Quinton was sitting around in the underground level of the flea market considering his next targets. He could pay his friend Bill a visit or maybe go after his crooked cop buddies. Maybe he’d teach some more punks a lesson. Bill was not going anywhere, so no real need to rush. He would have his revenge against that animal soon. The man was like a wild wolf or hyena. They always stayed around a source of food. This city was Bill’s source of food metaphorically speaking. Maybe it would be fun to drop in on old Bill, though. Reading the paper a particular article catches his eye. It seems that a number of women and children are being sold as human slaves still to this day. A number of gangs were involved in this as it is a great source of income. One of the biggest gangs in Chicago, the Street Captains, were big players in human trafficking. He already knows this from his time as police superintendent. While that job provided a wealth of information, it was not always easy proving the law was being broken.
They had always suspected the Street Captains of working with a few factory owners in the area to move and store slaves. Getting the warrants to search these places had been difficult. But by the time they did, all evidence was gone. Not to mention they no doubt had paid informants on the force leaking information about investigations. If not Bill or officers connected to him, then other crooked cops. Slavery was something that really pissed him off. As an American of African descent, it was something he was emotionally invested in. It was a form of abuse that he could appreciate more so than others. When he heard of Asian or Russian women being forced to clean or act as slaves, it moved him. He imagined his ancestors working in the hot fields, and being whipped in the back and dying. To think that we were still treating other humans like animals. No, it was worse than animals in some nations. He could not stop it everywhere, but he would stop in the places that he suspected it was taking place. There would be no waiting for a judge to approve a search warrant. No worrying about corrupt officers tipping off their buddies. No concern about following proper procedure or evidence being ruled inadmissible.
He would pay his Street Captain buddies a visit this fine morning and have a little chat about the issue. He headed out towards Pulaski and Cicero. There was a factory three blocks down on Cicero that they had always suspected of being used for human trafficking. This factory was not as big as the old Brach’s factory nor as old. It was painted all white and was much more modern looking. He walks up to the heavy wrought iron gate and pulls the gate apart. The gate was one of those mechanical ones that could be opened with the push of a button. The tall, stout African American guard cannot help but notice the black metal bars on the ground. Before hearing the loud sound of bending metal caused by Quinton, the guard had been soundly asleep. He did not much blame the guy. Who would have expected this to happen? The guard comes charging out of his booth with his gun drawn. He repeatedly glances over at the gate and back at Quinton. Quinton extends both his arms straight out and raises his eyebrow in a questioning facial expression. The guard puts his gun back in the holster and walks down the street.
“Man, fuck this shit, $12 bucks an hour is not worth this bullshit.”
The guard might alert the cops, but he doubted it. Even if they did come they would not be that much of a problem. More of a nuisance to be honest. He preferred to pick and choose his dealings with the police though. Walking into the driveway, he encounters four large pit bulls. He knocks three of them out with ease using a few kicks. Out of curiosity he lets the last pit bull bite his right leg. He had never been bitten by a dog before. Looking at the animal, he could see why this would be a terrible experience for many. The beast had torn his pants leg to shreds. It was amusing how the dog kept trying despite its lack of success. The dog chomped down hard on his leg and made a whimpering sound of pain as it broke the majority of its teeth. Even then it got back up with blood and saliva running out of its mouth, and it continued its attacks. He wondered how many sex slaves this dog had terrorized with his massive teeth. How many women had it mauled in its lifetime? Tired of his musings, he grabs the dog by the back of its neck and flings it behind him 20 feet. The sound of the animal hitting something makes a loud, wet thud like the sound of a large balloon popping. He reaches the door and knocks loudly on the large metal door. Someone finally comes to the door and looks at him through what is some type of peephole.
“Who are you senor, and where is the security guard?”
“Looking for a new job I guess. I hear you have a selection of girls for sale in this joint.”
“Who are you and who sent you senor?”
“I am a monster here to mash, and Boris sent me.”
“I know no fucking Boris.”
He starts kicking the heavy metal door, knocking it off the hinges. Unfortunately, the Mexican gentleman was too close and it falls on top of him. Quinton enters and everyone there stops and stares at him for a moment, shocked at this intruder entering their sanctuary. It’s a pretty big factory with about 40 guys up front. No telling how many in back or around the area. He could hear sounds of women and children crying. Also, of men shouting at them in different languages.
