“Okay, okay. They mentioned your favorite place.”
“Jessie Rae’s?”
“Yep.”
James chuckled and nodded. “Thanks for letting me know. See you later.”
He respected the police, but that didn’t mean he was comfortable hanging out around the station jaw-jacking all night. Plus, the Professor hadn’t picked up any rumors about Leeroy, and Alison hadn’t spotted any sign of the black lab either. Leeroy needed James, and the bounty hunter intended to find his best friend.
“Brownstone,” Mack called to him.
James stopped and looked over his shoulder. “What?”
“Just a lot of chatter on the street about you pissing people off more than usual. Normally I’d say that’s just you doing your job, but some of these guys are seriously bad dudes.”
“What can I say? I’m really lovable—like a five-foot-eleven teddy bear.”
The sergeant shook his head. “Just be careful out there, Brownstone.”
“You should be telling that to the criminals on my list.” James pushed open the doors and stepped out of the room.
8
James yawned as he stepped out of his F-350. He didn’t mind foreign bounties, but traveling the fucking world was annoying. It’d been a while since he’d had to leave the United States, and he’d forgotten how exhausting it could be. Too bad he hadn’t brought Zoe’s energy potion with him.
At least I didn’t use it. That means I don’t have go back and see the horny Lush Queen anytime soon.
He wondered for a second what Zoe’s personality would be like if she weren’t drunk. He yawned again.
A faint grin split his face. He didn’t need any magical enhancement to fight warlocks, but he did need them to deal with flying. That would hurt his reputation if it got out.
He could see it now. Hey, the Granite Ghost needs a nap because he was on a plane too long. Bring the baby his bottle.
James headed toward his door. Home sweet home. Now that he was back, he could spend a few days concentrating on finding Leeroy. He didn’t get why it was so difficult to find him this time. The black lab liked to wander, but usually he didn’t stray far.
Maybe Leeroy had found himself some bitch to shack up with. That was what James got for not getting him fixed. He just couldn’t bring himself to do it to his best friend.
All the humor drained from the bounty hunter, and his eyes narrowed. Light from the inside leaked out, because his door was open. There was no fucking way he’d left it unlocked. Also, the alarm system wouldn’t have activated with an open door. For that matter, he’d turned off his lights when he left.
James whipped out his .45 and pushed the door open with his foot. He stepped inside his house, gun raised, listening and watching for any movement. Only the ticks of wall clocks reached his ear.
A quick check of the alarm panel near the door revealed the system was powered off.
James’ alarm didn’t call the cops. It called someone scarier: him. But he’d checked it several times during the job to confirm no movement in his home. He’d not been worried about burglars; he’d been looking for evidence that Leeroy had returned home.
The house’s motion sensors were calibrated to not set off the alarm when they detected something dog-sized, but they still would record the movement in the system log.
James kept his gun up as he pulled out his phone to check his alarm status. According to the control app the alarm was still active, which meant whoever had broken into his house wasn’t some garden-variety punk. They had the skills to spoof the alarm signal. The tech wasn’t exactly NSA-quality, but it wasn’t some shitty gear he’d grabbed from a guy downtown either.
Some fuckers needed to learn respect. He let a lot of shit slide, but invading his home was definitely on his “get your head kicked into your ass” list. James pocketed his phone and grunted.
He continued with his sweep. There were no threats in the hallway, bathroom, or living room.
“What the fuck?”
His irritation flared into incandescent rage as James stepped into the dining room. His heart thundered, and he let out a low growl.
Leeroy—but not Leeroy.
“I...will...fucking...kill...you…all,” he ground out, each word thunder to the lightning his eyes threatened to fling.
His black lab lay butchered on a large silver serving tray in the dining room. James trembled with rage as he stepped forward. His gaze focused on a series of kanji characters on the plate. He recognized them immediately: Harriken.
Fucking animals. The bastard gangsters had murdered his dog and had the fucking balls to all but leave a goddamn signed confession.
