Vigilare

by James, Brooklyn

  VIGILARE

  Where One System Fails, Another Never Gives Up

  Brooklyn James

  www.brooklyn-james.com

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © 2011 by Brooklyn James

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Edited by Janet Kilgore

  Cover design by Steve Richey

  Text design and layout by Steve Richey

  Published by Arena Books, Austin, Texas

  First Edition—November 2011

  ISBN 1466402113

  ISBN 9781466402119

  NO PART OF THIS BOOK MAY BE REPRODUCED IN ANY FORM, BY PHOTOCOPYING OR BY ANY ELECTRONIC OR MECHANICAL MEANS, INCLUDING INFORMATION STORAGE OR RETRIEVAL SYSTEMS, WITHOUT PERMISSION IN WRITING FROM THE COPYRIGHT OWNER/AUTHOR.

  To Innocence Lost…

  Prologue

  Vigilare—to guard, to look out, to keep an eye on.

  Perched atop the tallest building in downtown Vanguard,

  Night has long since fallen.

  My eyes pierce through the darkness, spanning the city below,

  Is ‘this’ my calling?

  ‘This’ is what I do,

  I sit. I watch. I wait. But, I don’t know why.

  As autonomic as taking a breath, a divine assignment,

  Too compelling to defy.

  My sight, something unnatural,

  One’s thoughts are not safe from me.

  Take care evil ones,

  You’ll answer, eventually.

  I see everything,

  Some things so beautiful I replay them in my mind.

  While others so menacing,

  I sometimes wish these eyes of mine were blind.

  Who am I?

  My steps, quick and light.

  A ‘Vigilare,’ they tell me,

  I am the keeper of the night.

  Chapter 1

  NIGHT FALLS OVER Vanguard Park as darkness cascades the heart of the city. Fall foliage has begun, causing a colorful array of leaves to float through the air as they make their descent to the cool ground below. Dim pole lights provide those of the aerobic persuasion a set of eyes as they walk off this evening’s dinner.

  A woman jogs through the park at a casual pace, exchanging glances with the occasional passerby. She gives a wave to a group of Vanguard College students jogging at a healthy pace, determined to escape the ever-threatening Freshman Fifteen. But to the six-foot, sandy blonde-haired adonis with the six-pack abs and dimpled chin, she extends a smile, and a second look as her head naturally pivots behind her, curious as to whether the backside is as intriguing as the front. Scanning him from bottom to top, her face blushes coupled with quiet laughter as she meets his eyes, realizing he shares the same curiosity. His image disappearing from her sight as they continue in opposite directions. She is two-miles into her five-mile run as she veers off the beaten path onto a foreboding, unpopulated trail that leads to the forest surrounding the east side of the park.

  Stay on the main path, she hears her instinct kicking in. She ignores the warning, forging ahead.

  Her feet keep time with the upbeat rhythm of a song playing at a high volume in the earpieces of her MP3 Player. Her breath forms faint clouds of moisture in the air as she mouths the words, attempting to distract her thoughts. Her head darts from side to side, scanning the darkness, fighting a feeling of discomfort as she realizes she is alone on the trail.

  Oh, quit psyching yourself out already.

  She starts down a steep grade along the gravel path, picking up speed to push up the other side. Words once spoken to her in a distant self-defense class flood her memory, “Always be aware of your surroundings. Stay with the crowd.”

  Spontaneously, her legs move at a full sprint keeping pace with her thoughts. She veers off the gravel path, and with the finesse of a deer, she launches into the woods, ducking and diving until she reaches a small clearing.

  What the hell are you doing? Go back, she orders herself, her eyes wide and scared.

  Her stomach wound tight with nerves, she pulls the earpieces from her ears, her breath forming condensed mini-clouds, matching the strained rise and fall of her chest. Her heart knocks fast and furious at the little spot in the back of her throat.

  “Who’s out there?” she demands, spinning fast circles, her eyes peer into the darkness, searching every angle.

  Turn around. Go back. Run!

  Her body does not obey her mind. She stands still as if preparing for something. The trees overhead seem to encroach on her as her internal feeling of darkness mimics that of the night, black and wicked. She crouches defensively.

  “Well, what do we have here?” a male voice sounds behind her. She spins in his direction, backing away at the sight of the unruly man, flanked by two others smiling menacingly at her. The word CONGO tattooed and proudly displayed on the front of each man’s neck.

  The woman turns to run, only to be stopped by a swift arm around her waist. “Where are you going, sweetheart?” the voice purrs tauntingly in her ear from behind, sending chills to the depths of her bones. The man jerks her around to face their leader, shoving her in his direction. He crushes her torso in his arms while gripping her hands behind her back.

