Several seconds later half a dozen drones smashed into the ground.
James winced. “Damn. I’ll offer to pay for those once this is all over.”
“I see now why you’re keeping your drones so far away,” Delroy said, shaking his head. “Maybe we should have someone pick up Chevy Boy there, but damn, did you see that stunt? Brownstone could have caused a ridiculous accident. It’s like the asshole thinks this is some old Arnold movie.”
“You like the classics there, Washington?” Maria asked. “Or just fond of movies starring former California governors?”
Delroy smiled. “Did Reagan make any badass action movies? If he did, I want to see one.”
The woman rolled her eyes.
Delroy shrugged. “Hey, you haven’t lived until you’ve heard someone say, ‘If it bleeds, we can kill it.’”
“Brownstone bleeds,” the lieutenant muttered. “And there are a lot of people trying to kill him.”
Sergeant Weber, still sitting at the computer, laughed. “So far the only people bleeding are the guys going after him.”
Maria and Delroy glared at him, and he winced…again.
“We’ll just add the reckless driving to our punch list of citation.” Maria sighed. “I’m guessing that by the time this is over, major car accidents will be the least of our worries.”
10
“I knew I kept this old thing for something,” Tyler rolled a chalkboard out of his storage room in the back into the main room of his bar, the Black Sun. It’d been a long time since he’d felt as satisfied.
He’d enjoyed a delicious combination of petty revenge and professional success throughout his life, and now he would be able to apply it to Brownstone.
The bounty hunter had called him to ask about the Harriken and the money was nice, but the call left the bartender feeling uneasy and irritated because he wasn’t profiting from Brownstone’s suffering.
Tyler prided himself on his ability to make money in a dangerous world without putting himself in jeopardy. Some of that was accomplished through making himself indispensable, in addition to a assiduously-practiced neutrality. The key, though, was not relying on personal physical threats. He knew that in the end there was always someone tougher, stronger, and more ruthless; a lesson Brownstone was now learning.
Cretinous thugs killed and robbed people for a living. A smart and successful criminal preyed on those who thought they were preying on others while making them think he was doing them a favor. That was winning at life.
And Tyler was a winner.
The problem being, the bartender was having trouble finding any angle to profit from here. The damned bounty hunter was moving around too much so Tyler couldn’t make much money selling people his location, but he needed to make money off the situation—if only to prove something to himself and that asshole bounty hunter. He needed to beat James Brownstone.
An earlier chance comment from a drunk laid a seed that had blossomed into a great idea concerning how to make money, confirm his neutrality, and deliciously humiliate Brownstone.
The bartender glanced at his new door. The bounty hunter had stomped into his bar and been disrespectful when he was hunting King Pyro. Tyler didn’t care if the man had paid to replace the door. He was tired of the bounty hunter strutting around like he was the Prince of Los Angeles.
The Harriken’s bounty would humble him and Tyler would needle the man while he was down from the safe confines of his bar.
Tyler set up the chalkboard close to a wall.
The five lowlifes sitting around the bar looked at him, irritation on their drunk faces.
“I need another drink,” one of them called. “Where the hell were you? I’m sobering up here, pal.”
“Something I want to show you first.”
“Is it better than a drink?”
“Oh, it’s much better than a drink.” Tyler nodded toward the chalkboard. “Gentlemen, I trust you’ve all heard about the predicament of one James Brownstone, the so-called Granite Ghost and preternatural pain in the ass. He’s now got a price on his head of five hundred and fifty thousand dollars at this point. I’m sure it will only go up.”
“Fuck that bitch,” one drunk growled. “I hope they cap his ass by tonight. He thinks he’s big shit, but he’s just a bounty hunter.”
Several other drunks grunted in agreement and a chorus of “Fuck Brownstone!” went up.
“Not saying I disagree.” Tyler grinned as he started drawing some columns. “I think everyone reasonable agrees that Brownstone would be better off dead, but the real question is when we think it’ll happen. Tonight? Tomorrow? A lot of expert opinions out there.”
“I think he’ll last a few days,” another man remarked. “He’s a bitch, but he’s a tough bitch.”
Tyler pointed his chalk at him. “I agree. And let’s face it—a lot of people are going to die before this is over. Maybe even some we know. That’s a lot of money.”
The first drunk nodded. “Yeah, I get that, but half a million ain’t no good if you’re dead.”
Tyler nodded in agreement. “Sure, but what if I told you there was a way to make money off this without having to risk attacking Brownstone? We can’t do anything about people getting themselves killed, but it doesn’t hurt if we all make a little money at the same time.”
All the drunks eyed Tyler, suspicion and disbelief on their faces.
“Plenty of people in the action on this one,” Tyler continued, “but maybe we can make it fun and safe for us. That’s what I’m proposing to you fine gentlemen.”
The drunks stared at him, and the first man narrowed his eyes. “And how are you gonna do that?”
“Two things make everything in life better: alcohol and a little skin in the game. And we can all get a little skin in the game by gambling.”
The drunks nodded slowly, and a bit of interest showed on their faces.
