A warrior still, p.3
A Warrior Still, page 3
The second her angelic voice filled the air, Antonio dropped his mug, which shattered. Coffee and broken glass covered the floor. He stepped closer to the projection. “Naomi,” Antonio said as the video showed a close-up of Karina. “Pause right there.”
She obliged. They stood in silence for almost a full minute. He placed his hand through the projection of Karina’s cheek.
“Antonio?” Naomi finally asked.
“Isla,” he whispered. He hadn’t said her name out loud in twenty-one years. She was gone, and her newborn daughter was also supposed to be dead. But the girl in this video was unmistakable. Her look, her style, and her singing voice were nearly identical to Isla’s. “But how?”
“We don’t know. According to her medical records, Isla’s daughter was pronounced dead just days after her birth.”
He held his gaze on Karina’s projection. Looking at her made him feel like a young man again. “We’ll book her to come to Ronilia. I need to see her.”
“Great.” Naomi playfully wagged her finger at him. “Oh, and feel free to thank me at any time.”
He smiled. Through all the enemies he’d had over the years, his sister had always been a warm and steady presence. “I got you into law school. Isn’t that enough? Also, don’t forget who protected you from Father.”
Naomi smiled back. “We protected each other,” she said before leaving the office.
He sighed. Alone, at last. He opened a door that led to a large storage area attached to his office. Old furniture and piles of boxes filled the place. Dust invaded the air, and he coughed.
He flipped on a light and trekked to the far corner. There was the grand piano. He hadn’t been able to look at it for the past two decades, but he couldn’t bring himself to get rid of it. Every glance at it used to cause nothing but pain, but today, it offered a ray of hope. He placed his hand on the instrument, which was caked with dust.
“Isla, my tun yel ginimma,” he whispered, speaking the language of native Ronilians from centuries ago. “A piece of you remains.”
***
Victor bumped along in the front seat of the car. It was four-wheel-drive and maneuvered efficiently through any terrain. Mud splattered across the windows as they reached one of the deepest parts of the southern jungle.
The driver, Officer Garrison of the RPF, sighed and wiped his brow. Sweat soaked through his beige, button-up uniform. He turned the air conditioning to its highest setting. He was in his forties, like Victor, and had a pronounced chin covered by a wiry goatee.
Victor pulled at the tape around his throbbing wrist. According to Garrison, it would help stabilize the joint. Victor balled his hand into a fist, and a sharp pain ran up his arm. He was tired of being taken advantage of. Mentis was the reason Ronilia’s economy thrived and the reason President Statem could fund his scientific breakthroughs. But Victor still didn’t have access to the Tanis drug as promised.
Victor and Garrison pulled in front of Mentis’s headquarters. Two massive agents stood under an arch of bowing palm trees, guarding a stairwell that led underground.
Victor turned his head to Garrison, who put the car in park.
Garrison reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small vial. A milliliter of light-blue fluid sloshed inside. It was a sample of the Tanis drug stolen from Dr. Clarke’s lab.
The RPF pledged undying loyalty to the Ronilian President, but Victor knew Garrison wanted Statem out of power as much as he did.
Victor coveted the Tanis drug because of the possibilities. Using it for the mental manipulation of celebrities, business titans, and politicians opened endless doors for money and power. Mentis started as a drug and weapons cartel, but building it into a global powerhouse was something Edwin—his late father and the organization’s founder—could only dream of.
This was likely why Statem wasn’t giving up the Tanis drug. Because he was afraid of Mentis’s full potential.
Victor now had a sample, but without access to Dr. Tanis’s groundbreaking research, it would take years and possibly decades to duplicate it on his own. But if they took over Ronilia, he would have access to Dr. Clarke, the lab, and most importantly, Dr. Tanis’s research.
Victor handed him a rolled-up stack of bills. “Well done. Did you find any other information?”
Garrison nodded. “I bugged President Statem’s office and heard his conversation with Naomi after they kicked you out. He just learned about Karina, a singer in the U.S.”