  Scream for help. Do something! Once again, her body will not obey. Instead she simply whispers, “Let me go.”

  The two men laugh, while the leader smiles looking down at her. “This is Congo Territory,” he says, while taking his free hand and pulling her hairband from her hair, allowing the auburn strands to fall around her face. “I run the Congo,” he adds, winding his hand in her hair. He jerks her head back exposing her neck. Her jugular vein throbs ferociously, ga-gung...ga-gung...ga-gung, matching her heart rate. She chokes back a cry as he runs his tongue the length of her neck, now hovering over her mouth. “Everything in the Congo belongs to me,” he teases with a smile before crushing her lips with his own.

  She meets his mouth with her teeth, biting down for all she’s worth as she knees him forcefully between his legs. He yelps, snapping his head back from hers, his lip tinged with blood as he falls to the ground cupping his insulted manhood. The woman turns to run but is intercepted by his two goons, who wrestle her to the cold, grassy soil.

  “Hold her down. Stupid bitch,” the man spews, spitting blood as he crawls to them, mounting her waist. She tries to kick and punch, but her attempts are muddled by his wingmen. One sits on her thighs, restraining her legs, as the other kneels at her head, her arms outstretched, his knees buried in each palm. The man sits atop her momentarily regaining his breath. He wipes at his mouth. Looking at the inside of his hand, he smiles disturbingly, winds up and blasts her across the face, leaving a smear of his blood along her cheekbone. The woman winces in pain, a quiet cry escapes her. “That’s your fault. I tried to be nice,” he taunts his hand harshly pulling at the waistband of her running pants, his skin in contact with hers. The woman’s body tenses, fear burns in her eyes. “Not so tough now, are we?” He smiles, the other men laugh, as he crouches over her, only inches separating his face from hers. “That’s the problem with you bitches. Always have to be put in your place.”

  Don’t do it. Don’t do it, she coaches before feeling her lips part, between them passes her own saliva, splatting onto the ugly, harsh face staring down at her. He sits upright, momentarily thrown off guard, swiping at his face. His teeth gritting together, his hand grips her neck, squeezing and shaking.

  “You like it rough, baby?” he jeers. The woman struggles against the men, faint coughs muted by the han
ds squeezed mercilessly around her neck. Her face red, her body exhausted finally lies limp. Her eyes are dark green and helpless, as tears roll from each corner trickling down her temples.

  “I’m gonna tear you up, then leave you to the wolves,” he says, leaving one hand on her neck and returning the other to the waistband of her running pants, pawing at the material. His wingmen tip their heads back and howl tauntingly. He bends his face to hers, the smell of his breath instantly making her nauseous. She purses her lips together, turning her head from him. He grabs a handful of her hair, yanking her head back into position, bearing down against her mouth with his teeth until he feels a warm spurt of blood.

  “Returning the favor,” he says, sitting upright he grabs at the belt buckle on his jeans, quickly unfastening it, positioning himself between her thighs.

  “Aw shit man, something ain’t right. This chick ain’t right,” the man at the woman’s head warns.

  The blood released from her lip feels cool and tingly, the same sensation surging through her entire body. From the tips of her fingers to the ends of her toes her form quivers, electrified and powerful. She lies still, confused, her heart pounding with renewed force, aware of every surge of life blood pumped through her. With each beat, she is sure the life sustaining organ will explode from her chest.

  What the hell is going on? What’s happening to me?

  Her eyes are wide and searching with intent, as if designed specifically to do so. She breathes deeply through her nose, unsure if she could ever acquire enough air to fill her seemingly supersized lungs. Every sound amplified times ten, her ears flood with stimulation.

  “Look at her eyes, bro!” the man at her head challenges.

  The leader, forcefully hunched between her thighs, does as instructed, leaning forward, unimpressed at first, until his eyes stare into hers. Hers, once complacent, now sparkle like emeralds. She tries to blink, closing her eyes from his. She cannot. They remain wide and steadily searching, as if someone willed them unable to close. The leader tries to look away, move, shut his eyes—something, anything to break the stare. He cannot. Propelled by a far greater force, he remains there, his eyes giving into hers. Images flash in her mind, reflections of the man and the things he has done. The eyes are the windows to the soul. His soul is evil.

  With the last image, they disengage. Her eyes close momentarily, releasing their hold on his. He flings himself off of her, staggering to his feet, wiping at his eyes, feeling as if the energy has drained from his body. The other two men follow suit, releasing her, quickly scrambling to their feet, backing away. Instinctively, she arches her back and springs to her feet, assuming a defensive martial arts position. Her hands in perfect form, suddenly aware of the power and lightness of her body, unsure of what to do with it exactly.

