by Henry Roi
Razor
Book 1: A Dying Wish
Henry Roi
Copyright (C) 2019 Henry Roi
Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter
Published 2019 by Terminal Velocity – A Next Chapter Imprint
Cover art by Cover Mint
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.
Table of Contents
I. An Awkward Acquaintance
II. War Stories
III. A Dying Wish
IV. Team's First Job
V. Our New Recruit
VI. F#@k That
VII. A Little Late
About the Author
“Listen to me, boy! You can't out-punch this guy; you have to out-think him.”
- Fred Williams
I. An Awkward Acquaintance
It's been a while since someone stuck a gun in my face. My line of work as a teenager had me looking at the wrong end of a pistol a total of six times. When I was eighteen I nearly killed a guy. Took his gun and beat his drug-addled head senseless with it. Drug related crimes on the Mississippi Coast haven't changed much in the nine years since.
This meth shooter in front of me is no different than the last idiot, a scared to death addict desperately seeking a mark in this quiet place of opportunity, hoping to stick me for a nice wad of cash he can poke into his scrawny arm.
I sighed with a sort of relief, trying unsuccessfully to suppress an eager smile. Held my hands up. I have been hoping, dreaming, for something like this to happen. Life has been BORING since I, myself, retired from crime. And the legit endeavors I've pursued in recent years are about as thrilling as watching two geriatrics drag race their electric scooters. This was the kind of danger I used to live for.
What happened to that guy?
He grew a vagina, my subconscious slapped me with. That nagging awareness has been too vocal for comfort lately.
“Give me your money!” the man shrieked at me, pistol waving, shaking two feet from my face. His shrunken features were pale, sweaty, and unshaven. Hair long and greasy, shinning grossly under the lights of the parking garage. His voice echoed off the concrete walls, roof, and the cars that filled nearly every slot. “You want to get shot? Give me your fucking money!”
I'm blessed with freaky-quick hands. Lethal weapons that were far quicker than the eye, and enabled me to live in the world of crime for over a decade without carrying a gun. To my mind, the gun in my face was just another punch mitt for my left-hook to strike like a viper, a move that I've perfected in numerous gyms and dozens of boxing tournaments. I had absolute confidence I could hit and stun his hand before he could pull the trigger.
My upraised hands and shoulders relaxed a millisecond before my left hand darted at the side of the gun, fist tightening, punch smashing his fingers painfully into the steel, knocking the gun to my right, out of his hand. My other fist followed, a straight-right that drove into his fragile chin, two piece combo tapped out in less than a second. He must have been a career addict, body starved for calcium, because his jaw seemed to splinter into a dozen fractures, a crunch I felt and heard before resetting my stance, diving for the gun that clattered to the concrete.
He cried out, landed hard on his ass, hands going to his chin, cheeks. He squealed loudly, a scream that couldn't be voiced properly because of the inability to open his mouth.
I picked up the weapon and walked over to him. “Never stand that close to your mark,” I said, tilting the gun upward. I opened the cylinder. Six .32 bullets fell into my palm. I pocketed them, wiped my prints off the gun and tossed into his lap. “Lame bitch. You deserve worse for being so stupid.”
He whimpered in response.
I spun on a toe and marched off to the ramp leading to the next level up, feeling a supreme satisfaction that swelled my chest, arms, and Johnson.
Just sitting on the Hayabusa made me a king. The Suzuki was a '99 model, but had been rebuilt and customized so many times I've lost count. I put the key in the ignition between the handlebars, turned it. The headlight and taillight glowed brightly. Hit the starter button on the right hand grip. The 200hp race-spec engine ignited to life, powerful exhaust vibrating my entire body. My jeans, white tee and gray leather jacket buzzed. My arm hair stood up excitedly. The full-face helmet matched the bike's paint, white and gunmetal gray. I pulled it over my head and closed the face shield, secured the chin strap. The raw fuel smell in the air from the warming combustion chambers elated my chest as I backed the beastly machine out and tapped it into gear. Deafening snarls reverberated throughout the garage as I raced down the levels and onto Highway 90, leaving Pass Christian, heading to the interstate.