Victor lifted a brow. “How does that help me?”
“Because I believe she’s Statem’s daughter.”
Victor tilted his head and stared into Garrison’s unwavering eyes. “How?”
“When he talked about her, there was something in his voice I’d never heard before. Pain. Longing. And Karina is the spitting image of Isla.”
“Isla.” The name sounded familiar.
“She was an aspiring musician. According to a couple of long-time RPF vets, she and Statem had an affair before his father exiled him.” Garrison lifted his chin. “Nine months later, she had a baby. Someone must have snuck the kid away to the U.S.”
Victor stared into the jungle as he considered this information. Statem had been exiled to Panama twenty-one years ago, which led to their business partnership. Victor knew about the affair, but not the child.
“If Karina really is Statem’s daughter, then we can get leverage over him,” Victor said. He clutched the vial. Controlling Statem’s daughter could be the key to controlling Statem. Using the Tanis drug on a celebrity would also be an interesting experiment for Mentis.
“Bringing her here from the States would be impossible.”
“I have an agent named Rafe Wells up in Miami. He doesn’t have to bring her here. He can just borrow her over there. I’ll send him the vial.” Victor looked at his burly agents guarding the stairwell. The taller one had a steel-wool beard, a shaved head, and tattoos plastered all over his neck. The other one had deformed cartilage in his ears from years of wrestling. “Along with some muscle. When is Karina’s next appearance?”
Garrison pulled out a cellphone and searched. “This Saturday in Atlanta, Georgia.”
4
Carson took a seat in front of Larry’s desk, which was cluttered with piles of paper. He wiped his sweaty palms on his pant legs and awaited Larry’s next words. The only sound in the office was the oscillating mini-fan.
Larry interlocked his fingers and placed his hands on the desk. “You know why I called you in here, right?”
“Yes, sir,” Carson said. Just get on with it.
Larry leaned forward. “Listen, I know you’re new here, but I thought I made it very clear that you can’t use excessive force in this job.”
“You did, and I apologize. I was just protecting the girl.”
“And don’t you think trying to break someone’s arm was too much?”
Carson sighed. “Looking back on it, yes. But I just reacted.”
“Next time, I need you to react less aggressively. Now I have to worry about if that guy is going to sue the arena.”
“He incited the incident by attacking the girl.” Carson had to make a conscious effort to stop his voice from rising.
“Let me worry about all those details.” Larry rubbed his forehead with his thumb and forefinger. “I’ll let you off with a verbal warning, but I can’t justify keeping you on if this happens again. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. You can head out now. I got some paperwork to finish.”
Carson’s mind raced as he left the office and walked toward the parking lot. He appreciated this job and was happy to protect people like the girl after the game, but his thoughts always returned to Ronilia. What had Mentis done to Kent? Were they gaining more power?
Carson sighed and glanced at his hands. The only things keeping him away from where he truly belonged.
***
“I wish I could have seen it!” Shoji said.
Carson finished his cup of coffee. The strong scent lingered throughout the kitchen. The morning sun rays shone into their apartment. “It was a perfectly executed standing kimura, just like you taught me.”
“See?” Shoji said, as he cracked open an egg. “That arena is lucky to have you. I hate that you got in trouble for it.”
“Yeah. Larry was pissed.”
Shoji shrugged. “I’ll kick him a little bit harder than usual next time we spar. Where are you headed this morning?”
Carson donned an Atlanta Braves baseball cap and grabbed his headphones. “I’m going for a run.”
Shoji cocked his head. “Really? You should rest after all that craziness yesterday.”
Carson warmed up his legs by kicking them in the air. He remembered how exhausted he was after his last workout with Shoji. “I need to keep my endurance up if I want another shot at that medical waiver.”
“We still on for a movie today? I was thinking First Blood: Part II, Die Hard, Road House, or Commando. Those are my finalists.” Shoji used a spatula to scramble the eggs in the pan.
