“The only ugly and stupid motherfuckers around here are you bastards.”
James glanced at the first douchebag. The Harriken still breathed, but the blood running down his head and his closed eyes proved he wouldn’t be getting up anytime soon.
It was his lucky day. He’d live to tell the epic story of how James Brownstone killed everyone else in the house.
“At least put up a fucking fight,” James grumbled.
He reached for the door. Locked. A keypad sat next to the door. He didn’t have time for this shit.
James snatched up the gurgling Harriken with both hands, holding him by his neck and hip.
“Huh, a good two hundred pounds, I’d say. Perfect. Time to get a little medieval on you guys.”
He swung the man back and then slammed him straight into the door. After a sickening crunch, the wood splintered and the man stopped gurgling.
Frowning, James eyed the body and then flipped the Harriken so he was feet-first. Three more blows knocked the door off one of its hinges, and a loud alarm screeched inside.
“Now we’re talking.” James tossed the body to the ground, ripped the door the rest of the way off, and tossed it onto the front lawn.
A half-dozen Harriken enforcers stood inside the foyer with their swords drawn. Anger radiated from their faces.
Irritation flared in James. He didn’t want them angry. He wanted them afraid.
“You assholes are going to have to up your game if you want to win,” James yelled. “But if you get on your knees and beg Leeroy’s forgiveness, maybe I’ll kill you quickly. Otherwise, no guarantees.”
“Who the fuck is Leeroy?” one of the men yelled.
He slumped to the ground a second later, one of James’ knives embedded in his throat. The surviving Harriken hissed and stepped back. The attack had come so fast they’d barely had time to register it before their friend lay dying in a pool of his own blood and arrogance.
The shrill alarm cut out, but no more reinforcements arrived. A dark laugh escaped the bounty hunter’s mouth. The idiots thought they could hold him in the front.
James looked each man in the eye in turn. “Leeroy was the fucking dog you murdered, you sons of bitches!”
At least the Harriken were bright enough not to charge him one at a time. He’d give them credit for that. Three rushed him from the front, while two circled on opposite sides.
James didn’t wait around to get stabbed. He unleashed two more throwing knives, nailing the would-be backstabbers.
Each flanker collapsed with a moan and a knife embedded in their hearts. They weren’t dead yet, but they soon would be.
James leapt back, dodging sword strikes from two of the men in front. A quick feint by the bounty hunter left the third man exposed, and James’ foot was happy to take advantage of the opportunity. The Harriken sailed through the room until he smashed halfway through a wall.
The remaining two killers exchanged glances and swallowed.
“Good,” James said. “Glad to see you’re finally afraid. Keep in mind that I haven’t even pulled a gun yet, fuckers.”
He charged again, narrowly ducking a blade, and a rising uppercut sent his attacker into the ceiling. The Harriken’s head bent nearly to a right angle and his neck snapped with a loud crunch, then the body fell to the ground with a thud. The collision decorated the ceiling with a dent. James had to admire the strength of the building materials in this home.
He wondered if it had ever been on HGTV? He’d seen a lot of interesting houses on various Home and Garden Television shows.
The other Harriken broke for the stairs. A pussy didn’t deserve a respectful death. James whipped out his .45 and put three tightly-clustered rounds into the fucker’s back. His victim screamed and collapsed, then rolled down the stairs. His sword clattered and fell through the slats of the bannister to the floor. It embedded itself tip-first.
“Someone come out here and try and pull the sword from the floor,” James bellowed. “Maybe you’ll become King of all Los Angeles.”
Yelling and murmuring in English and Japanese reached his ears from both upstairs and from behind a reinforced door he spotted on the other side of the living room. He presumed it led to a basement, which was probably where the gangsters kept everything important. His gaze shifted between the stairs and the door.
The guys upstairs had nowhere to go, but there was a chance that the Harriken had escape tunnels downstairs. If he left his back open, he might end up flanked by the enemy on both sides. Part of being a badass was not being a dumbass.