“Let’s place some bets, gentlemen.” Tyler started scribbling category names in the columns. “I’m going to take bets for a lot of different payouts. How many days before someone wastes his ass? How many people will he kill before he’s taken down?” He rushed to the other side of the chalkboard and kept spewing ideas. “How he’s going to die? Stab wound? Bullet? Blown up like his fucking house? Maybe something fancy, like an Oriceran artifact? There’ll be a little something for everyone.”
The second drunk shrugged. “It’s not much fun if it’s only five of us. Not enough money to make it interesting.”
Tyler shook a finger. “Exactly.” He tapped his pocket. “Call your friends and get them to come over. Let’s make this a party. Hell, I’ll go one better to encourage you: half-price drinks for anyone who places a bet.”
The first drunk yanked his phone out of his pocket, punched in a number, and put it up to his ear. “Hey, Steve, this is Jay. Get your ass down to the Black Sun. No. I don’t care what you’re doing tonight. I’ve got something better. We’re gonna have the first Brownstone betting night.”
Tyler smiled. “And last.”
Shay yanked her phone out of her pocket and turned it on as she hurried down the LAX jetway. She winced as she spotted the missed call from Brownstone.
“Seriously, Brownstone? You call me when I’m on the plane?” she muttered. “If you died before I get here, I’ll go to heaven or hell—wherever you ended up—to kick your stupid dead ass.”
She played the message he’d left as she stepped into the boarding gate and let out a sigh, her left hand cradling her forehead.
“You make a hell of an aunt,” the message finished.
A few more steps moved Shay away from the stream of disembarking people, and she rubbed the back of her neck as she thought about her next course of action.
Shay had worried before that Brownstone hadn’t been taking the threat seriously, but now he was practically giving her his dying wishes over the phone.
Hearing the unflappable killing machine show a hint of vulnerability filled her with an unea
se she hadn’t felt since her days as a professional killer.
Damn it, Brownstone. Why did you have to make this harder than it already was?
The field archaeologist hurried toward baggage claim, still trying to decide what the hell she should even do.
Alison was staying in a government-sponsored school filled with strange creatures and people from Earth and Oriceran who could do magic. From what she’d seen when they’d visited, Shay had a hard time believing some hitman could easily get onto the grounds. There was even a spell protecting the gates. All that suggested she go help Brownstone, since he didn’t have an entire staff of wizards and witches protecting him.
Of course, a hitman who could use magic was a different matter entirely. Shay sighed as she stepped on an escalator. Even if the hitman didn’t have the same power level or skills as the teachers at the school, he still might be able to take them out.
The problem with violence was that people misunderstood what made a dangerous killer versus a victim.
The key wasn’t what tool a person used.
Some of the most brutal killers in history hadn’t used impressive weapons. The real core of a killer was a ruthless willingness to slay whoever was in front of them, regardless of any pity they might feel for them.
Shay knew that all too well. It was what had made her such an effective killer before she’d walked away from the death-dealing business. Hands, guns, knives, fireplace pokers; she’d used so many different weapons. She doubted a bunch of glorified schoolteachers possessed the killer instinct, even if they could whip a little magic out to impress snarky teens.
If Brownstone made that call he was in over his head, which meant he needed her help. But he’d also asked her to watch Alison, and if he did survive, he was going to be pissed that she hadn’t listened to him if anything happened to Alison because she hadn’t been there to protect her.
A long groan escaped Shay’s lips and an airport cop walked over, flashing her a smile.
“Problem, Miss?” His eyes roamed her body, and his pupils widened. He obviously liked what he saw.
Shay resisted the urge to smack him, even though he had it coming. Getting arrested or causing a major incident at LAX wouldn’t help Brownstone, and the less attention she drew to herself, the smaller the chance her past would catch up with her.
“I’m fine,” she told him through gritted teeth. “Just having some trouble figuring out what to do. You know…personal problem.”
The cop nodded, a sympathetic look on his face. “Oh, you know, part of community outreach is listening to citizens’ concerns. Maybe it’ll help to bounce your dilemma off your friendly boy in blue.” He waggled his eyebrows.
Must...resist...urge...to kick this asshole in the crotch.
“Fine,” Shay agreed. “Here’s my situation: my dumbass friend needs my help, but said dumbass also wants me to go keep an eye on someone important to him. But if I don’t go help my dumbass friend, said friend might end up in even more trouble.”
The cop blinked. “Uh, okay. What sort of trouble are we talking about?”
Shay resisted the urge to even hint at the truth. “Oh, nothing important. It’s just, you know…the past catches up with people. That kind of thing.”
The cop nodded and rubbed his chin. “I get it. I’ve seen this kind of thing before in domestic situations. Let me guess: your friend was sleeping around and she got knocked up? Now she wants you to go smooth it out with her man, huh?”
Shay stared at the cop, both annoyed and surprised at the utter idiocy the man’s mind had generated.
She opened her mouth to respond, but couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t end with her being arrested.
“Uh, okaaayyy,” she finally managed.
The cop shrugged. “Look, I don’t think you should get in the middle of your friend’s personal problems. Really, what you need to do is relax, and let her solve her own problems. You’ll both be much better off.”
“Huh?”
