it?

"Yeah, we got it, but gawd-damn, we didn’t have to kill anyone."

Aw, shit.

Whataya mean, ‘Aw, shit’?

Benjamin looked up, as if to peer through the ceiling. For Josh, the ensuing moments were as painfully tense as they were horrendously silent—until Benjamin finally said, I think I killed all of ’em.

Chapter One

The Medallion

It could be said he was an extremist. Those who came to know him might even agree. To be sure, he was a man who lived for justice. At least for now. He called himself Trent Smith, and he strode the L.A. Airport with a singular purpose. A former football star was arriving tonight, and Trent planned on meeting the infamous athlete face to face.

He scanned the crowded concourse and slouched into a seat. The wait was brief, but for Trent it seemed like hours before the disembarking passengers came pouring through the gate. Antsy boarders crowded lanes in their efforts to be first. Babies cried, children fussed, complainers made their case, and through the constant chaos, Trent’s focus never swayed. The gate exuded voyagers, and it was there he trained his eyes.

Within minutes, an unusually large black man, wearing a pinstriped suit and wide-brimmed fedora, bullied forward. With a black leather bag in hand, he paid no more attention to the folks he swept aside than he might have given to pesky gnats. Once the floor cleared, Trent rose from his seat and trailed the flock of tired travelers. Unexpectedly, the big man veered into an open-faced restaurant. Departing customers allowed him a wide berth, and he promptly found the restroom in the restaurant’s rear.

Trent recognized his opportunity. He entered the restroom and spotted Benjamin ‘Steely’ Stiles at the furthest urinal. Locking the door behind him, he waited with a quickened pulse, surging adrenaline, and a sobered resolve.

The ex-football star turned around and locked his eyes into Trent’s. Having never met, Trent knew he wouldn’t be recognized, nor was he. Stiles picked up his leather bag and started toward the door. When Trent made no effort to step aside, Stiles stopped and faced him squarely. He stood much taller and outweighed Trent by more than a hundred pounds, but his expression was not of a man assured. He reached for his coat, and Trent reacted instantly. A clamping grip of Stiles’ shoulder, followed by a sudden twist, left his pinstriped arm disjointed before it touched his lapel. Seeing how Stiles goggled his now useless arm, Trent was convinced no one on the gridiron ever moved like that. This was going to be easy.

Stiles dropped his bag and threw a desperate punch. Trent parried the blow and countered with finger strikes to the neck. The rapid jabs split the triple scalene muscles, first left, then right, as he swerved around the mammoth torso.

At that moment, it was over. Though Stiles remained upright, he was dead on his feet. From behind, Trent eyed the striped suit impressed it still stood. ‘Steely’ Stiles was ‘steely’ indeed, but in the next moment, he crumpled to a lumpy heap beside his black bag in the pathway to the exit.

Trent’s heart pounded with exhilaration. Vacating with expediency was in order, yet he lingered to view the multi-jeweled corpse. There were fancy rings, bracelets, and several necklaces, one of which featured a gold medallion.

His first kill—and it was flawless.

At once, Trent’s speeding heart slowed, and the excitement passed with his prey. He released the bolt, but the well-dressed carcass blocked the door. Glancing down, Trent eyed the medallion. It displayed a prominent relief of the figure eight. Overcoming an urge to snatch it, he focused on the exit, forced a breach, and wriggled through.

* * * *

Inside a quick-stop tavern amid the airport gift shops, a mustachioed man with a scar on his face propped himself up on a swivel stool. His name was Amman Bey, and he lined his four empty shot glasses over the countertop. While chugging a fifth, he heard the multiple clicks of a woman’s high heels. He spun around, surprised. It wasn’t who he expected, but she carried the black leather bag.

Before Amman could react, the woman dropped the bag and handed him an envelope. Without a word, she turned and walked away. Following a quick surveillance of his surroundings, Amman drew a stiletto from his coat and sprang its shiny blade. He slit the envelope and removed its contents—a long chain with a gold medallion. Standing a full head taller than the other customers, he picked up the bag and departed from the tavern. There were too many people he needed to see. And he was already behind schedule.

Chapter Two

The Blond Detective

Relaxed in his airline seat next to the aisle, Trent was content for a mission fulfilled. A multiple murderer who had escaped justice did not escape him. He supposed the body had been discovered by now, but no one could know the cause of death until an autopsy hit the books. Even then he wasn’t sure the coroner’s report would be accurate. Only a diligent examination might disclose the crushed internal arteries that blocked oxygen from the brain.

Trent gave it no more thought because something else absorbed his mind. The passenger sitting next to him was a strikingly beautiful young lady apparently traveling alone. He had no inclination to flirt, yet he sensed an irresistible attraction the moment he sat down. Living his entire adult life as a bachelor in Japan afforded no shortage of pretty Asian paramours, but something seemed different about this woman, and it wasn’t at all unpleasant. In fact, it was quite the opposite.