James slipped his pistol back into his holster and took several deep breaths. He hadn’t cried since he was a child, and he wouldn’t start now. He ran his hands through his hair, his stomach tightening.
Leeroy was dead. His best friend had been murdered.
“They’ll pay, Leeroy. Every last one of those fuckers will pay. I swear to GOD they will!”
James spun on his heel and marched to the basement door. Unlike the simple locks on most of his doors, the steel-reinforced door to the basement was sealed with both tumbler- and key-based physical locks, in addition to a palm scanner. A thick coat of dust indicated the Harriken hadn’t tried to enter the basement, arguably the only important area in his whole house. That made sense. They’d come to deliver a single bloody message. No other room had been disturbed.
Too bad. James liked the idea of some Harriken getting taken out by his traps. The door couldn’t easily be kicked in, and if the locks weren’t disabled, any intruder would have to be bulletproof and then some.
James grabbed his keys from his pocket and went to work. He threw his hand on the palm scanner.
The seething cauldron of rage stomped down into the basement where the tools of his trade were carefully stacked on labeled shelves or hanging on the walls: electronics, melee weapons, pistols, rifles, explosives, and magical items, among other things—almost everything a man might need when he was hunting down some heavily armed or magical target.
James hadn’t bothered to restrict it to legal equipment, either. It was a one-stop shop for a man when he needed to get complicated. If he didn’t have it here, he had it in the warehouse.
KISS.
That was what he liked to do, but the Harriken had apparently decided they wanted things complicated, even after he’d been forgiving enough not to snap their two enforcers in half. They’d picked a fight they hadn’t needed to pick, so now it was time for KIBACS: keep it bloody and complicated, stupid.
James cracked his knuckles. “You shouldn’t have fucked with my dog. I hope you enjoy your short-assed lives.”
James crept into the church, residual reverence dulling his rage only a small amount. Guilt didn’t gnaw at him for what he was about to do to the Harriken, but you always respected a man in his own house—and a church was God’s house.
The nave was empty. Candles lined the area, casting their flickering light all around and producing sinister shadows. They seemed to James like portents of the bloody rage-storm about to be unleashed in the city.
James marched over to the confessional, slid open the door, and stepped inside. He took a few deep breaths. No priest would approve of what he was about to say, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t say it.
“It’s been a few days, child,” said the familiar Jersey-accented voice of Father McCartney from the other side of the screen.
“Bless me father, for I’m about to sin,” James rumbled. “A lot.”
“Mankind is fallen. We are destined to sin. It is through our Lord’s sacrifice that we find forgiveness and repentance.” The priest let out a faint sigh. “So what is to be the nature of your transgression, child?”
James didn’t hesitate. “Killing, and lots of it.”
“But the Lord orders us to abide his commandments, including ‘Thou shalt not kill.’”
“Depend
ing on the translation, isn’t it, ‘Thou shalt not murder?’”
Father McCartney chucked. “A theologian now, are we, child? Okay, let me ask you this: do you intend to kill in self-defense?”
“No,” James admitted. “I intend to kill them in vengeance.”
“Then I think most would view what you plan as murder. Is there nothing I can say to dissuade you from the path of blood you’re about to walk?”
“I know it’s probably wrong, but that’s why I’m here,” the bounty hunter said. “But I also can’t let this go, Father. They’ve taken too much. They’ve gone too far.”
The memory of Leeroy’s desecrated body flashed in James’ mind. His hands curled into fists, and he sucked in a breath through his teeth.
“I see.” The priest’s seat creaked. “How many people do you intend to kill, then, to sate your vengeance?”
“All of them,” James spat through gritted teeth. “Every...last...one.”
“And how have these men wronged you, James, to bring such anger? What have they taken from you? Your job is important and you deal with darkness most of us will never know, but you don’t normally let your temper run away with you. It’s like my father used to tell me: don’t let someone live rent-free in your head.”