Movement from above caught his attention. Several more Harriken rushed to the landing on the stairs, this time with pistols out instead of swords. His enemy had made the decision for him.
“Kill that oni fucker!” screamed one of the men.
James dove toward a connected dining room as bullets pelted the ground where he’d been seconds before. Soon they pierced the wall all around him.
He took a few deep breaths as his heart pounded. He didn’t regret not going all-out when he’d equipped himself. Killing all the Harriken without every possible advantage was his way of showing contempt to the enemy who’d murdered his dog.
James readied his weapon and then darted sideways, exposing himself for only a second as he pulled the trigger of his .45 several times. Three Harriken fell to the ground, crimson stains blossoming on their chests. An enemy bullet grazed his chest, and he hissed at the pain.
Who gives a fuck? Leeroy had felt a lot more pain than this.
Loud shots echoed as the Harriken unloaded their magazines. Plaster and wood exploded from the wall, filling the room with dust and coating James. It mingled with the blood splatters already on him.
The gunfire stopped. James listened, but couldn’t make out the murmuring. A familiar slap and metallic click sounded from upstairs.
Well, shit.
Someone had upgraded to something able to spew a lot more bullets. James rushed to the other side of the room as a hail of bullets destroyed what was left of his make-shift fortification.
His quick dodge not only saved his life, but gave him the location of a Harriken shooting an AK. James didn’t pause for a second, instead pivoting and rushing toward the opening. The Harriken perforated the wall, realizing too late that their target had decided on full offense.
A bullet between the eyes brought down Captain AK. James didn’t even try to dodge as he gunned down the rest of the shooters. Dead bodies littered the stairs and the ground now. Pools of blood were starting to merge into lakes.
Not done yet. Not done at all.
James ejected his empty magazine and slipped in a new one. Fire blossomed in his shoulder with the movement. He’d taken a round to the shoulder. He snorted in derision.
The bodies now littering the stairs were probably the men who’d been on the second floor, but James couldn’t take any chances. After retrieving his knives he bounded up the stairs, dodging through the bodies like some sort of twisted obstacle course.
Several doors lay open. A quick sweep revealed only beds and a room with a huge TV and couches. Comfy.
One door at the end of a hallway remained closed. James raised his gun and emptied his entire magazine into the door. He swapped mags and crept toward the door, looking for shadows blocking the holes.
Movement caught his eye, and James sprinted forward. A powerful kick sent the door sailing off his hinges and a screaming Harriken charged him, not with a wakizashi but with a katana.
This fool must have been higher-ranking, since he wasn’t in a suit but a man’s red kimono. His hair was up in a topknot, and anger blazed in his eyes.
Again, not what James wanted.
James snapped his .45 up, blocking the blade, and the clang of metal on metal rang through the hall. The man recovered far quicker than any of the guards had, slashing at his opponent again in the blink of an eye.
A quick dodge saved James’ neck. He tried to squeeze off a round, but the gun jammed.
Red Samurai gave a feral grin, thinking he had the upper hand.
With a scream, he charged at James and swung his blade. James pivoted to the Harriken’s side as he grabbed his K-Bar in one fluid movement. Red Samurai tried to match his movement, only to get a knife jammed into his throat for his trouble.
James let go of the knife and the man slumped to the ground, his eyes wide.
The bounty hunter sneered at the dying man. “’Don’t take a knife to a gunfight.’ They don’t say shit about taking one to a swordfight.”
James picked up the jammed .45 and stuck it in a holster. He had another couple of pistols if he needed them. After yanking the K-Bar out of the man’s throat, he cleaned it on the guy’s kimono.
Two levels clear. One basement to go.
10
Shay’s initial plan had been to do a quick recon of the house; just a simple drive-by to check out the number of guards out front. That plan ended the second she spotted the two downed Harriken guards near the front of the house. The broken and cracked front door lying on the lawn made it clear that Brownstone had already begun his revenge assault.