I had to hurry if I was going to be on time to meet my girl at our former trainer's house. I could picture her waiting in the yard, arms folded, foot tapping. I smiled broadly. She loved to have an excuse to fuss at me. Or smack me. I backed off the throttle, and decided to enjoy the cruise, helmet tucked behind the windscreen, relaxing on the top of the fuel tank, heading east in no hurry.
Exit 50 leads to Washington Avenue and downtown Ocean Springs. I went south towards the beach and turned into Eddy's driveway a few minutes later. My coach's home was practically a mansion. The colonial-style facade, white and blue, had several columns and a decked-out second-story balcony. As I drove up the long steep drive, I noticed the flower beds were empty, and the bushes weren't as trimmed as they looked from the street.
Guess it's hard to upkeep when you're dead, my subconscious told me. Idiot.
I growled away maudlin feeling threatening to weaken me. Thoughts of Eddy's murder are the only thing that's come close to making me shed tears since I was a teenager. When I was fourteen, my mother was killed during a police raid at a bikers' clubhouse. I haven't cried since. I have Rob to thank for that. He was an old outlaw Harley mechanic that I hung with sometimes. I remember him grabbing my whiny ass, giving me a fearsome look, and declaring that my will is strengthened by Roxanne's death, a new sword pulled from a forge, emerging more mature, tempered and unbreakable. I loved the way that sounded, so it stuck with me.
As a kid the only father figure I had was Eddy. He opened the world of boxing for me. We lost touch after I met Pete and decided to make crime my career instead of professional boxing. I haven't seen Eddy in years, and I didn't feel as close to him as I used to. Still, something was going on in that supermax neuronal prison I keep my weaker emotions locked in.
Hmm. I simply did not care for this. FEELINGS are for the weak, the sheep, the lame.
The house was lit up, flood lights glowing around the yard. I glanced at my Tag Heuer, 9:36 p.m. Yeah, Blondie was fuming. I'm over half an hour late. Good. A healthy argument, then awesome make up sex.
I'll be sooo very sorry.
“Yes, I will,” I murmured in anticipation, parking next to Blondie's truck, a '52 Ford. I killed the engine, extended the kickstand and doffed my helmet. With the helmet off I could hear a commotion that seemed to be coming from the backyard. I stilled my breathing, listening to the sounds of a…fight.
It's a fight!
“Ah, hell!” I ran around the house and came upon a scene from my dreams. Blondie was in a ferocious battle with another girl, their long hair flying out around their heads, blonde vs. brunette, ripped arms and legs flexing explosively as they grunted feminine expulsions, fists fly
ing. The floodlights played over them like special effects, bright rays that contrasted with the darkness surrounding them. I stood and watched, frozen and confused. The scene became a nightmare as I realized Blondie was way out of her league.
As a former world amateur champion, my girl has an advantage over most chicks brave enough to trade blows with her. However, this chick here was an animal, very obviously a professional fighter, strong and degrees faster than Blondie. I was debating whether or not to interfere. Blondie can't stand it when I save her, preferring to use her own very capable skills to take care of business. Fortunately (or unfortunately), the fight abruptly ended and made my mind up for me.
The enraged girl caught Blondie with an overhand-right that knocked her to the ground instantly. Blondie hit and crumpled, fight completely taken out of her, and I winced. She sprawled next to some geek whom I only just noticed, who was holding his stomach in pain, though outside the cones of light in the dark.
The girl spun in my direction, sensing a new threat, and my Johnson shrunk at the look she directed at me. An insane, feverish bloodlust had utterly consumed this girl. She was breathing like a rabid badger, growl-snarls that made her eyes lunatic wide. Nostrils flaring, veins standing up from her muscles like she was on every performance supplement known to man. She was about five-eight, one thirty-five, a couple inches shorter than Blondie, though ten pounds heavier. All high quality, highly trained muscle made her look like an Olympic Gold Medalist, showcased by her black tank top, running shorts, and compression sleeve covering her entire left arm.
