The house’s motion sensors were calibrated to not set off the alarm when they detected something dog-sized, but they still would record the movement in the system log.
James kept his gun up as he pulled out his phone to check his alarm status. According to the control app the alarm was still active, which meant whoever had broken into his house wasn’t some garden-variety punk. They had the skills to spoof the alarm signal. The tech wasn’t exactly NSA-quality, but it wasn’t some shitty gear he’d grabbed from a guy downtown either.
Some fuckers needed to learn respect. He let a lot of shit slide, but invading his home was definitely on his “get your head kicked into your ass” list. James pocketed his phone and grunted.
He continued with his sweep. There were no threats in the hallway, bathroom, or living room.
“What the fuck?”
His irritation flared into incandescent rage as James stepped into the dining room. His heart thundered, and he let out a low growl.
Leeroy—but not Leeroy.
“I...will...fucking...kill...you…all,” he ground out, each word thunder to the lightning his eyes threatened to fling.
His black lab lay butchered on a large silver serving tray in the dining room. James trembled with rage as he stepped forward. His gaze focused on a series of kanji characters on the plate. He recognized them immediately: Harriken.
Fucking animals. The bastard gangsters had murdered his dog and had the fucking balls to all but leave a goddamn signed confession.
James slipped his pistol back into his holster and took several deep breaths. He hadn’t cried since he was a child, and he wouldn’t start now. He ran his hands through his hair, his stomach tightening.
Leeroy was dead. His best friend had been murdered.
“They’ll pay, Leeroy. Every last one of those fuckers will pay. I swear to GOD they will!”
James spun on his heel and marched to the basement door. Unlike the simple locks on most of his doors, the steel-reinforced door to the basement was sealed with both tumbler- and key-based physical locks, in addition to a palm scanner. A thick coat of dust indicated the Harriken hadn’t tried to enter the basement, arguably the only important area in his whole house. That made sense. They’d come to deliver a single bloody message. No other room had been disturbed.
Too bad. James liked the idea of some Harriken getting taken out by his traps. The door couldn’t easily be kicked in, and if the locks weren’t disabled, any intruder would have to be bulletproof and then some.
James grabbed his keys from his pocket and went to work. He threw his hand on the palm scanner.
The seething cauldron of rage stomped down into the basement where the tools of his trade were carefully stacked on labeled shelves or hanging on the walls: electronics, melee weapons, pistols, rifles, explosives, and magical items, among other things—almost everything a man might need when he was hunting down some heavily armed or magical target.
James hadn’t bothered to restrict it to legal equipment, either. It was a one-stop shop for a man when he needed to get complicated. If he didn’t have it here, he had it in the warehouse.
KISS.
That was what he liked to do, but the Harriken had apparently decided they wanted things complicated, even after he’d been forgiving enough not to snap their two enforcers in half. They’d picked a fight they hadn’t needed to pick, so now it was time for KIBACS: keep it bloody and complicated, stupid.
James cracked his knuckles. “You shouldn’t have fucked with my dog. I hope you enjoy your short-assed lives.”
James crept into the church, residual reverence dulling his rage only a small amount. Guilt didn’t gnaw at him for what he was about to do to the Harriken, but you always respected a man in his own house—and a church was God’s house.
The nave was empty. Candles lined the area, casting their flickering light all around and producing sinister shadows. They seemed to James like portents of the bloody rage-storm about to be unleashed in the city.
James marched over to the confessional, slid open the door, and stepped inside. He took a few deep breaths. No priest would approve of what he was about to say, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t say it.
“It’s been a few days, child,” said the familiar Jersey-accented voice of Father McCartney from the other side of the screen.
“Bless me father, for I’m about to sin,” James rumbled. “A lot.”
“Mankind is fallen. We are destined to sin. It is through our Lord’s sacrifice that we find forgiveness and repentance.” The priest let out a faint sigh. “So what is to be the nature of your transgression, child?”