It wasn’t lost on James that Father McCartney had switched to using his actual name and dropped the all-wise priest act. That was what the priest always did when he started seriously worrying about the bounty hunter’s soul.
James dug his nails into his palms. “They killed Leeroy, Father.”
The bounty hunter held no illusions about his soul. Heaven wouldn’t take him, and Hell probably would be too scared to let him in.
“May the Lord have mercy,” Father McCartney exclaimed.
“On them?” James bellowed, shaking with rage. “They don’t deserve mercy.”
“No, James. On you. I’m sorry for your loss, and I understand what that dog meant to you. I also understand why you feel you must kill these men, but I need to ask you something. Let’s be straight now, James. Are these men innocents otherwise? Are you sure this wasn’t an accident? You already walk a thin line. Make sure you’re not about to cross it.”
James took several deep breaths. He lived his life with carefully cultivated and controlled anger, but in this case a true burning rage had pushed past all his limits. It took a lot of effort for him not to punch the confessional’s wall.
“Innocents? No. This was the Harriken. They butchered Leeroy and left him on a serving tray for me to find. They wanted me to know it was them. They think they are teaching me a lesson, so I’m going to return the fu—the favor.”
Father McCartney fell silent for a good five seconds before answering, “Then I will pray for their poor lost souls, for they have violated the Eleventh Commandment: ‘Thou shalt not kill a man’s best friend.’” The priest let out a weary sign, obviously troubled by the death about to be dealt but having trouble working up the will to stop it. “I will pray for your soul as well, James. Do what you have to, but remember that this world still needs you. Be careful.”
“Don’t worry, Father,” James replied, sliding the booth open. “The only person who won’t die tonight is me.”
Shay pulled her bright-red Fiat Spider to the curb at Brownstone’s house. She wasn’t even sure why she’d bothered to come. Maybe some part of her wanted to confirm that the man was gay so she could explain why he hadn’t made any moves. Checking out his house would help her gather evidence.
On the other hand, if Brownstone wasn’t gay, he might make a pass at her in a more comfortable setting. Then she would have the satisfaction of knowing she was right about all men, including James Brownstone.
It’d help for Shay to get to know the bounty hunter better anyway. She didn’t have to, or even want to, be his friend, but it would help when working together on future jobs. The more in sync they were, the better the chance they’d both come out of it alive and richer.
Whatever the treasure hunter thought about James’ personality, she acknowledged that he was a first-class fearless ass-kicker and a good guy to have on your side in a fight. Warlocks weren’t normally so easily killed. If they were, the world be a lot safer.
Shay threw open her Fiat’s door and stepped out. She walked to Brownstone’s front door and knocked several times. No answer. She repeated the process with no greater success.
“Are you even here?” Shay grumbled. That was what she got for not bothering to call ahead. For all she knew Brownstone was out drinking with Smite-Williams, or getting laid.
A light breeze blew, and a metallic scent reached her nose.
Shay’s heartrate increased, and she slid her gun out of her shoulder holster. It was always better to be overly cautious. She lacked the nose of a shifter, but she’d been around enough bloody messes to easily recognize even a faint whiff.
After a quick check of the nearby area, the treasure hunter splayed herself against the wall and made her way to the corner of the house. The breeze brought the smell, which suggested a source outside the house. The lack of an obvious body in the front told her the body she presumed she would find lay out back. She reached the corner and took a deep breath.
Gun raised, she whipped around the corner. No enemies or gunfire greeted her—only silence and an empty side yard.
Don’t be dead, Brownstone. No man who can kill three warlocks like that should get taken out like a bitch at his own house.
Careful steps brought her into the backyard.
A small cardboard cross caught Shay’s attention. It stood atop the disturbed soil of a freshly-dug grave, another sight she was distressingly familiar with.