“Subtle,” Shay muttered.
Still, she could admire the direct approach. Killing someone should be an up-close and personal affair. If you didn’t get a little blood on you, you were being a pussy.
Of course, charging in the front door was its own special form of moronic. A smarter play would have been to go around the back or climb up the side for a second-story entry. Strolling in the entrance went past moronic to downright insane.
At least for most men. Brownstone had proven once again that he wasn’t like most men. Not even close.
During the entire drive over, Shay had kept trying to tell herself that it wasn’t her business. It had nothing to do with field archaeology. Nothing to do with her.
Still, somehow she’d convinced herself to drive halfway across town to attack Harriken headquarters and help avenge the murder of the dog of a guy she didn’t even like that much.
Plus, the fucker didn’t even seem to find her hot.
You better damn well be gay, Brownstone.
Frustrating didn’t even begin to describe the situation. Idiotically frustrating, maybe.
“What the hell am I doing?” Shay ran her hands through her dark hair and sighed.
Brownstone was already inside, and the angry fool might need her help. If she didn’t help him out, the next person who ended up in a shallow grave might be her. The Harriken might go after all the bounty hunter’s associates.
The assholes had murdered a dog. It wasn’t like she could be assured that there was no photo of her standing beside her recent partner. The Harriken were thorough when they felt they had been disrespected.
Self-preservation served as a nice excuse for Shay to help. It was time to get involved.
Shay parked along the street and rolled her window down. She waited for thirty seconds, listening for the sounds of closing sirens. She didn’t want to tangle with a deploying SWAT team. Shooting at criminal scum was one thing, pissing off the authorities quite another.
The last thing she needed was for anyone to go digging into her past. She’d worked too hard to escape it.
Not even a hint of approaching cops reached her ears. Even the nearest cars sounded far away.
It was just a nice, quiet little neighborhood street where a man was engaged in the bloody revenge-fueled massacre of a ruthless criminal gang.
If that didn’t scream AMERICA!, nothing did.
The neighbors probably knew not to get involved in Harriken business, and the cops might have been paid to look the other way. In either event, the circumstances granted her what she needed most: time to check things out.
Taking a look inside didn’t mean she was committing to dying to pull Brownstone out of his own shit.
After a quick pat of her holster and sheath, Shay threw the car door open and stepped outside.
“I’m as stupid as Brownstone,” she muttered to herself, drawing her gun. “Not even gonna make any money off this shit.”
Shay rushed toward the house in a zigzag pattern. Assuming the entire enemy force had been completely devastated might get her killed. For all she knew, Brownstone was bleeding out inside, and a Harriken sniper was aiming down his sights and waiting for reinforcements to pick off. Helpful reinforcements like her.
The frustrated field archaeologist’s arrival at the front door remained uncontested. No sniper blew her head off.
Nice night so far.
The front door more closely resembled a front hole. Two Harriken enforcers lay on the ground. One man’s head hung at an unnatural angle, and his head and face were smashed in from what looked like extreme blunt-force trauma.
Shay eyed the body with clinical detachment, wondering if Brownstone’s punches could do that kind of damage. Whether or not they could, the even and wide bruising patterns didn’t support that theory. Something else had killed the man.
What kind of weapon did you use, Brownstone? Did you show up with a shovel or something?
Killing the men with the shovel he had used to bury his dog would be poetic. And badass.
Her gaze traveled to the hole and then to the cracked and bloodstained door lying on the lawn. Her eyes widened.
No, not a shovel.
“What the fuck?” Shay whispered.
Did you seriously use a guy as a battering ram, Brownstone? I don’t know if I’m impressed or fucking terrified. Guess a little of both.
The other bloodied man’s face remained intact, which was probably why he could still let out a quiet moan. The tomb raider jerked her gun toward the man, but quickly realized he wasn’t a threat. His mangled buddy would need a closed-casket funeral.