James didn’t hesitate. “Killing, and lots of it.”
“But the Lord orders us to abide his commandments, including ‘Thou shalt not kill.’”
“Depending on the translation, isn’t it, ‘Thou shalt not murder?’”
Father McCartney chucked. “A theologian now, are we, child? Okay, let me ask you this: do you intend to kill in self-defense?”
“No,” James admitted. “I intend to kill them in vengeance.”
“Then I think most would view what you plan as murder. Is there nothing I can say to dissuade you from the path of blood you’re about to walk?”
“I know it’s probably wrong, but that’s why I’m here,” the bounty hunter said. “But I also can’t let this go, Father. They’ve taken too much. They’ve gone too far.”
The memory of Leeroy’s desecrated body flashed in James’ mind. His hands curled into fists, and he sucked in a breath through his teeth.
“I see.” The priest’s seat creaked. “How many people do you intend to kill, then, to sate your vengeance?”
“All of them,” James spat through gritted teeth. “Every...last...one.”
“And how have these men wronged you, James, to bring such anger? What have they taken from you? Your job is important and you deal with darkness most of us will never know, but you don’t normally let your temper run away with you. It’s like my father used to tell me: don’t let someone live rent-free in your head.”
It wasn’t lost on James that Father McCartney had switched to using his actual name and dropped the all-wise priest act. That was what the priest always did when he started seriously worrying about the bounty hunter’s soul.
James dug his nails into his palms. “They killed Leeroy, Father.”
The bounty hunter held no illusions about his soul. Heaven wouldn’t take him, and Hell probably would be too scared to let him in.
“May the Lord have mercy,” Father McCartney exclaimed.
“On them?” James bellowed, shaking with rage. “They don’t deserve mercy.”
“No, James. On you. I’m sorry for your loss, and I understand what that dog meant to you. I also understand why you feel you must kill these men, but I need to ask you something. Let’s be straight now, James. Are these men innocents otherwise? Are you sure this wasn’t an accident? You already walk a thin line. Make sure you’re not about to cross it.”
James took several deep breaths. He lived his life with carefully cultivated and controlled anger, but in this case a true burning rage had pushed past all his limits. It took a lot of effort for him not to punch the confessional’s wall.
“Innocents? No. This was the Harriken. They butchered Leeroy and left him on a serving tray for me to find. They wanted me to know it was them. They think they are teaching me a lesson, so I’m going to return the fu—the favor.”
Father McCartney fell silent for a good five seconds before answering, “Then I will pray for their poor lost souls, for they have violated the Eleventh Commandment: ‘Thou shalt not kill a man’s best friend.’” The priest let out a weary sign, obviously troubled by the death about to be dealt but having trouble working up the will to stop it. “I will pray for your soul as well, James. Do what you have to, but remember that this world still needs you. Be careful.”
“Don’t worry, Father,” James replied, sliding the booth open
. “The only person who won’t die tonight is me.”
Shay pulled her bright-red Fiat Spider to the curb at Brownstone’s house. She wasn’t even sure why she’d bothered to come. Maybe some part of her wanted to confirm that the man was gay so she could explain why he hadn’t made any moves. Checking out his house would help her gather evidence.
On the other hand, if Brownstone wasn’t gay, he might make a pass at her in a more comfortable setting. Then she would have the satisfaction of knowing she was right about all men, including James Brownstone.
It’d help for Shay to get to know the bounty hunter better anyway. She didn’t have to, or even want to, be his friend, but it would help when working together on future jobs. The more in sync they were, the better the chance they’d both come out of it alive and richer.
Whatever the treasure hunter thought about James’ personality, she acknowledged that he was a first-class fearless ass-kicker and a good guy to have on your side in a fight. Warlocks weren’t normally so easily killed. If they were, the world be a lot safer.