He could rip these guys a new one with his bare hands, but decides to use his gun. The weapon was faster and he wanted to practice his shooting some more. When he moved at super fast speeds it wore him down a bit. Dodging bullets made him tired. These thugs are definitely Street Captains. They are all wearing some combination of black and white. Most of the 40 guys are armed. He takes the first shot, killing four guys on a catwalk to his right. He was only using a handgun, but had got off four shots all connecting with their foreheads before anyone could even move. Of course, the others punks got the message and start opening fire. Bullets are flying from all different directions now. The sound of bullets hitting different surfaces can be heard filling the air. Glass shattering, bullets hitting walls and other surfaces in the factory. Men are screaming out as the bullets from Quinton's gun pierces their flesh and steals their souls. Every shot was a killing shot to the heart, brain or other vital organ. This was a real life symphony of destruction. He was jumping around, ducking in and out of cover, as he steadily added to the list of those killed. Soon he was the only one moving on this level. He counted the dead and got up to 40 bodies. He could hear the cries of women that sounded like they were coming from beneath him. Searching around he finds an elevator at the other end of the factory. Entering the elevator there did not seem to be any special codes needed. Guess they would not expect anyone to burst in on so many armed guards. When he gets off at the basement level, he sees cages on both sides of the room filled with women. Mostly adult females and some teenage girls as well. He finds five guards watching the area.
After dealing with these animals, he turns his attention to the women in distress. He breaks the large bolt locks securing the cages. This room was pretty big actually. They had been able to put at least 20 of these cages in it. Each cage had 40 women crammed into it. The women were more then relieved to be out of the cages. They come streaming out of the cages crying, laughing ,and some even singing. Guess freedom could do that to people. Freedom was such a basic thing that it was hard to wrap his brain around this going on in the modern day world. Many of the woman had a black and white tattoo on their right arms. All of them wore black sweat pants with sleeveless white t-shirts. This black and white mark must be the gang’s brand for female slaves. The tattoo was a black and white Yin Yang symbol. Most Street Captains had two gang symbols. The main symbol all of them used was a black and white skull and the Yin Yang symbol. And each group had their own tattoo as well. This group was comprised of mostly Latinos, and had a white skull surrounded by a black circle as their symbol. They were branding woman and young girls like animals. These punks had gotten what they deserved. To be honest, he wished he had the ability to bring people back to life and kill them again in a worse fashion. Getting shot to death was too quick for these monsters. He decided it would be best to take his leave now. With all the gunfire going on the police should
be here soon. The cops could take care of the bodies and the enslaved women. He had just left a few the factory a few minutes ago and was escaping into the sewers when he heard sirens from police vehicles.
This had been a good day. He had killed some wild animals and freed helpless women. He had also found out his body could stand up to using his enhanced abilities long-term. He had planned on saving Bill for later, but maybe this was bigger than Bill. He could really do some good in this world for a change. Deal with these human monsters on their own level. He would find Bill tomorrow and take care of him. It would not be quick and painless. Oh no, Bill’s suffering would be legendary even in hell. The bastard had been very active in and around Union Station. He had become aware of some drug activity the man was involved in at the station. No doubt he wanted to keep an eye on business personally. In any case, he would head back to his temporary home now. Better to rest, get something to eat, and be fresh when he fought Bill. The man may not have his strength or superhuman abilities, but he was very intelligent. He had learned his lesson about underestimating regular human beings with Dirty Red. He finally reaches his temporary home and sits down to eat a nice hot meal. The electricity in this place was still on and he'd been able to locate a small fridge and hot plate inside the market. Watching a TV he had found, he surfs around watching the different news stories on the incident. Funny how many of the women told completely different accounts of what happened. Some got the race wrong. Some had the height different and a few said he was a police officer. A few surviving gang members, who must have been outside during the slaughter, gave wildly varying accounts also. One said he was a demon with horns and wings. One account from a survivor was that the gang had been hit by a group of rival gangs, but their members had fled before the police arrived. Guess no one would want to admit losing so many members against one person. The police seemed to be going with the rival gang theory or at least that's what they were saying in public. It was time to hit the hay. Bill would wait until tomorrow.
The situation was not looking good for Red. It seems Red’s car was found at the pharmacy after the explosion or what was left of it at least. There was also a news report of someone matching Quinton’s profile killing two of his’s men. Of course, those men had been with Red. It did not take a genius to figure out what had happened to Red. Quinton had gotten to him. What he could not figure out is how the explosion had happened. Large explosions were not Quinton’s style. He could not figure out what in the world Red would be doing with an explosive device that powerful, either. In the end it did not matter much. It was time to move his junk into Union Station. And figure out how to handle this fool for good.
