BREAKING POINT (Anonymous Justice Book 1)

by Boyd Craven Jr

  Brothers from school, brothers in all but blood. They’d been tight in school and didn’t let their differences in skin color or other people’s expectations and feelings mar their thoughts. They first met on the football field at Carmen Middle School, but had all gone on to much different career paths. None had married, nor had any serious relationships after school and they all met up on September 11th, 2001 and decided to change their lives.

  They’d enlisted on the 12th, and went to Marine boot camp at Camp Lejeune, a United States military training facility in Jacksonville, North Carolina. Mostly together, they’d served, lived, breathed and did what they did for their country. At times their orders were frustrating, knowing where the enemy was but unable to do anything. The rules of engagement often times limited what they could do, and they all knew that to win a war, you had to go all out. Balls to the wall. Overwhelming force.

  That’s why when it was time to re-up in 2014, they’d gone home. From there Lewis, who was the brains of the group, had come up with the idea of continuing the fight, but going private. There were surprisingly few hoops to jump through to set up shop as a PMC. All the cool names had been already taken, so they’d called themselves Doom and Boom, after one of their favorite survival blogs. That’s how D&B had come into being, and business had immediately overwhelmed them.

  Eventually they’d found themselves back at home, after a long stint in Syria as advisors. Things had started to get way too hot with the Russians and Turkey over some dirt, so they’d given their notice, collected their paychecks, and headed back to the States for what was supposed to have been a relaxing Christmas break.

  “You see the clip from that guy recording the action?” Lewis asked Tank.

  “Yeah, I did. They’re speaking in Arabic; I don’t know why the media isn’t calling it terrorism. The two of them were announcing mag changes to each other. This was definitely not workplace violence,” Tank told them.

  “I wish somebody would call us in on this one,” Playboy grumbled, “Give me the intel and… Damn, I’d do this one for free.”

  “You and me both, brother,” Grimm said, the small and wiry character in the group.

  “You know they’re gonna to call for more gun control after this one. I know we can get all kinds of stuff on the open market, but our local places are going to be all fucked. I wonder if Mike’s place is hopping.”

  “He’s probably gonna be out of stock of everything soon. There’s a ton of people on social media calling for his head. A customer took a picture of the ammo he’s been selling, and it’s got protesters and the liberal retards all up in arms,” Diesel said.

  “We’re going there tomorrow anyways. I booked three booths for us to work on our pistols. 500 rounds each,” Grimm told everyone.

  “Oh yeah?! I totally forgot about that, man,” Playboy said with a smile. “I wonder if Mike’ll let us practice with some of the new toys. I’ve got a sweet FN Five-seveN I wanna try out.”

  “He won’t care, he’s started stocking them.”

  “Sweet!” Grimm said, smiling. “Now, steaks and beers sound good?”

  It did.

  4

  Dharma Bednarski:

  Home in Hamtramck, MI

  11:30 a.m. Saturday, Dec 19th, 2015

  Ugh. What is that noise? Oh! The doorbell... “Just a minute! I’ll be right there!” I yell. I fling off the covers and jump out of bed. I shake my head to clear out the last bits of sleep, and slide my sweatpants on. The clock reads 11.30 am. I look out the peep-hole and see two policemen standing there. “No! No! No!” I yell at the door.

  “Miss Bednarski, police. We need to talk to you, ma’am.”

  I open the door, filled with dread, and immediately begin bawling my eyes out. I swing it wide, and look at their faces. Their expressions tell me that it’s true. “Come in please,” I say, my eyes darting all around the room. “Is it my sister?” I ask.

  “Are you Dharma Bednarski?” one of them asks.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Then yes ma’am, I’m sorry to say that it is. We regret to inform you that your sister Grace, her husband Brad, and their daughter Gwen were fatally injured in last night’s shooting at St Stanislaus Church.”