Shay threw open her Fiat’s door and stepped out. She walked to Brownstone’s front door and knocked several times. No answer. She repeated the process with no greater success.
“Are you even here?” Shay grumbled. That was what she got for not bothering to call ahead. For all she knew Brownstone was out drinking with Smite-Williams, or getting laid.
A light breeze blew, and a metallic scent reached her nose.
Shay’s heartrate increased, and she slid her gun out of her shoulder holster. It was always better to be overly cautious. She lacked the nose of a shifter, but she’d been around enough bloody messes to easily recognize even a faint whiff.
After a quick check of the nearby area, the treasure hunter splayed herself against the wall and made her way to the corner of the house. The breeze brought the smell, which suggested a source outside the house. The lack of an obvious body in the front told her the body she presumed she would find lay out back. She reached the corner and took a deep breath.
Gun raised, she whipped around the corner. No enemies or gunfire greeted her—only silence and an empty side yard.
Don’t be dead, Brownstone. No man who can kill three warlocks like that should get taken out like a bitch at his own house.
Careful steps brought her into the backyard.
A small cardboard cross caught Shay’s attention. It stood atop the disturbed soil of a freshly-dug grave, another sight she was distressingly familiar with.
Shay slipped her gun back into her holster and peered down at the grave. The cardboard wouldn’t last long, and the grave was too new. All signs pointed to a recent burial, if not that day.
“Leeroy” was the sole word on the cross.
The dog.
James had talked about him briefly during their time on the planes. It was one of the few times the guy had seemed normal to her; even pleasant. Another gust blew and the cardboard swayed in the wind, revealing more writing on the back.
“Remember,” Shay read. Kanji characters had been printed next to the English word. “Oh, shit.”
Shay didn’t know Japanese, but she did know the Japanese characters for Harriken.
“It’s got nothing to do with me,” Shay muttered to herself. “It’s not…” She sighed, her palm going to her forehead. “That’s just low, Harriken. Too damn low.”
Killing someone who had it coming was one thing. Hell, killing someone who didn’t have it coming but could at least defend themselves was justifiable—depending on the circumstances—but killing some poor dog who didn’t have a chance was over the line. The kind of men who did that had no limits.
The treasure hunter swallowed. She knew about people with no limits.
Shay knelt and found a large rock. She pulled out her knife and scratched Leeroy’s name, the current year, and “You will be avenged” underneath. She wished she knew what year the dog had been born so she could add it to the stone. Maybe she’d ask Brownstone the next time she saw him, if he’d not gotten himself killed already.
“Damn it.” Shay stood and walked back toward her Spider. Leeroy’s death had nothing to do with her, but that didn’t mean she was going to let Brownstone get himself killed. She had a pretty good idea where he would be partying that night.
A sick smirk grew on her face. The good thing about the Harriken being such arrogant douchebags was that they didn’t hide much. They didn’t think they had anything to fear. Anyone in Los Angeles with an ounce of street knowledge knew the location of their headquarters.
“Am I really going to do this?” Shay muttered to herself. She started the car. “Fuck it. I was bored anyway.” She slammed down the accelerator and peeled out.
9
James parked his truck several blocks away from the old two-story white Victorian the Harriken used as their local headquarters. He snorted—something about the house didn’t fit the band of murderous Japanese thugs. Maybe its aesthetic would fit them better once he painted over all that with their blood.
His gathered knowledge on the enemy amounted to exactly jack, with shit for actionable intel. He knew their typical enforcer strength and weapon choices, but he had no idea how many men might be inside the house or if they had access to heavier weapons or magic. Somehow that didn’t bother him, though. If the Harriken were actually badasses, they would have proven it already.
So far his personal encounters with them had involved them picking on a girl and a dog, so these fuckers came off as glorified bullies. They needed to learn the most important lesson: there was already somebody bigger out there.
Hell, he knew it. He wouldn’t be but a fucking snack to a large dragon.
