Street Justice: Book 2 of the Justice Series

by Trevor Shand

  Johnny dropped the gun and his hands went to his neck. He withdraw the blade then looked from it to Steve. Steve was leaning crumpled on the counter, a plume of crimson spreading across his shirt. Johnny’s vision darkened and his grip weakened. The knife suddenly seemed to weigh an enormous amount. A sickening drowning feeling filled his chest, as blood from his severed carotid artery bled into the now open trachea. Johnny tried to scramble upright, to swim his way out of a liquid he was not submerged in. Then everything went black.

  “You know you should still be in the hospital, right?” asked Adrian.

  “No, no, you’re not getting out of your bet that easy,” Steve replied. The two men sat in Kelly’s, one of Steve’s favorite hole in the wall bars. The small rectangular room had a few chairs and tables scattered on the left side of the room. In the back corner was a small stage and a hallway leading to bathrooms. On the right side, where Adrian and Steve now sat, was a long bar made of dark wood. The front windows were boarded over other than a six inch slit in the top, where sunlight lost a losing battle to brighten the dark interior.

  “I am not trying to get out of anything. I will pay my debt, we could just do it when you are more fully rested,” Adrian said.

  “No way. I know you, you’d claim you have a case or the time wasn’t right. We’re both on leave right now, you have no excuse,” Steve countered. He gave the waiter a small wave then held up two fingers indicating Adrian and himself. Steve was a regular and the bartender knew the usual, a tall draft beer and a shot of cheap, warm, rail bourbon.

  “Steve, you’re still bleeding, how many times in a day do you have to change that bandage?” Adrian indicated to Steve’s left shoulder, where Johnny’s bullet had struck him, as the bartender arrived with their drinks. Adrian continued, “And aren’t you on antibiotics? You’re not supposed to drink while on antibiotics.”

  “An old wives tales. Terviseks,” Steve raised his shot glass. To Adrian’s credit he too raised his glass.

  “Fine, heck, maybe your injuries will make you weaker, limiting your ability to drink. Maybe this will hurt a bit less,” Adrian conceded.

  “You can always dream,” Steve said. After a few minutes of silence and a few sips of beer Steve said, “Too bad what happened with Russ and Mario.”

  “I think they’ll do okay. My office is doing everything they can to let the judge and prosecutor know they helped us. We got their supplier in New York, a direct line back to terrorists in Afghanistan, so Sam is happy.”

  “Yeah, but I can’t help but think that we failed them,” Steve lamented.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, Russ came back to the States just looking for a job but no one would hire him. What the army prepared him for has very little practical application. Everyone wants to say they support the troops, but where are they when it is time to give an ex-soldier a job? Yeah, you’re going to have to give them a bit of training but they deserve it. Instead, it’s easier to slap a sticker on your bumper and dismiss them when hiring them might hurt the bottom line.”

  “Yeah,” Adrian said, “And Carl’s still out there, slinging his wares and running the corner we helped clear out for him.”

  “Yup,” Steve agreed.

  “What are you going to do?” Adrian asked rhetorically.

  Steve brightened up, “What are we going to do? Have another round.” Steve indicated another round to the bartended our started lining up shots and beers.

  “But we haven’t finished these,” Adrian said, indicating their half full beers.

  “Then you’d better get moving,” Steve replied as he lifted his beer and downed the rest.

  “This is gonna hurt,” Adrian said, following suit.