  I kinda fall onto the couch while trying to cover my face with my hands at the same time. The policemen stand where they are, on the rug in the doorway. “I knew it when I didn’t see their faces in the line of survivors coming out of the building on TV last night. I tried to call them. I tried to go over there. I couldn’t get…”

  “I’m very sorry ma’am. It’s been a terrible night. Here’s a card with the contact information of the County Coroner’s office. As soon as you are able, they need you to positively identify their bodies. Do you know where it is?”

  “Ugh, I’ll GPS it with my phone,” I say, staring at the card in my hand. “Does Mrs. Ciesielski know yet?” I ask. “That’s Brad’s mother, but she’s not well…”

  “Yes ma’am. That’s how we knew how to find you. We went to her home to inform her about her son. She took it hard, and then suggested that we notify you, and ask you to identify them. She says she’s unable to travel.”

  “That’s the only reason she wasn’t there last night,” I tell them. “I just forgot about it. I should’ve been there! Maybe I could’ve done something!” I cry.

  “Miss Bednarski, don’t do that to yourself. There’s nothing that you could have done, except get shot too. Don’t blame yourself, ma’am.”

  “Ok. I’m sorry. I’ll get ready and go right over there. Do I need an appointment or anything?”

  “No ma’am. Again, we’re sorry. Unfortunately, we have others we need to inform.” They opened the door, and walked out.

  I sat there staring at the business card, thinking furiously. I don't know if I can do this, I think. I may need Jade to go with me and drive. I'm going to be a basket case, I just know. Jade is my best friend, she’ll do this with me. I’d better call her.

  * * *

  At the morgue, there are more bodies than there are tables or refrigerated drawers. Since they aren't equipped to handle these numbers, there are bodies lined up on the floor, on top of white sheets, covered with more white cloths of some kind. Thankfully, my family are up on tables. It doesn’t even feel real to have the attendant pull the cover off my sister’s face and to see her lying there. Her face isn't damaged at all. I begin to cry uncontrollably and, after shaking my head up and down, I say, “Yes, that’s Grace.” I have to wait a second before I look at my brother-in-law and my niece. It’s them. Their faces are ok too. After I identify them, and calm down, I ask how they died.

  The attendant shifts from foot to foot. “I didn’t tell you this, ok? All three of them died from single gunshot wounds to the torso. I’m sorry.”

  It was a good thing Jade came with me, because the next thing I know, I’m sitting on a bench in the hallway with her hugging me tightly. “You just fainted, Dharma. You’re ok now, I got ya,” she says. “Let’s get you outta here now. Do you want to go to my house, or yours?”

  “Mine.”

  5

  William David:

  Thor’s Gun Shop, Hamtramck, MI

  4:00 p.m. Saturday, Dec 19th, 2015

  “You see this bullshit?” my boss Mike yells. I can barely hear him over the noise of the protest going on outside, and the ruckus of the media people all talking into their cameras at once.

  “Yeah, looks like a bunch of people showed up to protest,” I answer, looking back and forth from the coverage on the TV and the window out front, “but it's been really good for business…”

  Sisco, one of my coworkers cuts in, “We're almost out of ammo. I can't believe the ammo is what caused all of this. If we would’ve known it was going to be such a hot button issue...”

  “...not to mention, double our sales, I would’ve ordered this Jihawg ammo, and Silver Bullet gun oil a long time ago,” Mike finishes.

  Mike Thor is the owner of Thor's gun s
hop, and has been a good friend of mine for years. In the wake of the California mass shooting, he’d ordered a case of the Jihawg ammunition. Didn’t really sell much until recently, after a customer noticed we had a big supply of it, somehow snapped a picture of the display behind the counter, and tagged us when they put it up on a post on Facebook. One reaction to our Facebook page that we never thought of, was it causing a damned protest like this. I mean, what’s the deal? So we’re selling ammo that could prevent an Islamic terrorist from seeing Allah?! So what? Is that like, ‘terrorizing a terrorist’ or something? I don’t know. The only thing I’m sure of is it’s going to be bullshit trying to walk through that mess to my car at closing time in the dark.