To Quinton taking out those punks had felt really good to him. He had been living to kill corrupt cops, but this was a lot more rewarding. He would kill Bill, of course, but he understood the possibilities of what he could accomplish; and that his powers could be used for good as well. He would hunt down and kill all the murderers, rapists, and thugs he could before his time was out. He had made up his mind to go ahead and finish Bill today. He still had a few contacts on the force. Some officers did not like the way things had been going, but they did not have the courage to go against their fellow officers. These people had supplied him with useful information now and then. He also had a number of connections with people on the streets since his time as police chief. All his informants told him that Bill had moved into Union Station. This was somewhat perplexing on some levels. In terms of security and protection, he was safer at the police station. It was not like many of the officers on the force were unaware of his crooked dealing or cared. The man was not trying to hide anything, so what was the sudden move about? Maybe he wanted to be closer to one of his main drug operations, but it still did not make any sense. Just the same, he would end this today at Union Station. His police contact had informed him of what floor Bill would be one. He had a fake ID and identification of a company Bill did business with. Wearing a beard and glasses, he hoped no one would recognize him. This building only required ID they would check against a list to enter. Security was not extremely high, which made it even more strange that Bill would move his office here. Quinton checks in at the main lobby security desk and heads up on the elevator.
From what his informants had told him, Bill liked to swing around this place in the morning. He had plenty of similar operations in Chicago, but spent more time at this one for some reason. Getting off the elevator, he walks up to a receptionist and checks in again. This floor was not that large, but there was a number of small offices. Someone could store a great deal of equipment and paperwork here though. He really did not see why Bill felt so safe and secure here. He had expected the man to be hunkered down with a vast arsenal of weapons and men. Quinton sat on a nice soft couch reading old magazines. The key was to be patient and wait for the little punk. Perhaps he could bribe or intimidate the owner of the office into helping him catch Bill. At least he looked the part of a businessman with his nice blue suit. That flea market had been pretty useful so far.
As luck would have it, he did not have to rack his brain too hard figuring out how to catch Bill. Looking out the large windows in this room he sees Bill’s reflection. Obviously Bill has not noticed him. Bill is walking with a large Asian man in a white suit with blue trim. There is something familiar about the man, but he cannot place it right now. He stands, walks toward Bill, and breaks the neck of one of his goons who tries to get in the way.
“Well, Bill, it’s been a long time coming. I hope you cleared your schedule today because we have lots of activities planned.”
“Afraid you'll have to play by yourself friend, I have better things than to deal with a punk crying over his prostitute wife and daughter getting killed.”
“Quinton had been calm up to this moment, but no more. He charges at Bill like a wild bull. Bill steps behind the Asian man wearing white. Of course, this tall Asian man would be no problem at all for him. He throws a punch at the man’s chest and is shocked that its blocked. He throws a flurry of punches at the man. The tall Asian man easily evades the blows like he is fighting a child. Quinton finally lands a strong kick to the man’s midsection sending him back five feet. He is a bit surprised that the man is not broken in half with the force he put in the blow. He charges the man again ready to finish this off. The Asian man dressed in white raises his right hand and an invisible force starts pushing Quinton back. He struggles against for a few moments, but is flung back into the wall. The wall starts to crack as he is flung back into it over and over. The invisible force pushing him back is strong, but does not do any seriousness damage to him.
“I believe you should leave now sir, before I really have to really hurt you.” Quinton does not answer. He has no intention of letting Bill live past today. The force pushing him back was steadily getting weaker. Guess as powerfully as this guy was he could not keep it up forever. Bill had taken the opportunity to slip out of the room. The Asian mans hands started to glow with white light. Soon the entire room is engulfed with white hot light. The force of the blast sends him flying out the window into the river canal, which runs next to Union Station. He feels himself striking the water hard and sinking to the bottom before blacking out.
Psycho feels himself about to vomit and opens the vehicle door to let it loose. He did not care if other people driving complained or called the police on him for leaving a stream of vomit while they drove at high speed. What a night this had been that cop killer Quinton might be dead and Bill was up for a promotion. He had been celebrating all night long with his buddy Josh. He loved bar hopping and getting into bar fights. He and Josh had really beat the snot out of a group of Mexican bikers in the last bar. He loved going to The Velvet Hammer . The guys there liked to drink, talk shit, and rumble. The loose sluts that could be taken home for the right price did not hurt either. The bar was frequented by people of different races, and they did not call the cops like some pussies. This place attracted a rough crowd who enjoyed that type of
environment.
Big Josh might be directionless and a shifter, but he could fight. He had actually been into mixed martial arts at one point. His problem with the mixed martial arts was the same as with everything he did. Big Josh, as they called him, had no ability to focus on any one thing. He was good at doing anything he put his mind to, but got bored after a few months. He had been an excellent fighter. The fans and people setting up the matches had not been happy when he stopped showing up to scheduled matches. Josh had skipped a match or two to work as a contractor in peoples’ homes. Giving up making thousands to make about $60 and working all day in somebody’s crib didn’t make sense. Josh was stupid like that.
Abuse of Chikara (book 1) Page 15