Shay squatted next to the guy and considered her options. Taking him out would be easy enough, but she sensed that Brownstone wanted the guy alive for some reason. There was no way the bounty hunter wouldn’t have finished the Harriken off otherwise. Brownstone had broken down a door using a man’s body. Restraint in the application of violence didn’t seem to be one of his virtues.
Gonna interrogate this bastard later, Brownstone? Is that the idea? Should have pinned a note on his back so I didn’t waste my time.
The Harriken moaned again.
“It’s either your lucky day,” Shay began, “or the worst fucking day of your life. Guess you’ll find out later.” She kicked him hard in the head to knock him out again.
A charnel house awaited Shay inside. Bodies littered the crimson-soaked floor and stairs and blood dripped a slow and steady beat to the floor from some of the corpses on the stairs, a metronome of carnage. One poor fucker was half-embedded in the wall like some bizarre wall decoration.
Salvador Dali meets Ed Gein.
“Jesus, Brownstone. How did you even get him through there?” she wondered aloud.
No pity pricked her heart for the dead Harriken. They’d pissed off the wrong man, and now they were paying the price. Any halfway decent criminal organization knew who to poke and who to leave alone. She hoped whoever was responsible for Harriken intelligence was lying in this room or on the stairs.
Organized crime was like any other business. Cost and benefit needed to balance, and the executive committee meeting on this fuckup was something she would pay big money to listen to.
Shay swept the room and a few other connected rooms, her gun ready, but spotted no active enemies. She headed back into the front room. The walls on the opposite side were perforated with dozens of jagged holes, some small, some large.
It’s a goddamn warzone.
The treasure hunter took a few steps forward, looking down at the bodies on the floor. She didn’t lower her gun. One surprise Harriken ambush and she could end up dead.
Shay furrowed her brow and thought about every piece of evidence she’d seen so far.
Let’s see... No shell casings outside. The guards’ guns hadn’t even been drawn, which meant they hadn’t shot. Brownstone must
have walked right up, and they had probably talked some shit back and forth. Didn’t use anything but his hands, most likely.
The big guy entered through the front after bashing it open with a Harriken guy’s body. Killed these guys on the floor. No gun, all knives and fists. Damn could that guy hit hard. What the hell was he?
Shay blinked and looked up at the large dent in the ceiling.
Seriously, Brownstone? How did you hit a guy all the way up there?
The fight in Peru had taken place in too small a space and over too short a time span for her to witness Brownstone’s true strength. She exhaled slowly, glad that the guy seemed calm most of the time. She could only imagine what would happen if he decided to go from being merely an asshole to a murderous asshole.
Shay’s focus shifted back and forth between the bodies and the bullet-riddled walls. Brownstone had obviously used the walls for cover. She doubted the shooters had engaged him until after the first wave of men had died at his hands.
That made sense. The Harriken must have banked on the men on the first floor outnumbering their enemy, but sometimes quantity didn’t have a quality all its own.
Shay didn’t spot any throwing knives in the stair bodies. Large holes marked the bodies, mostly around the chest. She walked to the bottom of the stairs and rolled one of the bodies over. Smaller entry wound in the front, bigger exit wound in the back—she’d seen that before.
So Brownstone took cover behind the swiss cheese walls of death there and started taking these guys out…with what? Probably a large-caliber pistol with hollow-points. So this wasn’t just defense; he wanted to make sure he took the guys down. Definitely not trying to take a lot of prisoners. Also meant that Brownstone didn’t think he was going to have to shoot through a lot of walls.
Shay chewed on that thought for a few seconds. Brownstone had assaulted the headquarters, motivated by vengeance. He might have wanted to see his enemies die in front of him.
Feared By Hell: The Revelations of Oriceran (The Unbelievable Mr. Brownstone Book 1) Page 9