“There are movies outside of the 1980s.”
“I know, but people only seemed to make good movies during that decade.” Shoji shrugged. “So, four finalists, what do you got?”
Carson headed toward the front door. “I guess Die Hard sounds—"
“Die Hard it is, then!”
“Cool.” Carson opened the door. A warm breeze swept over him and embraced his skin. “I’ll be back in a half-hour.”
Carson flipped through songs on his phone until “My Next Thirty Years” by Tim McGraw played. He took a deep breath and started his jog through the neighborhood.
The song brought up memories of Carson’s childhood. Cumming, Georgia was the small city where he grew up, and his parents had taken him to see McGraw in Atlanta. It was Carson’s first concert.
He also remembered hunting in the woods with his dad, Colonel Tom Colt. His father had taught him proper form and safety while using a Mauser 98 rifle, a German-made weapon from World War II. Carson’s grandfather had stolen it from his captor in Berlin and used it to escape. It was passed along to his dad, who then passed it down to Carson.
“Remember to stay as still as possible,” his dad would say, in his deep but comforting voice. “Follow through with every shot. Keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot.”
Carson had gotten his first deer when he was twelve.
“Son, you might be a better shot than your old man,” his dad had said.
“Maybe I’ll be a better Marine than you someday, too,” Carson said with a grin.
His dad smiled and patted Carson’s shoulder. “Of course. But it’s more than just being able to fire a weapon. It’s about defending your country and your brothers and sisters no matter what. It’s about improvising, adapting, and overcoming any bad situation that comes your way. Does that make sense?”
Carson nodded. He looked at the ground. “Dad, do you have to go back?”
“Yes, but this will be my last deployment before I retire.” His dad held out his fist for Carson to bump. “Promise. Then we’ll get some more deer when I come back. Deal?”
Carson smiled and tapped his dad’s fist. “Deal.”
It was the last weekend Carson ever spent with him.
During his deployment to Afghanistan, his dad dove on a grenade and sacrificed his life to save eight others. He received the Medal of Honor, and their family name was revered ever since. It put a lot of pressure on Carson to have a long, memorable, and heroic career in the Marine Corps. Even if he couldn’t go back as a Raider, he had to get back in somehow. He had to fight.
Carson was lost in his thoughts and music as he ran through the neighborhood. He charged up the incline just past the duck pond at the park near his apartment. His calf muscles tied in knots, and his lungs burned. He reached the top and prepared to slow down. This was typically the halfway point where he would rest, but images of Kent flooded his mind. Still in the hospital covered in restraints. Not even knowing who he was, all because of Mentis. They weren’t going to slow down, so neither would Carson.
Keep going. Carson didn’t skip a beat and forced himself to continue his route. Each step was a struggle as he neared the homestretch. Seeing his apartment in the distance, he pumped his arms harder. He went into a full sprint for the final hundred yards, until he ended up on the doorstep. Cool sweat dripped down his face, and he placed his hands on his knees.
He opened the door to see Shoji in front of the TV.
Shoji looked over and raised an eyebrow. “Cut some corners, did we?”
Carson took his earbuds out and shook his head.
Shoji grinned. “C’mon man, you said you’d be back in thirty minutes, and that wasn’t even twenty-five.”
“I didn’t cheat. I just feel motivated today.”
“Good for you, then.” Shoji focused back on the TV. “So, are we watching the movie? Or do you need to go on another ten-second jog?”
“I’m ready. Aren’t you working out today?”
Shoji shook his head. “Coach says I should rest today since my fight is tomorrow night.” His face contorted into a grin. “And then Karina sings there the next night. Y’know, she responded to my tweet yesterday.”
Carson tilted his head. “Really? How’d that go?”
Shoji took out his phone and tapped the screen. “I said, ‘Can’t wait for Karina to perform in Atlanta. ‘Let it Beat’ inspires me as I train for the UFC.’”
Carson leaned forward. “And?”
