Agent M: Testament (The Agent M Series Book 2) (5 page)

Meryl cursed violently in her mind, mimicking a few of the choice phrases of the departed fugitive. Somehow, she knew teasing Michael early would come back to bite her in the ass.

“Nice shorts.” Michael stated, as if they could be called that.

They looked like an enlarged black rubber band no longer than the width of Michael's bicep. He didn't understand why she was looked so annoyed. The added freedom should give Meryl a sense of happiness. After all, she wasn't about to fight a life or death battle in tight leather pants.

If Meryl could cringe any harder, every blood vessel in her body would have exploded.

“God I hate her so much.”

Not only would she have to act like a bitch for the next two days but now she'd have to dress like one. A new sense of horror filled her chest. One that dwarfed any mockery dished out by her colleagues.

“If you so much as breathe a word of this to my father let alone take any pictures, I'll fucking kill you.”

Meryl couldn't even look Michael in the eyes. She had already slipped into the role of Onyx without even realizing it. Her partner took one last sip of his tea while nodding in approval with Meryl’s undercover acting prowess.

“That's the spirit.”

March 23rd, 2013 10:05PM

Las Vegas, NV

Shouts of anticipation snapped Meryl back into reality. The crowd was beyond restless. It seems ten minutes between each bout was more than anyone was willing to wait. Meryl was surprised to see such dignitary and wealthy representatives of classy American society acting like savages and barbarians. Man always found a way to revert to their primal instinct, whether it’s in front of or behind closed doors. There was no need or reason to hide it here. These people were hungry for blood and Michael was the final course on their menu.

More stooges seemed to flood the backstage area. They patted and prodded Michael at angles that would take three mirrors to see; mostly checking for weapons or any other hidden items though he would be hard pressed to hide anything in that get up. The pants fit snugly around the thighs but hung loose from the knees down. This Rage character must have relied more on his punches because throwing effective kicks would be limited at best. Luckily, the boots were both sturdy and comfortable. The composite vinyl material felt natural along the surface of his foot, just like his trustworthy combat boots.

“Excuse Mr. Rage,” a calm, more refined voice called.

Michael examined him from head to toe. This one was different from the others. He was formally dressed and had an aura of humility to him unlike the other goons poking and prodding without warning. The added maturity of this man was natural give his age but welcomed nevertheless.

“What is it?”

Michael growled, hoping his natural intimidation coupled with the added sneer shined through. The man didn’t seem affected by it in the slightest but Michael could have sworn he saw chills run up a few stagehands backs.

“Lord Charles has requested that you speak with the priest at this time.”

“Priest?”

The very idea of it startled him. Not that Michael was religious or anti-religious in any sense. He was more surprised at the irony of it all. The last thing a priest should have his hand in is sinful and blasphemous acts.

“Yes sir. Lord Charles asks that all of his combatants speak with one before they enter battle. This will give you a chance to atone for any sins and make peace with God if you wish.”

The old man paused for a brief second.

“After all. This could be your very last chance to do so.”

The menacing tone uttered through those last few words attempted to impress the gravity of the situation. Under normal circumstances, Michael couldn’t care less about repenting his numerous and continually growing list sins. He didn’t plan on dying today, tomorrow, or anytime soon. But this butler wasn’t asking Michael. He was asking Johnny Rage. Michael gave no resistance obliging to the request.

“Hey!” Meryl shouted as she watched Michael and another slip into a back room. “Where the fuck are you taking him?”

She motioned over to his direction but another stagehand cut her off halfway, presenting a black microphone.

“Here you go Ms. Onyx.”

Meryl stared down at the communication strengthening device with a confused but thoroughly angry look on her face. “What the fuck is this dipshit?”

She had certainly grown in this character. The poor stagehand nearly pissed himself where he stood.

“It’s as you requested prior to your arrival. To,” he paused, stuttering over the words at what he was going to say next.

Instead of going over her exact words, he thought toning it down just a tad would still be an effective delivery method.

“Talk shit to all of the pompous, over-dressed bitches and assholes.”

“Give me that!” Meryl snapped, snatching the device from his weak grip. “If Rage isn’t back here in one minute, I’m kicking everybody’s ass in this room.”

Everyone knew where Rage had gone off to but none dared to speak. Given the circumstances, most of them prayed for his early arrival. By the tone of Onyx’s threat, they were damn sure she would live up to it.

Ryoo Myung-Dae sat patiently in his dressing room. Deep, tired breaths exited his muscular frame. Each puff of oxygen hissed passed his nostrils in a calculated manner. His long, greasy black locks of hair hung over his stubble ridden brow. The baggy black shorts adorned with various logos representing the Utopia Hotel and Casino he wore did little to convey his feelings about the battle about to commence. He’d fight anyone naked if the situation called for it but this was a special request of his employer. Though these events were never televised, Ryoo assumed this was just some form of branding in a meager attempt to usurp control in some form or another. It didn’t have any effect on his performance. He continued to wait for his cue to enter through the curtain.

This place had a rich and clean smell to it, as if someone spent the better part of a month sterilizing every molecule of space. Logan’s undefeated champion required little frills, only a stiff bench and locker for his personal belongings. Despite the theatrics his employer liked to utilize, every one of his bouts ended the same. Unlike most prize fighters these days, Ryoo was in it purely for the money. Fighting a worthy challenger was lower on his radar than cockroaches and sewage. As long as the payments were made, Ryoo would do anything his employer asked.