James stepped onto the street and patted his holsters and pockets to confirm his loadout in the duster he’d swapped his leather jacket for. Multiple magazines, pistols, and knives: check. A frag grenade and a flashbang just in case: check.
It would be more than enough to clear out a house filled with sword- and pistol-wielding gangsters. The Harriken didn’t represent the kind of threat that called for magic or heavy explosives, let alone his necklace.
Besides, a vengeance run required a personal touch. Blowing the entire house up from outside wouldn’t be as satisfying as going through beating down or killing every single motherfucking dog-killing Harriken.
Despite what he’d told Father McCartney, James wasn’t sure if he was going to kill everyone in the house. Someone needed to survive, if only so they could pass along to others what happened when you fucked with something or someone the Granite Ghost cared about.
James grabbed some binoculars from the seat and examined the house and its surroundings. Two guards stood upfront, armed with wakizashis and pistols. Like the Harriken he’d seen before, they wore dark suits, but hints of their extensive tattoos peeked out on their necks and hands. Several security drones surveilled the area around the headquarters.
He didn’t care about the drones or the guards. They made his job easier. Stealth wasn’t on the menu. The Harriken needed to know he was coming. If they were aware that he was coming, they would be afraid.
Their fear might help him in the battle, but that wasn’t the point. Leeroy must have been plenty scared when they captured and killed him, and he would make the bastards feel the dog’s pain and fear tenfold. The Harriken would wet themselves before James sent them to Hell. Maybe the Devil would chop them up and feed them to dog demons.
James cracked his knuckles and stuck his hands in his pocket, then strolled down the street humming The Volga Boatman. He wasn’t sure why he chose that song. It just seemed like a good tune to kill a bunch of men to.
When he was a block out, the two guards frowned and glanced down at their watches before spinning his way. They probably had a feed from the security drones. Their hands dropped to their sword hilts, but they didn’t go for their guns.
Big mistake. They might have had a ghost of a chance if they’d opened fire on him immediately. James continued h
is casual stroll from the sidewalk to the path leading through the well-manicured lawn to the front door. The guards fixed their glares on him, but they hadn’t moved otherwise. The bounty hunter closed to a distance where they could have easily put a few rounds into him.
“Hey, assholes,” James rumbled. “Just to be clear, this is Harriken headquarters, right? I’d hate to waste my time busting up the wrong place.”
One of the guards spat. “You will leave now if you value your life, James Brownstone. You have already offended the Harriken. We would have thought our little message to you would have convinced you of the stupidity of opposing us, but now you come here and disrespect us again.”
“Yeah, about that...you really trying to tell me you’re super-badass because you murdered an innocent dog?” James inhaled and ran a hand over his bald head. “Because that strikes me as a pussy move, you stupid son of a bitch.”
The douchebags might have received a modicum of mercy if they had shown some remorse. Instead, they were doing everything they could to antagonize him more.
The Harriken snorted and spat again, this time at the bounty hunter’s feet. “You are one ugly piece of pork, Brownstone. I think you’ll look better after we carve you up.”
The two guards laughed and drew their swords.
Douchebag One pointed his sword at James. “You’re as stupid as that whiny little bitch of a dog we killed.”
The bounty hunter sighed. It was like the guys were begging him to kill them. Well, people should always get what they want, if not what they deserve.
James shot forward and slammed his fist into Douchebag One’s head. The Harriken sailed backward, crashing so hard into the door that the wood cracked.
Douchebag Two slashed with his blade, but the bounty hunter jerked to the side. The sword met nothing but air.
The Harriken tried to bring his blade back, but it was too late; James grabbed his hand and squeezed until the bones cracked. The man let out a scream, which was silenced by the bounty hunter’s elbow smashing his windpipe. He collapsed to the ground, gurgling and gasping for breath.
Feared By Hell: The Revelations of Oriceran (The Unbelievable Mr. Brownstone Book 1) Page 8