“She responded with a smiley face.”
Carson smacked his knee. “Man, you two are moving fast! Maybe you can get her to sign your poster.”
Shoji pocketed his phone. “Hey, don’t make me show you what a real kimura looks like.”
“You’re right. I probably shouldn’t mess with a future UFC fighter. The winner of your fight definitely gets a contract?”
“I’m 99% sure that’s the case.”
“Can’t wait to see it. Maybe you could pick a country song as your walk-out music.”
Shoji cringed. “I’d rather walk out to nothing.”
“It was just a suggestion. I think I already have an idea of what your song will be.”
Shoji winked. “You already know. Speaking of which, have you heard anything new about available tickets tomorrow night? It’s Akari’s last chance before she starts her semester abroad.”
Carson rubbed the back of his head. He wished he could pull some strings for Shoji and Akari. Especially since Shoji got him the job in the first place. But Larry had strict rules about that kind of stuff, and Carson was already in hot water with him. He told Shoji the same thing he did at the gym. “Not yet, but I’ll see what I can do.”
***
Karina focused on the mirror and tied her hair into a bun. Headphones rested over her ears, and the cord connected to an old portable CD player. She listened to the enchanting singing voice of her mother, who’d recorded this song when she was twenty-one, Karina’s age.
Along with a few photos, the homemade CD was all she had left of her mom. There were just three songs on it, but “One of a Kind” was the one Karina connected with. She had thought about performing it herself since her mother never made it big, but it didn’t feel right. It wasn’t Karina’s song.
She cleared her throat and used a thumb and forefinger to massage her neck. Her voice ached from the last show. Her vocal cords were still adjusting to their first major tour. The people of Atlanta would be seeing her for the first time tomorrow, so making a good impression was important. Green tea and honey usually did the trick.
Someone tapped her shoulder, and she sighed. The more her fame grew, the more she realized alone time was a thing of the past.
She spun her chair around to face Uncle Hugo, her manager. He’d raised her since she was a baby—after her mom died. His skin was slightly darker than hers, and he had short, graying hair. He motioned to his ear, trying to get her attention.
She took off her headphones. “What’s up?”
“Just letting you know I’m about to go to bed,” he said. “I’m only two doors down if you need me.”
“Thanks.” Karina noticed the razor burns on his face, where he left himself a thin mustache. She grinned and rubbed her chin. “You should use more shaving cream next time.”
He chuckled and ran his hand along his cheek. “Good idea.” He pointed to her earphones. The music was still playing. “Listening to Isla again?”
She paused the song. “Every night. I need the inspiration if I’m gonna put on a good show.”
“You can do that by being yourself. Just make sure you’re not trying to copy her.”
“Copying someone and being inspired by someone are two different things.”
He nodded. “All right, then. How’s the throat? Your voice sounds a little raspier than usual. You haven’t been smoking again, have you?”
She sighed. “No, Uncle Hugo. I’ve stuck with the lollipops. My voice is raspy because I’m tired from doing five shows last week. I just need some hot tea.”
“I’ll order some for your room.”
She stood up. “I can fix it myself. My tea-to-honey ratio is very specific.” The truth was, she needed a break from being confined to a room and having someone hover over her every move. As much as she loved performing, she’d realized that life on tour consisted of little privacy and a lot of airports and hotel rooms.
“You’re not going alone.”
“I won’t leave the hotel. I can—”
“I’ll go with her,” said a female voice.
Christine Devers leaned against the back wall with folded arms. She was twenty-eight years old, and an Army veteran who’d been Karina’s personal head of security for the past year. Her dreadlocks reached past her shoulders, and the tank top she wore revealed her lean, toned frame.
Karina turned to her. “I’ll only be gone a minute.”
“You may be able to win arguments against Hugo, but not me.” Christine nodded her head toward the lobby. “Let’s go.”
Karina shrugged, said good night to Uncle Hugo, and followed Christine out of her room.