Pacing around the locker room with smug grin glued on his face, Charles Logan contemplated the majesty of his creation. Albeit the elder in the room, Charles allowed his more physically gifted partner to feel superior in the brawn aspects of business. Though the color of salt and pepper graced his thousand dollar haircut, Charles was all brains. His rippling black suit shined over his skinny physical frame and told stories his tongue couldn’t dare speak. It was almost as if he was trying to compensate for something.

The initial investment of this place was ludicrous according to the banks he spoke with, which just happened to be all of them. Thankfully there were some graciously individuals out there with enough business sense to know a good deal when they saw one. The resort, casino, and all the little luxuries pull humans out of their disgusting, and tragically mundane lives was just a front for something much more magical. Once a man acquires a massive sum of wealth, something changes within him. The first few months are riddled with frivolous spending and a lot of bad decisions but soon enough, they’ll find themselves stuck in the humdrum rut of the less fortunate. Clearly, they couldn’t even see the problem staring them right in the face. It is as formulaic as elementary arithmetic. As one gains wealth they start to lose imagination. Fear of losing their money is usually the root of the problem. Playing it safe, not taking any risks will ensure that they will continue to live in the higher echelon of society. No one wanted to live the life of a commoner. Especially after sampling a king’s feast.

Logan knew the one thing other than wealth, status or power that bonded individuals together: their animalistic instincts. When you tear man down to his naked core, no matter what side of town they lived on, their reactions to this wild world of ours would always be the same. Logan loved exposing these people for the true savages that they are. Businessmen, politicians, even foreign delegates have all graced his arena. And even though many of them shared diverse backgrounds, they all came here to see the same thing: two men beating the shit out of each other to the point of death. It was really that simple. This wasn’t some brilliant new idea that would change the world as we know it. He simply provided a safe haven for the rich and wealthy to act like the savages he knew they truly were.

These events which produced tens of millions of dollars in revenue, had Logan’s champion to thank for its success. Normally, he didn’t really care who stepped into the ring as long as they put on a good show for the crowd. The better the performance, the higher the bets.  And no one produced a higher quality performance than Mr. Ryoo Myung-Dae.

“It’s almost time. Do you need anything else?” Logan asked, almost convincing Ryoo that he didn’t have an army of assistants at his disposal to take care of the fighter’s every need.

Ryoo shook his head, refraining from speaking directly. His English skills were still subpar at best. It’s a good thing he got paid to speak with his fists or else Ryoo’s stock would considerably drop in value.

“Try to take it a little easy on this one,” suggested Charles. “Let him land a few strikes, lull the audience into a false sense of security before you finish him off. The people have been anticipating this fight for quite some time. We can only respect their wishes by putting on a good show.”

Even though this kind of mockery was frowned upon by his gracious teachers, Ryoo could only agree with his employer’s wishes. Some would think this kind of deception would anger the audience. Contrary to popular belief, many of them seemed to grow tired of Ryoo’s dominance. When every result is identical to the previous, anyone’s attention span would grow tired. The very definition of insanity was doing the same action over and over again and expecting a different result.

“Has the payment been made?” Ryoo asked.

He carefully picked over each word as too not sound too desperate or demanding.

“As always, I’ve deposited your money this morning. I must say,” Logan interjected, “for someone who’s amassed nearly a quarter of a billion dollars, I’ve never seen you spend an extraneous dollar on yourself.”

The analysis couldn’t be denied but in Ryoo’s mind didn’t matter. What he did with his money was none of Logan’s concern. Ryoo looked at this relationship in a business sense. He fought, Logan paid. End of story. Ryoo did not require nor desire the frivolities of luxury and comfort. The only thing that mattered was money. And lots of it.

A familiar vibration tickled Logan’s front coat pocket. This was the call he had been waiting for. The lights were about to dim. Fireworks would rain from the skies. And most importantly, Mr. Charles Logan was about gain a little more wealth and power.

“They’re calling for you. Are you ready?”

Ryoo nodded. He waited until Logan was far out of sight and sound. Inside of his duffel bag sat the key to his constant and resounding successes. With the fight moments away from starting, it was time to take his medicine. He had to make it count. This was his last dosage but thankfully, one is all it would take.

The miniscule lighting of the back room heated Michael’s early warnings signs. There wasn’t anything particularly disturbing upon initial observation but something definitely rubbed Michael the wrong way.  The room was no bigger than a hundred square feet with only one visible way in or out. Given the level of introduction, Michael half expected to see a mini-cathedral backstage. This was more fitting as a storage closet. Not the kind of place one would think you would repent for the final time.

Footsteps were closing in. Michael’s enhanced senses picked up on it at least fifty feet beyond the door itself. He focused his attention towards the only exit. Each step closer appeared to be faint and calculated. If his cover was blown somehow this would make an easy place to execute a traitor. Well, the easiest place they could try anyways.

The door opened, revealing only a dim light in the distance and a cascade of shadows everywhere else. A man entered dressed in a full black cassock. His build was impressive, something not seen on most men of God but definitely uncommon for a standard priest. The cassock was unique as well. Not the kind of delicate fabric you would think to see but something more practical, like a composite weave found in BDUs. Couple that with an outline of the holy cross shining in pure silver across the entire chest and abdomen made for an interesting costume altogether. Not typical priestly attire indeed.

“Good evening Jonathan,” he spoke stepping into the light.

This man was young, probably around Michael’s age. Brown hair lit up the top his head and followed it down all the way around his chin and lips parted neatly down the center of his skull. His piercing blue eyes locked on those of Michael’s as he continued.

“My name is Adriel. I am here to help you make peace with God if that is what you so desire.”

“No thanks.”