For starters, she wasn’t Asian. She was fair complexioned and had long blond hair, straight and full. Blue diamond eyes of a goddess glistened with vibrancy, even as the sparing use of make-up bared innate humility. Trent made a point not to look, because her face and figure made it difficult to stop looking. Regardless, he wasn’t in the mood for idle banter. He wanted to be left alone and hoped she felt the same, but with an ethereal gaze, she turned toward Trent and said, Hi, how are you tonight? The melodic and soothing voice, combined with the alluring charm of her eyes, seemed almost magical.

Hi, Trent responded with a polite smile.

Are you a football player? she inquired with a smile of her own.

No. Why do you ask?

Because you look like one. You have the shoulders of a hard hitter.

Is that so? It was interesting, Trent thought, her choice of words, but still he looked away, hoping to convey disinterest.

My brother used to play football, she continued, clearly undaunted. He was really good, too.

Trent couldn’t just ignore her. Twenty years of Japanese etiquette saw to that. Did he play pro ball? he forced himself to ask.

Yes, for Baltimore. Josh Jones.

Left defensive end when they won the championship. He retired a couple years ago, right?

Right. Are you a fan?

Not really. Trent didn’t want to talk about himself. He had to think of a question to make the conversation about her. So tell me, um... Are you a professional cheerleader?

Only scrunched eyes of disbelief accompanied the young lady’s silence. Trent found himself on damage control. I mean you could pass for one. That didn’t seem to help.

I’m a cop, she said.

Trent responded with a double take. A cop?

Yeah, what’s so hard to believe about that?

I didn’t say it was hard to believe. It’s just that... Trent looked away because he didn’t want to talk anymore, especially to a cop right after killing someone. It didn’t matter if Stiles had it coming. The law would call it murder, and the irony, to Trent, seemed brazenly obvious.

It’s just that what?

It was clear to Trent she wouldn’t let it go, so he figured to say the words she expected to hear. It’s just that I never saw a cop as pretty as you. But I suppose you’ve heard that line a thousand times already.

Not a thousand times, but I have heard it before, she affirmed, seemingly no less delighted for hearing it one more time. What’s your name?

I’m Trent.

Well, hello, Trent. I’m Samantha. She reached out a hand.

Samantha Jones? Trent shook her fingers.

Yes, Samantha Jones. And you are Trent...

Trent Smith.

That’s interesting, she chuckled.

Yes, isn’t it? Trent had enough of the small talk. More than ever, 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.

So, Mr. Smith, what do you do?

What do I do?

You know. Are you a doctor or a lawyer? An engineer?

What do I look like?

I told you. You look like a football player, remember?

You did. No, I’m a teacher, he said, steadfast to provide no details. Though she was charming and drop-dead gorgeous, Trent was not prepared for company and wished the talking would cease.

It was a wish granted when the captain’s voice sounded electronically, advising the passengers that take-off was imminent. The flight attendants gave their performance of emergency procedures, and Trent was relieved for the finished conversation.

Shortly after lift-off, however, Samantha ended the respite. She asked, Are you leaving or returning?

Returning.

I’m returning, too, but I can’t say I look forward to it.

Why’s that?

I’m working on an assignment that just hit a major snag. The person I was supposed to meet... Well, let’s just say he didn’t make it.

So who were you supposed to meet?

With eyelids descended, she answered, Benjamin Stiles.

Again, Trent responded with a double take.

Samantha added, "Yes, that Benjamin Stiles."

I thought the whole deal regarding Stiles was finished.

His case is closed, it’s true, but he was cooperating with us on an unrelated investigation.

I didn’t think he was cooperating with anyone. The bum was living the high life since his acquittal, giving his middle finger to just about everyone.

Yes, that’s Benjamin, all right, but it doesn’t matter anymore. Like I said, he didn’t make it.

Trent frowned. Was Stiles really cooperating with the police? Was this policewoman aware, somehow, that Stiles was dead? Her eyes flittered as she spoke. Something wasn’t right. Where was he supposed to meet you?

At Luigi’s. It’s the Italian restaurant at the airport. We were supposed to meet there and then fly to San Francisco.

But everyone knows that Stiles is a New Yorker. Was he already in L.A., or was he flying in from back East?

He was supposed to arrive from New York via Minneapolis.

Trent had learned of Stiles’ arrival at LAX after a stopover in Minnesota, but the flight to San Francisco that same evening was a well-kept secret. He had one more question. Why didn’t he just fly straight to SFO?

I’m not at liberty to discuss it any further, Samantha replied. "All I can say right now is that it is finished as far as Benjamin Stiles is concerned."

