Agent M: Testament (The Agent M Series Book 2) (6 page)

Michael didn’t bother trying to outfit a character response. He replied in his usual effortless fashion.

“Oh come now Jonathan, there must be something you’d like to get off your chest. Whatever your worries, I’ll be happy to listen to it and offer you guidance.”

His act no longer seemed synthetic. This one appeared generally concerned. Michael hadn’t expected that. Maybe his initial apprehensive feelings were all for not. He turned his gaze away, hoping that the priest would take the hint and leave. There wasn’t anything left to discuss here.

“Forgive me,” Adriel started, “I must offer my sincerest apologies. I did not mean to coerce you in any way Michael.”

The FBI agent’s eyes went wide. Michael couldn’t believe his cover had been blown already. He didn’t even get a chance to discuss a proper escape plan with Meryl as this meeting was not mentioned in the initial briefing. Their brief separation was not calculated in the final briefing. Just before his head turned to face the priest, Adriel spoke once more, tearing Michael’s world apart with just four words.

“Or is it Mavryk?”

Michael’s hand shot out, clasping the priest’s throat and simultaneously slamming him against the wall. The tight grip locked Adriel in place but allowed enough room to sneak in a few words. Given the gravity of the name that man just called out, an interrogation was deemed necessary. Even while facing potential death, the priest didn’t allow himself to seem frightened or stunned at Michael’s actions. Almost as if he had already anticipated this response.

“Come now Mavryk. I’m here at the behest of my organization. I only wish to speak with you,” Adriel gasped, choking on every word.

Air quickly swept back into his throats and lungs once Michael released his death grip. Relief never tasted so sweet. For a moment there, Adriel was worried this meeting might go off script.

Many questions beckoned at Michael's attention. The first of which would hopefully explain how in the hell did this man know Michael's given name at birth.

“Who sent you?”

A few more coughs echoed into their tight confines. Recovering from the quick attack took more time and energy than Adriel imagined. However, the answer he was prepared to give might cause some new and perhaps more permanent discomfort.

“Not here. What we have to speak about requires much of your time. More so than you can afford to waste at this moment.”

That response ticked away against the thin fibers of the FBI agent's patience. No one can drop a bombshell on his conscience the way this priest just did and expect Michael to take his word for it. Even if he's an actual priest, anyone that has uttered that name has lived to regret it in one way or another. The only saving grace this priest had going for him were his final words. More of a warning in actuality. Reasoning had to take precedence over desire.

“Fine,” Michael hissed, “Where?”

“Come to the Aria Casino tonight. You'll be shown the way by one of our associates. He'll be the first to greet you.”

This had bullshit written all over, yet Michael knew he wouldn’t deny this request. Adriel could be just a pawn in some grand scheme. They could be setting up a trap that Michael willingly agreed to. Not that he had much choice in the matter. Every trace of Project Mabus had to be destroyed; especially knowledge of his true identity.

Michael nodded in agreement. The priest smiled once again as if he expected this result from the very start.

“You have my thanks Mavryk.”

Adriel made his way to the door and stopped just before opening it.

“If I may be so bold, I have a bit of advice to offer you for your battle tonight.”

Adding pretentious to the growing list of annoying traits wouldn't be difficult in Michael's book. First he has the nerve to accost him in the middle of a mission with life-threatening information and then he has the gall to actually give the man who single handedly took down the Ten Most Wanted fugitives advice about combat. Michael motioned for Adriel to finish his statement.

“Use the past to your advantage but don't get lost in those memories.”

The priest calmly walked out of the room without another look leaving Michael in a confused but inquisitive state. Those words could mean everything and nothing at the same time. The only way he'd get confirmation is through confrontation which graciously awaited his arrival.

“I swear to God, he'll be out here soon,” a stagehand pleaded. “Please, don't hurt me!”

Meryl kept a firm grip on his collar and drew him in closer.

“You have until the count of three.”

Her words dripped with poison. The man gasped.

“One.”

Air pumped in and out of his lungs quicker than a mouse's heartbeat.

“Two.”

Her fist cocked back, aimed squarely and the center of his terrified face. Everyone else could only standby and watch. Their orders were to never lay a finger on the guests no matter one; not even in self-defense.

“Three.”

The stagehand braced for impact. He didn't even realize the voice that uttered those words didn't come from Onyx herself. The savior had at long last appeared.

“Where the fuck have you been? That cock-basket is already in the ring,” she snapped referring to Ryoo Myung-Dae in the most cynical way she could think of.

Michael calmly approached her, doing a few mundane but pointless stretches, appearing as if he were trying to prepare himself for a grueling battle in the most stereotypical way possible.

Michael took his place behind Meryl as they stood just before the curtain. She stared up at him and noticed a change in his expression. It was oddly stoic coupled with a look of uncertainty, as if all of his thoughts had drifted away from this death pit. Perhaps the legendary Michael Madison was actually nervous for a change. A deeper probe into his sullen yet distance eyes told Meryl that might be true but it didn't look like his mind was even in the building. Unfortunately, they lacked the time and place for an appropriate discussion. The sooner this fight started, the sooner it would end. These guys just needed a fire lit under their asses to get it moving.

“What's the fucking hold up?” Shouted Meryl leaning past Michael's muscular frame.

Every nearby stagehand turned to another wondering if they knew exactly what was supposed to happen next which just so happened to irk Meryl towards the breaking point.

“Is everyone in the fucking building dense? Play the Goddamn song... Now!”