  The combination of the mass shooting at a local church last night and that Facebook picture-post, caused a rush of frightened, law-abiding citizens looking to buy home protection guns. They’ve pretty much cleaned us out of the scary black assault rifles that the wishy washy, hand-wringing, liberal media screams about constantly. All the media’s done is convince the good guys that that’s what the bad guys have, so the good guys figure they need at least the same firepower to defend themselves. Nuts, right? The President of the United States even helps us sell rifles. He keeps appearing on TV bitching about the fact that we sell rifles to people on ‘no-fly’ lists. No shit? Who made the damn rules? Not us. The media also helps us sell rifles. The more they scream about gun control, the greater the sense of urgency the public gets, and the more rifles we sell. We can’t get enough. Our handgun sales have gone up by a third, but until the concealed carry laws are fixed, there’s a whole lot of extra hoops for potential handgun buyers to jump through, so most of them wind up buying assault rifles first. We couldn’t BUY this kind of marketing!

  The demand for education for, and practice with, these weapons has increased proportionally. I mean, how many places here in Hamtramck can a new rifle owner learn how to operate and practice shooting one? Not many. Crap, I work here at Thor’s Gun Shop, and I can’t even get any range time in this week, ‘cause every stall is booked and paid for in advance. I don’t really need it, but it’s therapeutic, and I love shooting. Even though I have a CC permit, I wear a Taurus Raging Judge on my hip in plain view. Can’t miss it! It’s a big, beautiful bastard. I’ve got the first cylinder loaded with #7 birdshot in a .410 shotgun shell. The next four are loaded with magnum load 00 buck shotgun shells, and if that isn’t enough, the sixth and final cylinder has a .454 Casull bullet. That round could crack the engine block of a semi-truck, and it isn’t one I’d choose to use against two legged predators. I don’t think.

  “Hey, you wanna get outta here before things get really crazy outside?” Mike calls over.

  I’d just finished pulling out cases of ammo for the counter guys and restocking everything we had stock for. I’ve already racked up a lot of hours this week selling guns, so doing the little menial no-brainer stuff has actually been soothing, after dealing with the silent majority all week, who think a lot like me, but don’t know as much as they think they do. They get tiring after a while. So what the hell! Why not?

  “Yeah, that’d be great actually,” I answer.

  “Cool. I’m probably gonna close down early anyways. If this group of idiots outside are anything like the ones yesterday, things could get really ugly, really fast,” Mike says.

  “And he don’t carry around a hog leg like you do,” Sisco says, smirking.

  Sisco claims to be of Italian heritage, and I don’t doubt him, because he’s kind of a scary son-of-a-bitch, but I hate the way he always teases me about what I’m trying to make up for, with the size of the gun I wear on my hip. I don’t like the Taurus as a concealed carry, but the gun itself is easily visible, and that’s usually a valuable deterrent in of itself. I mean, Hamtramck is a suburb of Detroit. There’s crime everywhere, but it’s really getting bad around here.

  “You like to talk about my gun an awful lot. You must be jealous. Do you even carry one, Sisco?” I ask him.

  As much as he likes to rag on me, I want to see what using his own psychology against him is like.

  “I don’t need to carry a gun. My hands are all the weapon I need,” he says, putting a gun back for an overweight, middle-aged lady who’s been looking over a pink Glock.

  She snorts at the apparent absurdity of Sisco’s words. On the outside, he looks about as dangerous as a newborn baby, and is the only guy in the shop with less of a physical presence than me. I’m not a big guy, at 5’8” and 175lbs, but I’m not teeny tiny either. That’s Sisco. Thing is, I know better. He’s fierce, and not afraid of anything.

  Unlike Sisco, I’m a confirmed bachelor, 30 years old. Every time I meet a nice lady that I like, when she finds out I’m a gun nut and a prepper, the relationship is done. Mike says it’s because I just haven’t found the right lady yet… Crap, if I put out an advertisement, it’d read something like this:

  Wanted- Single woman for serious relationship. Must love guns as much as you love the constitution. Must not be afraid to date someone who thinks Ted Nugent or Alex Jones would make a good choice for President of the United States, once Obama’s done fucking things up.