The cop leaned in. “I’m getting off duty soon. How about we go for a drink? You can take your mind off anyone else. It won’t do you any good to sit around all stressed out about someone else’s problems when you can’t fix them.”
Shay rolled her eyes. “Keep dreaming.” She smirked. “Unlike most women, I don’t like a man in uniform.”
The cops blinked and frowned. “Whatever.” He stormed off in the opposite direction, muttering to himself.
“Stupido,” Shay hissed under her breath. “You’re just lucky you’re a cop.”
Idiot cop notwithstanding, the conversation had provided her enough time to make her final decision. Brownstone had made the right call. She needed to go to Virginia, both to protect Alison and comfort her in case Brownstone ended up dead.
Shay pulled her phone. “Let’s see if the school will accept a little visit.”
Esteban drummed his fingers on his steering wheel, a slight frown on his face. He hadn’t expected Brownstone to be so bold as to knock out every drone in an area. That’d put him behind schedule, but he had a good idea where the man was going. Orange County.
To the best of his knowledge the bounty hunter didn’t maintain any properties there, so it remained unclear whether he was going to stop there or keep going all the way down to San Diego or Mexico.
The hitman chuckled. The fool had picked the wrong sort of vehicle to escape in. Low-profile appeared to be a foreign concept to James Brownstone.
The Humvee was just like Brownstone: large and clumsy. Proper violence required a certain elegance; something Esteban possessed, but a simple thug like Brownstone lacked.
He pulled out his phone to check Brownstone sightings. It was a cruder method of tracking than his personal drone, but it’d have to do. Having everyone in the city looking for the bounty hunter certainly made things easier.
Money changed hands here and there for the reports. An entire temporary economy centered around the tracking and murder of one man had arisen.
He’d even heard of one joker selling t-shirts.
Esteban had already decided the means of the man’s death. His background checks and information-gathering had established that Brownstone normally wore some sort of armor that was strong enough to take close-range shots from pistols and shotguns.
The information didn’t clarify if the armor was technology-based or magical, but the fool left his head open. The hitman had collected images and video proving that the man could be injured.
He was no immortal. He was just a man like anyone else. His heart pumped red blood.
The fact that a lot of fools—including the Harriken—had had trouble killing Brownstone told Esteban that the local criminal elements were weak. Maybe after he finished off Brownstone he’d cull a few more to make a point.
A nice .50-caliber sniper rifle that sent an armor-piercing bullet to the man’s head would finish him. It’d been a long time since he’d used Isabella to finish off someone instead of El Cid. Eagerness clawed at Esteban’s mind.
A man needed to show respect for his weapons and tools. If he did, they’d give him the same.
Grenades and rockets were other possibilities, but they lacked the elegance of sniping—though he wasn’t above a car bomb if that was what was required. In the end dead was dead, and soon James Brownstone would be dead.
“I’m coming for you, Señor Brownstone,” Esteban said. “Make your peace with God.”
11
The tension gradually left James’s muscles as he got farther from the site of his drone massacre. A few new drones had joined the chase, but from what he could tell they belonged to the LAPD. A quiet chuckle escaped his mouth.
The LAPD had been all over him since the beginning, but not a single cop car had gotten close to him. He hadn’t been sure if they would heed his warnings, but thus far everything was working out well. The only injuries had been to killers, and the property damage could easily be reimbursed once everything was over.
Wonder
if I can get some sort of insurance to cover this sort of crap in the future?
James was just starting up his barbecue podcast again when his phone rang. The caller ID surprised him.
“Mack?” he answered. “I haven’t killed anyone yet, you know.”
The police sergeant laughed. “Yeah, so I’ve heard. Congrats on that and on not dying so far, Brownstone.”
James grunted. “Thanks. I’m not coming in for protective custody, if that’s what this is about. And if it’s about the drones. I’ll pay for them. I just don’t have a lot of time to sit around and exchange insurance information at the moment. People keep trying to kill me.”
“Yeah, I heard about your little drone stunt. Try to keep that shit minimal, Brownstone. Some drone could be carrying somebody’s prescription or something.” Mack sighed. “And this isn’t about that anyway. Look, you won’t come in for protective custody—that’s on you—but I and a lot of others appreciate that you came and gave us a head’s up about what’s going on.”
“Okay. I feel like there’s a big ‘but’ coming and it’s gonna annoy me.”
Mack laughed. “You sound like my wife. Look, truth is, there are a lot of eyes on you right now in the department, especially the gang guys and AET.”
James snorted. He’d half-wondered if the two anti-gang task force cops who had been spying on him were involved.
“And?”
“The point is, those eyes are on you because they’re waiting for you to fuck up, not because they are going to come in and save your ass if things get too hot.”
“Good. That’s what I wanted anyway,” James said. “I told you I didn’t want cops getting caught up in my shit, even asshole cops.”
“You that eager to die, Brownstone?”
“Nope. But I figure I’m not gonna be the one dying. Did you call just to tell me the cops will be staying away?”
“Nope,” Mack replied. “Even if we’re not going to be scrambling units to save your ass, it doesn’t mean I can’t pass on a little information.”
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