She lunged at me, covering the twenty feet between us faster than any human I've ever seen, fists raised to bring the drama. I felt the stirrings of uncertainty before I raised my own fists and stepped into a comfortable stance. Something about this girl was familiar, though I had no time to ponder the possibilities before she attacked.
One-two-three-four! Her combo blazed at my head. I slapped down the first two punches, palms ringing from her power, swayed left, then back from the next two. Immediately I launched a counter four-piece combination. She caught and slipped, mirroring my moves.
Wait a minute…
She pivoted, feinted a jab, jabbing hard right behind it. I read the move, leaning to the right and forward, throwing a jab that slid down her arm and, POP! Smashed into her cheek. Before I could follow up, a right-cross came out of nowhere and crashed into my ear, incredibly hard, nearly knocking me down. I stumbled and she jumped all over me, landing several shots before I could get out of her range. I circled around the crazed woman with a new respect, in awe.
You got to be kidding me. Where in the hell did she learn that? That was my move; take a jab to land a right-cross. It was like I was fighting, well, me.
She shuffled her feet, planted her back foot and lunged at me with combinations to my head and body, punctuating them with uppercuts that whistled millimeters from my chin. It was all I could do to keep her off me. I was so astonished by her speed, power, and skill that I couldn't rightly get in fight mode. I've never fought a woman before. I've sparred with chicks numerous times, but never thought I'd be fighting for my life against a girl that could scrap so viciously. She was literally trying to punch holes in me, her boxing ability a match to the very best I've been in the ring with.
I finally managed to land a right-hand. She didn't even blink, firing right back after my punch landed, nailing me with a right of her own. I shook it off, backpedaling. I sensed movement to my left and glanced over to see an enormous black dude standing over Blondie and the geek, a gun in his hand. He shouted to my opponent, “Boss! Move back! I got him!” He aimed carefully at me.
The girl couldn't, or wouldn't, accept his help. She was in complete submission to her killer instinct. Her demeanor said she just had to take me out. She was mad that I could box.
She darted inside my range and we began a slug fest, throwing as hard and as fast as we could, pummeling each other with hard shots, most caught by our arms.
I heard a brief scuffle and noticed peripherally that Blondie had recovered and somehow managed to take the gun from the giant. She told him, “No, you're wrong you big fucker. I got you”. She waved the gun and he knelt down.
I fended off a blistering attack, pushed my opponent away from me, and Blondie limped over and stuck the gun in the girl-beast's face. “Get on the ground by your friends, you freaky bitch.”
Before I could warn Blondie, the girl raised her hands and threw a lightning hook into Blondie's hand that was holding the gun. The weapon boomed a tongue of flame over their heads before flying fifteen feet away, slamming to the ground. Girl-beast followed with a right-hand bomb that would have broken Blondie's entire face if she hadn't turned aside as it hit, lessening the impact. Blondie scrambled away desperately and I ran over and tackled our enemy, rolling over on top of her, without intending to harm her any further, a daunting revelation striking me.
As I struggled to pin her down, I growled, “Stop! Wait a minute, you crazy motherfucker!” She grunted and strained, almost throwing me off. She was so strong. “We have the same trainer!” I yelled to get through her rage. “We had the same trainer. You were trained by Eddy, right?”
She blinked in sudden confusion, tension momentarily leaving her body. Right at that instant the giant black dude tried to take my head off as he speared me to the ground. The grass crammed unpleasantly into my mouth and eyes, the strong smell of earth forced into my nose. I thrashed and rolled onto my back, but the man was too heavy for me to budge with my stressed arms. Fighting the girl-beast had zapped my stamina. I caught a glimpse of Blondie crawling away, and realized she was heading towards the gun. The giant gave deep, growling rumbles as he tried to pin my hands. I resisted with everything I had left in me, quickly running out of gas.