The words were smug, and to Trent it was clear. She knew the man was dead, and he started to wonder if he was a suspect. He was convinced not everything she told him was true, but how much wasn’t, he couldn’t be sure. So what’s your department? he asked. Homicide?

Yes, I’m Samantha Jones, Police Detective, and a two year veteran in the Homicide Division. I’ve been a cop for nine years, though.

Are you a San Francisco cop?

Yep.

Then why are you flying to Oakland?

Because that’s where I live.

Trent nodded, but he still had the feeling something wasn’t right. Even so, he ditched his curiosity to avoid steering the chat back to the slain athlete.

* * * *

The flight was short, and that was fine by Trent. After landing, he was rising from his seat when Samantha said, I would like to see you again.

Trent turned around and responded, I would like to see you again, too. He wasn’t really sure if he meant that, he said it without even thinking. Still, Samantha looked pleased to hear it as she stood up and handed him a business card. She was taller than the average woman, maybe five feet, seven, he guessed, not including the heels.

Trent walked with Samantha across the loading bridge, and once they reached the concourse, a towering gentleman stood out in the crowd. Trent recognized the ex-football star and looked on as Samantha hugged him. Then she pulled back and said, Josh, this is Trent Smith. I just met him on the flight from L.A.

Pleased to meet you, the giant man said.

Trent noted he was even bigger than he appeared on television, standing well above everyone around him. Trent placed him a foot taller than his sister and put his weight near three hundred pounds—and every ounce of it rock solid muscle. His blond hair matched Samantha’s, and his clean-cut countenance showed a clear family resemblance.

Trent shook his hand and felt the natural power of a pro lineman, but his own iron grip seemed to surprise the former sportsman. That’s quite a hand shake, Josh remarked. What are you made of, steel?

With narrowed eyes, Trent answered, "Isn’t that what they said about Benjamin ‘Steely’ Stiles?"

Josh hedged, and then responded, "Yeah, we called him ‘Steely’... But to those of us who knew him, he was just a big cupcake." He tossed a baffled glance to Samantha.

Samantha added, Josh finished his career in New York as a free agent.

The tension was palpable, and Trent didn’t know what to say at that point, so he simply nodded and spoke no more.

It was Samantha who broke the chill. Well, call me.

As if that was his cue, Josh took Samantha by the arm and turned to leave with her in tow. He grumbled, Nice to meet you, but we have to go now.

Again, Trent nodded and watched them vanish in the crowd. It was time for him to do the same.

* * * *

Josh Jones sat with his sister in a black limousine as it shot across an Oakland freeway. He saw in the mirror the driver’s eyes, and was content that the soundproof glass kept his discussion private. He posed the question, So who was that guy, anyway?

I’m not sure, really, Samantha said. The most I could get out of him was that he’s some kind of a teacher, but I could never find out what he teaches, or where.

A teacher? Not a chance. No teacher walks into a restroom and kills Benjamin Stiles, and then walks out like he just took a piss. He must work for someone, and we’ve got to find out who.

Well, I have this. From the purse on her lap, Samantha produced a clear plastic cup.

Josh crumpled his brow. What’s that? Are ya gonna give it to him for a sample the next time he goes into a restroom?

It’s the cup he drank from on the airplane, dummy. I can get forensics to trace his fingerprints or even his DNA, so we can find out who he really is.

At least that’s something, Josh conceded.

Samantha frowned. You know, I don’t like any of this, either.

It’s gotta be tough, Josh said, but I know you can do it. You’ve always come through, and you will this time, too.

What if the prints turn up nothing? What if he doesn’t call me? What will I do then?

Just do the things you can do. Josh offered a brotherly smile. We need to know who this guy is and who he works for. Don’t you realize how this changes everything? What will we tell Manoukian?

At the mention of the name, Samantha’s face melted into an expression of trepidation. And while the limousine carried them in silence across the Bay Bridge, Josh wondered how he would answer the query.

* * * *

Inside his Oakland condominium, Trent reclined in an easy chair with a glass of water in one hand and his TV’s remote control in the other. Changing channels with indifference, he landed on the national news and decided to see if anything might be mentioned of the recently deceased celebrity.

Presently, an archive photo of Benjamin Stiles appeared on the screen, and the announcer verbalized the breaking story: Benjamin Stiles was found dead tonight in a public restroom at the Los Angeles Airport. Although the cause of death is not immediately known, authorities have not ruled out foul play.

The newsman went on to describe Stiles’ football career and the legal controversy that spread his name across the world. Trent, however, was more interested in studying the group of tall agents in the background as the on-scene reporter took her turn in the limelight. He wondered why Samantha Jones wasn’t involved in the investigation. Why did she have to catch a flight home? She said she was supposed to meet Stiles and escort him to the Bay Area. What was that all about, and what did it have to do with Josh Jones? The scenario of ‘Samantha Jones, Police Detective’