The speakers lit up, shouting massive waves of barely translatable heavy metal music through every corner of the arena. Meryl hadn't been filled into every detail as to what she was supposed to say but figured this would be her once and a lifetime chance to stick it to some upper-class businessmen that just happened to trigger some repressed childhood memories.

“Aw yea!” She shouted into the microphone, trailing the final word for a few pressing seconds.

Meryl and Michael broke through the curtain. The crowd of onlookers offered their respective cheers and jeers at the pair. Women of course hooted at Michael's impressive body and men whistled at Meryl like she just walked passed a construction site, some even asked for her hand in marriage. The attractiveness of this outfit lifted Meryl's confidence. The ring must have been a good hundred feet away. Plenty of time to lay into these assholes.

“Listen up bitches. Open up your shallow minds and feast your eyes on some prime real estate. This is the pinnacle of male evolution.”

Michael nearly reacted to that comment. She had no idea home close to home her words really were. They continued to move about the arena with Meryl slinging a few more obscenities at the nearby audience members for good measure. Her eyes caught wind of specific attendees donning blue handkerchiefs in their front jacket pocket, signaling them as members of the Vegas undercover group waiting for the signal to call the S.W.A.T. team on standby.

“Standing at six-feet, three inches and weighing in at two-hundred and thirty pounds of solid muscle, you'll never see a fighting force of his caliber for as long as your privileged-fucking lives have to offer.”

Michael gave short glances to the crowd. He snuck a peak at the armed security members watching this event. There were at least a dozen of them. They had no shame brandishing their UMP machine guns as if it were a fashion statement than a weapon. If things escalated beyond Michael's control, his thoughts quickly drifted to the safety of his partner. Granted, he might have to show equal concern for anyone trying to cross her during the anticipated chaos.

Just a few more feet separated them from the four-cornered ring. They walked up the short steel steps and glided through the ropes one at a time. Meryl boldly shot her finger out at the man known as Ryoo Myung-Dae and shouted one last insult to stir the pot.

“This weak sack of brainless meat is about to feel the sheer, unadulterated power of the incredible Hot Shit Johnny Rage!”

Although unwarranted, it certainly had a uniquely positive effect in cementing Meryl's role as Onyx. The microphone dropped on and she promptly kicked it into the crowd. Her blatantly disregard for authority and procedures should seal the deal quite nicely. She gave Ryoo a snide last look, noticing that he wasn't the least bit impressed with her performance and headed in Michael's direction. His eyes were locked on that of his opponent, almost forgetting to breathe at some point.

Lips quickly pecked on Michael's cheek, nearly snapping him out of focus. Meryl made sure to give enough pressure to notice but not leave any lasting trails of black lipstick.

“Knock'em dead champ,” she whispered into his ear with an unexpected level of seduction

A heavy hand slapped against Michael's right buttock as Meryl sprung out of the ring and took her place in his corner. They'd only been on this assignment for barely a day and Michael feared that she had taken this role a bit too seriously. Hopefully this experience won't scar any of her other finer and more modest traits. With this level of dedication, fooling all of these people will be the least of his concerns.

Ryoo Myung-Dae bored his eyes through Michael’s heart. A cold and dismal look plastered on his expression, showing nothing but contempt for his soon to be dead opponent. All of the spectacular entrances or flashy clothing won’t protect him now. Logan requested that he go easy on him. Oddly enough, Ryoo wanted to rescind that order. Something about that man’s eyes bothered him. The way he looked at him with those still and unwavering expression spoke as if Ryoo wasn’t even an obstacle. Cockiness is a normal trait for this lot of savages yet Ryoo wasn’t feeling those emotions radiating in the opposite corner.

Despite his earlier behest, Michael fell into the role of Johnny Rage rather convincingly. He snapped his neck to each side with a satisfying crack. Michael bounced around the corner on the balls of his feet adding to the charade. A slight tinge of uneasiness tickled against the hairs on his neck. If Ryoo had injected himself with the Agent M drug, then his power would rival that of the Russian Kurtis; an experience Michael did not wish to relive.

The crowds’ voice was deafening. Sadistic chants of his Korean adversary’s name vibrated through every inch of Michael’s core. The referee, a skinny bald-headed stooge barely five and a half feet tall, called both fighters forward. He took his position way too seriously as he tried to explain the complexities of this fight’s one rule. Two men enter, only one can leave.

Standing within inches of each other created an intensity that could level mountains. Ryoo remained firm, trying to assert his dominance through cold hard stares. Michael, on the other hand, didn’t allow a singly emotion to pass through his eyes.

After the brief meeting, the referee sent each man back to the corner. Ryoo immediately followed while Michael paced himself back. Something about the Korean’s appearance struck him as odd. Not weird, but different and vaguely familiar. Michael cast a glance, surveying Ryoo’s entire body, and soon found the source of what had signaled his instincts. The baggy board shorts draped with mundane shinning colors didn’t bother Michael. It was the small strap right below it, tied to his left ankle, with an inscription in Japanese. Michael peered further, locking his eyes on an image of water and fire comingling in a circle existing against one another and for each other’s livelihood.

Thunderbolts crashed through his senses and thoughts. The overwhelming sense of familiarity had hit him harder than any fist ever has. That image would be forever bored into his mind as he spent most of his adolescence training in the very grounds it emanated from. Ryoo Myung-Dae wore the symbol of Yamatera clan; Michael’s surrogate family