BREAKING POINT (Anonymous Justice Book 1)

by Boyd Craven Jr

  I’d let Mike plug his phone in overnight, and he went and got it while I made a quick skillet of corned beef hash with a few eggs thrown in it, and a little salsa over it. As I finish, Mike comes back to the kitchen table.

  “Food’s done,” I tell him, nodding to the skillet.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever slept that deeply,” Mike says.

  “There’s no noise out here, no cars, not even streetlights,” I’ve experienced that surprise myself.

  “When the lights go out here, they really go out! Hey, thanks for the breakfast. Does that mean we’re going steady?” Mike jokes.

  I crack a smile and pull the percolator off of the stove. I’m on my third cup already but half a pot is left. I get a hot pad out and put it on the table and put the percolator down on it.

  “Thanks for letting me stay man,” he says.

  “No probs. I didn’t think it’d make sense for you to get lost in the dark out here. It’s kind of in the middle of nowhere. Took me a while to get used to come and go from this place once dark hit. Signs and landmarks are hard to find when there’s no streetlights,” I sip on the hot, bitter brew.

  “Thanks man,” I say to Mike, looking across the table.

  “What for?” he asks, puzzled.

  “For all the help the last few days. It’s been… Crazy. The hospital, the lawyer, helping me get away from that mob.”

  “Don’t worry about it. That’s what friends are for, man.”

  “Speaking of which… You know I have no family, right?” I ask him.

  “Yeah?”

  I want to come out and tell him about my succession planning, but I chicken out. Instead, I opt for something a little less mind-blowing.

  “Hey, if something crazy ever happens to me… Here’s a key to the front door,” I hand him the spare that I keep on top of the gun safe, “and I have my will and paperwork in the top shelf of my gun safe. The code is 454357,” I finish.

  “Dude, c’mon, you’re really worried about this?” he exclaims.

  “Not this really, it’s just part of being prepared for anything. The last thing I want is for the government to profit off my death, and my collection to go to auction somewhere.”

  Mike’s face had been pinched in worry, but it gradually relaxes, and he smiles again. I take another sip of coffee. Good stuff.

  “That makes sense, I thought you were getting all gloomy on me there for a second.”

  “Naw, just letting you know.”

  “Do you get the news up this way?” Mike asks.

  “No cable or satellite, but I do have a radio. There’s an AM station in Port Huron that comes in pretty strong, and they have NPR on.”

  “Cool. I just wonder how much of our getting out of town made the news,” he chuckles.

  “I don’t know if that’s newsworthy enough for the radio or not, but it wouldn’t surprise me if that lady news anchor who was so nosy has a thing or two to say about it,” I say, feeling a flash of anger at Marie Krantz; she had started this whole mess.

  Why couldn’t she have just left me alone? If she hadn’t stopped me, gotten in my face about the damned gimmick ammo… I turn on the radio receiver and tune it in; immediately my blood runs cold.

  “...investigating a house where the perpetrators of the St. Stanislaus shooting lived. All occupants were found dead inside by the fire department, after what had been called in as a house explosion. What had been thought of as a natural gas explosion, now has the community in fear. This is what Hamtramck’s Chief of Police had to say:

  “Evidence left behind conclusively shows that the deadly shooting at the St. Stanislaus church during a Christmas service was the result of the Mahmoud family’s actions. We are not certain at this time if the parents were involved, but as soon as the coroner’s office and the fire inspector are through here, I’ll release more information, as they make it available.”

  “The police chief seems to have some pretty strong evidence to have already concluded that these are the shooters. The big question is, why was this evidence left behind at the scene of the crime and not turned into the police? Who are the vigilantes who executed the Mahmoud family and set fire to their family home? Police are investigating, and are looking for one William David, who is a person of interest because of the shooting in front of Thor’s gun shop just days ago. More from NPR, right after this message from our sponsors.”

  I look at Mike; his face has lost all color. He looks like I feel. Scared.

  “We have to go back,” Mike says.

  “I was afraid of that.” I respond. “We should at least phone the detectives.”

  “Like they did so good protecting your address yesterday?” Mike asked.

  “I don’t know how the guy on Twitter got my address,” I say. “I barely had time to get dressed in my own clothing instead of the borrowed sweats, and crack a beer.”

  “It would be better if we both head back, I think,” Mike says. “Clear this up, and then you can head back up here and hide out.”

  “Yeah, that would probably be quicker overall. Can’t they track the GPS in my cell phone or something to know that I wasn’t even near there?”

  “Only one way to find out,” Mike says, hurrying to eat.

  I sigh and nod. I’d do the dishes when I got back later on. I don’t mention it to Mike, but I have a feeling I’m going to be out of work for a bit until things settle down.

  16

  Dharma and Jade:

  Hamtramck, MI

  10:00 a.m. Wednesday, Dec 23rd, 2015

  Jade blurts out, “Dharma! Look at the TV! Turn the sound up a few clicks!” Her shriek shatters the silence of my dining room turned IT central.

  We’ve transitioned back to quietly working on our own commissioned ‘jobs’ for a while this morning, after pulling an all-nighter working on the new site.