The girl-beast was on her feet again, looking unsure of herself, as if the real her had returned and didn't know where she was. “Bobby!” she said. “Let him up.” He obeyed instantly and a deep darkness was lifted as his mass moved from over me. I lay on my back, panting. The girl-beast's face appeared above mine, red and sweaty. “Tell your girl to stand down,” she demanded.
I panted, nodded, held up a finger. I rolled over and saw Blondie had reached the gun and had a look on her that indicated she planned to murder first and ask questions later. She raised the weapon, face distorted in god-awful hatred. Tears mixed with dirt on swollen cheeks, and pointed the gun at the girl-beast.
I waved frantically. “Check yourself, Babe! It's a misunderstanding. She's one of Eddy's!”
She pulled the trigger…
II. War Stories
Eddy's living room was spacious. The vaulted ceiling was twenty feet at its peak. Rough-hewn beams crossing in pleasing geometric patterns, all dark brown and white. Four large skylights showing the beautiful night sky. We sat on couches of the same colors in a semi-circle, around a huge low table and entertainment system in the center of the room. Stairs to the upper-level rooms behind us, kitchen and dining room to our right. Ice packs crinkled in the silence, three of the five people present nursing inflammation on various body parts. I was one of them. The girl-beast, Anastasia, as she was introduced, had landed more than one shot on the left side of my head. It throbbed intensely.
That's it. Back to the gym to practice defense…
I grumbled to myself, plopped on the couch next to Blondie. She had her shoes off, legs curled under her, also nursing a swollen head with an ice pack. We glared at the others while they explained their reason for being here.
“First of all, I have to say I'm glad you can't shoot worth a damn,” Anastasia told Blondie, who popped her eyes peevishly. Anastasia then turned her attention towards me. “I've known Eddy for years and he never mentioned either of you.” She crossed her arms with a stubborn expression, seated on a love-seat with her boyfriend Julian, the geek that Blondie had jumped on thinking he was a burglar.
“Yeah, well, Eddy was disappointed that we didn't go pro,” Blondie responded.
“He didn't exactly approve of our career path.” She tossed her long golden locks off her shoulder, shrugging as if it was no loss to her. But I knew better. I could see the pain it caused her to be reminded of it.
“What career did you choose?” Bobby rumbled, the big black dude that looked and moved like a Super Bowl MVP. He stood in front of the TV facing everyone, gargantuan arms folded across a pink bodybuilder tank top, with a look that suspected he already knew that answer to his query.
“Crime,” I said, trying to keep from baring my canines. Most people get all uppity when learning of my past. They preach. Anastasia and her guys had Do Gooder written all over them. Even their names sounded law-abiding. So I didn't expect their response.
Julian smiled a little. Bobby pursed his lips and shrugged. Anastasia sighed heavily, Not this again. Her shoulders sagged, and I got the feeling she had long resigned to dealing with criminal types, or maybe had been involved in something illegal herself. She said, “Once, I would have looked down my nose at you.” Another heavy sigh. “Are you still in that life?”
“Retired,” Blondie said sharply, defensively, and couldn't keep a subtle hint of regret from her gorgeous face.
“Wait a minute,” Julian said. He sat up straight. I was surprised that he was a couple inches taller than my six-one. “Razor and Blondie. The Razor and Blondie?”
“Umm?” Anastasia looked at Julian quizzically.
He looked at her. “These guys are legends in the darker realms of the Internet.” He actually blushed with shame under her stare before looking back to us. Cleared his throat. “Criminals. You guys filmed your crimes and police chases and created an online show called Criminals, right?”
He looked like a kid meeting celebrities, and I couldn't help myself from smiling. I haven't enjoyed the feeling of infamy in some time. “Guilty,” I said. Blondie gave a pretty smile of pride. I had to restrain my hand from pinching her boob.