  Ooops, maybe that’s why I’m single. I lean so far to the right, I tend to fall off the seesaw.

  “Whatever man. I’m out,” I say, patting him on the shoulder as I pass.

  “What about my wife’s niece? She’s your age, you said you’d think about it?” he asks, and I pause.

  “I dunno, man. I’m on counter tomorrow, I’ll see you then, ok?” I say, and wave to the rest of the crew.

  I just wanna go home and unwind. Maybe play some first person shooter games, like Fallout or Call of Duty, before going through my lists and shopping for some more silver. It’s been getting down close to fourteen dollars an ounce, and I want to pick some more up if it hits that.

  “Hey, don’t forget,” Mike says, grabbing my shoulder from behind, “it’s payday man.”

  He hands me my paycheck sealed in an envelope. I want to open right now, but it’s too busy in here. The reason I’m so curious is because I’m salary plus commission, and business was really good last week. Next week’s check will no doubt be even better. On the average day, the racks that hold the rifles, shotguns and other assorted tools of self-defense are full. Customers can walk up, pick one up, and handle it. A coated steel cable runs through the trigger guards to prevent them from moving more than a couple of feet. Today, there are lots of empty cables hanging between the racks. Business has been good.

  “Later man,” Mike calls again, as I walk out the front door. What I thought was loud from inside the shop is deafening on the outside.

  “Excuse me sir, why are you wearing a gun?” A woman I vaguely recognize steps in front of me, and thrusts a microphone in my face. Ugh, it’s that Marie Krantz. What an annoying bitch!

  I put a hand up and shove it away, before it can crush my lips against my teeth. “Excuse me ma’am, I have somewhere else to be,” I tell her, which isn’t a lie. Then I try to walk around her. The damn parking lot is littered with all kinds of trash from this bunch of idiots picketing, or protesting, or whatever they’re doing out here. Model citizens, I think to myself.

  Then, the same pesky reporter asks, “Is your gun loaded with that Jihawg ammunition?” and pulls on my shoulder.

  I spin at the contact, and glare at her. My movement had been quick, and it must have startled her. To have this many people pressed in so close, most of them screaming in a language I don’t understand, and have somebody grab me? Not a good idea. Of course I’m going to be on guard.

  She’s the one who interviewed Mike and I earlier this week for her story about the ammo. I’d just given basic info about the shop for my part, and left the rest to the boss. I’d figured it was a fluff piece that would have put down the bad FB press, but if anything, it’d made it worse.

  “No, it’s loaded with shotgun shells,” I tell her, and turn to head towards my car.

  A smal
ler man steps in front of me, stopping me. He’s of Middle Eastern descent, younger and well-muscled. He has a short cropped beard and eyes that seem to radiate anger. His body language is such that I know he’s either trying to impress his friends, or he wants a fight. I hope it’s the former and not the latter, because there’s no such thing as a good confrontation, especially with a big crowd of people who could jump in.

  “Why do you sell ammunition specifically to kill and dishonor Muslims?” the man screams in my face.

  “Ammunition doesn’t kill people, the one who pulls the trigger does. The ammo is a gimmick, intended to keep martyrs from their 72 virgins.”

  I wipe his spittle off me as he screams the question again, twelve inches from my face.

  “Why do you sell ammunition to kill and dishonor Muslims?” He points, his finger almost hitting me in the face. It probably would have, if I hadn’t moved my head out of the way.

  I lose my cool. I’m armed, and I’m probably not the only one in the crowd who is. I close the gap so I’m almost close enough to kiss the man, and say everything I think, but have heretofore kept to myself.

  “I sell ammunition that’s impregnated with pig fat because radical Islam has time and time again attacked us. The Muslims in California who opened fire had direct links to ISIS. I sell gun-oil impregnated with pig fat because I’d like to think the next time we have an all-out war in the Middle East it will scare off Jihads from picking up the weapons fallen with the real heroes.” I pause my rant, and look and notice that a small circle has formed around me, comprised of the indignant protesters, the reporter Marie Krantz, and her cameraman, who had been in my face earlier.