  After the joint memorial service for Grace, Brad and Gwen late yesterday afternoon, I had been totally drained, but unable to even consider sleeping. Jade stayed over and was here for me. I don’t know what I would have done without her. Poor Mrs. Ciesielski has no one now, to my knowledge, except her friends from her church, who drove her. To see those three beautiful souls reduced to pictures on a table, surrounded by flowers, in the front of Mrs. Ciesielski’s church had been almost too much to bear. No amount of kind words can tame the flames of anger I feel inside me for those that did this. It’s going to take more than words.

  The picture on the TV right now is helping though. I know that, according to some, it’s wrong, to feel this way. Maybe I’m just different, but seeing Marie Krantz standing in front of the camera talking, with fire trucks and flashing lights galore all over the place, at the address I gave Lewis feels great!

  “Look at that shit!” Jade mutters in disbelief. “Wow! How did they do that much damage, without taking down the houses on either side?” The picture zooms in on firefighters just standing back and hosing down bits of burning debris, mostly collapsed into the basement, where a house used to be.

  “Yes!” I say, smacking my fist on the desk, before upping the volume.

  “...quiet, predominantly Muslim neighborhood was awakened in the early-morning hours, by a series of explosions. They were so large that they literally rattled pictures off the walls of neighboring houses, while neatly imploding this one. No other structural damage is being reported in the area…”

  “Damn! Them guys are good!” Jade says.

  “...a spokesman from the bomb squad tells us that the occupants must have had a bomb factory in the basement, with military grade explosives present. They said that this precise of an implosion could not be done by amateurs with homemade pipe-bombs. This was likely the work of a highly advanced, expert demolition team…”

  “Expert is right!” I say, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “I knew those guys were bad-asses!”

  “...authorities are now telling us that it appears that the five occupants were assassinated prior to the fire and explosions. Wh
atever went on here, it looks as if it was no accident,” Marie Krantz says. “We’ll bring you more on this fast developing story on the hour.”

  I turn the sound back down, and we sit there staring at each other and smiling. “You know we’re going to hell for our part in what just happened, right?” I ask.

  “Well, as long as we’re going, we might as well dig up everything relevant to what just happened there, and add it to the blog and the page. Then we can put our spin on it, to serve as an example to terrorists all over the world,” Jade says. “Don’t fuck with America! We’re all done playing nice here!”

  17

  Mike Thor:

  On the expressway

  10:00 a.m. Wednesday, Dec 23rd, 2015

  My phone starts blowing up as soon as I get a signal. I pull into a rest area and Will follows behind me, pulling up next to me and rolling down his window.

  “Everything ok?” he shouts.

  “My phone is blowing up, I don’t recognize a bunch of the numbers, so I’m going to listen to voicemail. Also - I have to call Sisco. Want to meet up after you talk to the cops?”

  “Sounds good, I’m gonna to get going,” Will says, and waves.

  Quite a few voicemails are stacked up, so I sit there listening to them. Many of them are reporters asking me to comment on what happened at Will’s apartment, because of the bizarre report that I’d used my truck to intimidate members of the press and to prevent citizens from protesting. I delete those and keep going. There’s a ton of text messages, about half of them from Sisco. He’s wondering if we’re opening up, if I need him at the store.

  I get back on the highway and turn on the radio. Apparently, the Anonymous Justice blog has published the proof of guilt of the Mahmoud family’s deeds on their site that police confirm to be the same exact evidence that had been left at the crime scene. Their attempts at tracing ownership or even where the website was hosted had all failed.

  That makes me smile. It’s forcing the media to report on something. Using their own tactics to garner attention. Now everyone would know what I had been sent via text. The guilt of their actions. There would be no way the President could call taking them out domestic terrorism, in fact if anything, it would be labeled as vigilante justice.

  The drive back to the Detroit suburbs doesn’t take as long as it feels, as people called in to the radio talk show. Apparently there’s a lot of people out there who are tired of having to conform to a minority’s standard and of being afraid speak up about it. The world has become so politically correct that if you disagree with something, you’re a racist, bigot or oppressor. Many of the callers feel the fact that they’re white always puts them at a disadvantage in any situation that involves a job, the media or the press.

  The neighbor of the Mahmoud’s is also getting plenty of airtime. The local TV station had been on scene not long after the firetrucks. The old man has plenty to say about his neighbors, and how many times he’s been blown off by the police department when he’s called in suspicious behavior. After the fourth call, he says, they quit coming out to investigate, and had instead told him to stop calling in, or he’d be charged with making false reports.

  The world is going insane, and Will and I are stuck in the middle. After today, perhaps they can close the books on it and move on. Give Anonymous Justice some more airtime and less on us. Well, Will at least. The gun shop is going to do some wild business. I pull off the highway and stop at a gas station to fill up my Chevy. Inside, I buy a prepaid phone with cash.

  I text the word NOW to the number on my personal phone from the burner phone and get back on the road. The phone rings moments later.

  “Hello?” I ask.

  “You know who this is?” the male voice asks, and it’s the same one as I heard in the gun shop.

  “Yes.”

  “Good,” the voice says, “I intercepted a message that protestors are planning to firebomb your store tonight. I’ve already released the intercepts on the new website and forwarded the link to the local police.”