Shay slipped her gun back into her holster and peered down at the grave. The cardboard wouldn’t last long, and the grave was too new. All signs pointed to a recent burial, if not that day.
“Leeroy” was the sole word on the cross.
The dog.
James had talked about him briefly during their time on the planes. It was one of the few times the guy had seemed normal to her; even pleasant. Another gust blew and the cardboard swayed in the wind, revealing more writing on the back.
“Remember,” Shay read. Kanji characters had been printed next to the English word. “Oh, shit.”
Shay didn’t know Japanese, but she did know the Japanese characters for Harriken.
“It’s got nothing to do with me,” Shay muttered to herself. “It’s not…” She sighed, her palm going to her forehead. “That’s just low, Harriken. Too damn low.”
Killing someone who had it coming was one thing. Hell, killing someone who didn’t have it coming but could at least defend themselves was justifiable—depending on the circumstances—but killing some poor dog who didn’t have a chance was over the line. The kind of men who did that had no limits.
The treasure hunter swallowed. She knew about people with no limits.
Shay knelt and found a large rock. She pulled out her knife and scratched Leeroy’s name, the current year, and “You will be avenged” underneath. She wished she knew what year the dog had been born so she could add it to the stone. Maybe she’d ask Brownstone the next time she saw him, if he’d not gotten himself killed already.
“Damn it.” Shay stood and walked back toward her Spider. Leeroy’s death had nothing to do with her, but that didn’t mean she was going to let Brownstone get himself killed. She had a pretty good idea where he would be partying that night.
A sick smirk grew on her face. The good thing about the Harriken being such arrogant douchebags was that they didn’t hide much. They didn’t think they had anything to fear. Anyone in Los Angeles with an ounce of street knowledge knew the location of their headquarters.
“Am I really going to do this?” Shay muttered to herself. She started the car. “Fuck it. I was bored anyway.” She slammed down the accelerator and peeled out.
9
James parked his truck several blocks away from the old two-story white Victorian t
he Harriken used as their local headquarters. He snorted—something about the house didn’t fit the band of murderous Japanese thugs. Maybe its aesthetic would fit them better once he painted over all that with their blood.
His gathered knowledge on the enemy amounted to exactly jack, with shit for actionable intel. He knew their typical enforcer strength and weapon choices, but he had no idea how many men might be inside the house or if they had access to heavier weapons or magic. Somehow that didn’t bother him, though. If the Harriken were actually badasses, they would have proven it already.
So far his personal encounters with them had involved them picking on a girl and a dog, so these fuckers came off as glorified bullies. They needed to learn the most important lesson: there was already somebody bigger out there.
Hell, he knew it. He wouldn’t be but a fucking snack to a large dragon.
James stepped onto the street and patted his holsters and pockets to confirm his loadout in the duster he’d swapped his leather jacket for. Multiple magazines, pistols, and knives: check. A frag grenade and a flashbang just in case: check.
It would be more than enough to clear out a house filled with sword- and pistol-wielding gangsters. The Harriken didn’t represent the kind of threat that called for magic or heavy explosives, let alone his necklace.
Besides, a vengeance run required a personal touch. Blowing the entire house up from outside wouldn’t be as satisfying as going through beating down or killing every single motherfucking dog-killing Harriken.
Despite what he’d told Father McCartney, James wasn’t sure if he was going to kill everyone in the house. Someone needed to survive, if only so they could pass along to others what happened when you fucked with something or someone the Granite Ghost cared about.
James grabbed some binoculars from the seat and examined the house and its surroundings. Two guards stood upfront, armed with wakizashis and pistols. Like the Harriken he’d seen before, they wore dark suits, but hints of their extensive tattoos peeked out on their necks and hands. Several security drones surveilled the area around the headquarters.
The Unbelievable Mr. Brownstone Boxed Set One (Books 1-3): Feared By Hell, Rejected By Heaven, Eye For An Eye (The Unbelievable Mr. Brownstone Boxed Sets) Page 8