  “Firebomb? What did I do?” I ask, pissed.

  “You are merely involved so far. They say it’s about the Jihawg Ammo. Police are already starting to respond but I wanted to give you fair warning.”

  “Thank you. Tonight… I am headed straight there,” I say.

  “That is probably wise. I’ve spent too much time on the phone. Good luck, Mike Thor.”

  The person hangs up, and all I hear is the open line.

  “Dammit!” I curse, and turn the phone off.

  I’ll dispose of it as soon as I get parked. With my personal phone, I pulled up Sisco’s number and hit dial.

  “Hello?” he answers.

  “You want some hours today?” I ask him.

  “Yeah, aren’t we opening?” he asks, confused.

  “No. In fact, that place is going to be a zoo later on. More protestors. Can you back the cube van up to the back door and start loading all of the cases of ammo into it? I’ll be there shortly to start packing the rifles.”

  “You’re not joking, are you?” Sisco asks.

  “No, I’m not. I’ve heard it isn’t going to get hot until later on, and this morning I think we’re safe. If you want some hours, that’s what I need the most help with. It’s up to you, but if you don’t want to do it, I totally understand.”

  “No man, I’ll help. That’s just crazy,” Sisco says, his voice becoming quiet.

  “It is. Will is going to the police department for questioning, and I’m headed to the store. I should make it in about twenty minutes or so, but if you can beat me there…”

  “I’ll be there man, I’m already at the shop actually,” Sisco says a little guiltily.

  “Ok. I’ll be there shortly.”

  18

  William David:

  Hamtramck Police Department

  10:30 a.m. Wednesday, Dec 23rd, 2015

  I park and walk towards the same police precinct as yesterday. I almost shudder. I’ve gone from being almost arrested one day, to being wanted for questioning in five more deaths the next, all of which are being very publically talked about on the radio. I’ve spent almost an hour listening to people weigh in on the topic on FM Talk radio while driving back from the cabin. They usually talk sports, but since Hamtramck has become a war zone, it’s all anybody locally or nationwide is talking about, apparently.

  I do not want this, nor do I want the notoriety. Just from the actions of the would-be protestors yesterday that forced me to leave, would I always be a target? All I did was defend myself. Some people are calling me a part of the silent majority, happy that I stood up for myself - while others think I’m inciting a race war, and I should be locked up, guilty or not.

  Those thoughts swirl through my head as I push my way in the front door and approach the counter. The officer behind the bullet-proof glass looks up as I approach, and her eyes widen.

  “Apparently you folks have been wanting to talk to me?” I ask her, seeing the recognition in her eyes.

  “Mr. David. Yes. Please step this way.” She motions to the right, to a closed door.

  The door buzzes, and I pull it open, and step through. I am led towards the desks of the two detectives who’d questioned me before.

  “…so I told him that if he could nail a jump-shot like that…” the younger detective was telling his partner, but a quick slap to the arm interrupted him.

  “Mr. David, we’ve been trying to get in touch with you! Would you like to come sit down please?” he asks, rising and pointing towards the back, where the interrogation rooms are.

  “Yes, but I’d like the DA or ADA here as well. I wasn’t even in town,” I tell them, while following them to the back. They both skid to a stop.

  “Excuse me?” the older officer asks.

  “No, let’s wait,” I say. “I want this recorded, and I want the DA or ADA here, so I can make sure I have my damn privacy this time.” Way too loudly, I yell, “You fucks got me ran out of my own h
ouse!”

  Everything goes silent; everyone is looking at me. Cops, suspects, families being interviewed. Dead silence. I’m pissed, and, for once, I don’t care.

  “I’ll call her, she’s around. She’s actually at the courthouse, filing paperwork for a search warrant for your house,” the younger detective says.

  “Great. Well, get me the paperwork, and I’ll hand you the keys. I doubt I can even go back there to finish cleaning it out.”

  “What are you talking about?” he asks.

  “Lawyer, ADA, and I don’t mind waiting. I’m pretty bruised and sore from the beating a few days back, and I hope you don’t mind me taking one of my pain pills. I wrenched something leaving my place,” I tell him, as we enter the interrogation room.

  “I’ll make those calls,” the younger detective says, and leaves.

  I sit in the perp chair, and the older detective sits down on the other side of the table.

  “I missed your name last time,” I tell him, curious.

  “Detective James Miller, the rookie is Detective Wayne Johnson. Now, why is it you had to leave your house?” he asks me, and for once he looks puzzled.

  “Because the news showed up with about twenty cars full of protestors at my apartment complex. Somebody leaked my records to the press, and the social justice warriors on Twitter and Facebook. Before I tell you where I was, and what I was doing, I want an agreement in writing that no leaks are going to come from the police or the DA’s office this time.”

  He leans forward and says, “You know, I had nothing to do with that leak. It may have come from the DA’s office, but it could just as easily have been done with an information search. Everything’s on the ‘net now-a-days.”

  “They knew where my apartment was,” I try not to snarl, but I’m having a hard time.

  “Do you have a house phone?” he asks.

  “Yes?” I say, curious at the sudden change.