  “This chick thinks she’s Bruce-fuckin’-Lee!” the disbelieving wingman who held her feet pops off, waving his arms and hands around mockingly accompanied by nervous laughter.

  “Shut up, man. She ain’t right. Look at her!” the other wingman sputters, his head swiveling from side to side and behind him, in search of a clear getaway.

  “You scared? You gonna cry?” he jeers, quivering his lip condescendingly at his partner. “Man-up, pussy.” The leader remains quiet, shocked, simply staring at her in disbelief.

  “I ain’t scared of her. I ain’t scared of nothing,” the man replies, nervously manning up. Both wingmen pull out knives and lunge at her simultaneously.

  With unparalleled quickness and accuracy, she steps into the men grabbing each one by the wrist, pulling them toward her as she spins them around. Cradling their backs into her chest, she bears down against their hands as the knives meet the flesh of their necks. Whisht! The knives sound as she quickly draws them across their throats, finishing with her arms outstretched from her sides. In her hands, she still holds each man’s wrist. Their fingers give way to release the weapons as the life fades from their bodies. Her ears hone in on the faint sounds of the blood-tinged blades tumbling end over end, until they find stillness in the grass. Her attention immediately returns to the leader who has taken off in a full-fledged run. Her body moves effortlessly through time and space. Her mind feels disconnected as if she is outside herself looking in, but the speed, the rush, feels astounding. Within seconds she catches up with him, lurching forward she pins him to the ground, straddling him as he had her moments earlier.

  “Get off me, you crazy bitch!” he yells, his voice high-pitched. He swats, swings and kicks at her. Each attempt easily combatted, he finally stills, exhausted, his chest heaving up and down for air.

  “Not so tough now, are we?” she echoes his own words, a wry smile forming on her lips. Her hand clasps his neck, the way he had hers, applying firm pressure. “That’s the problem with you thugs. Always have to be put in your place.” She locks her sparkling emerald eyes on his, replaying all the images of his past, the havoc he wreaked in the lives of others. With each new reflection, she squeezes harder. The slideshow eventually extinguished, along with his breath.

  THE NEXT MORNING, Detective Gina DeLuca and her partner, Officer Sam Marks, are on duty at the Vanguard Police Department. They have been assigned a new patrol car, the department’s first Dodge Challenger Hemi.

  “Okay, who’s feeling frisky? A car chase, anyone?” Gina asks, her hands caressing the steering wheel with anticipation at how the vehicle might handle when they are not running their rudimentary patrol of the neighborhood—at a safe twenty-five miles per hour.

  “Did you see the look on Gronkowski’s face?” Officer Marks asks, smiling indulgently. “When Chief assigned the car to us this morning?”

  “Can you blame him? Look at that pile of metal he has to shove around on four wheels,” she says, referring to Detective Gronkowski’s old-school Pontiac Gran Prix.

  Officer Marks laughs. “Ah, he’s up next for renewal. Wonder what they’ll give him?”

  Gina smiles. “Maybe a Prius.”

  “A Prius?” he replies, chuckling. “And I thought you liked Gronkowski.”

  “I do. I just don’t want to fight over who’s first in anymore.”

  He shakes his head, grinning. “Why do you do this job?”

  She looks at him perplexed.

  “I just mean. Well…you’re kinda pretty. You don’t need to do a job like this. You got options, DeLuca.”

  “I like my job. And, by the way, don’t ever tell a woman she’s kinda pretty,” she replies through an easy smile. “Why do you do it?”

  “Good versus evil. Simple as that. I always wanted to be the good guy as a kid. Well, that and Erik Estrada. He looked so cool in those sunglasses,” he says with a charming grin.

  “Base to 223,” a voice calls over the radio.

  “Oh, please be a car chase. Come on, I dare ya,” Gina crosses her fingers.

  “Base, this is 223,” Officer Marks radios back.

  “Domestic dispute, the corner of Rio and 25th, possible weapon.”

  “We’re on it,” Officer Marks confirms.

  “We’re in the area, too,” a deep voice, that of Detective Tony Gronkowski comes over the airwaves. “We’ll take first in. Marks, you take backup.”

  Gina grabs the radio from Officer Marks. “Gronkowski, we got the call. We’re first in. You take backup.”

  “Drop the ego, DeLuca. Possible weapon. We’re first in,” Tony argues.

  “Ego? Look who’s talking,” she rolls her eyes, as if he can see her through the radio. “Tell you what, first car there, first in.” She hands the radio back to Officer Marks and slams the accelerator to the floor, talking nearly as fast as she is driving. “Why do I do this job? You’re right Marks, I do have options!” Her siren blaring, her speed steadily increases as she takes a ninety-degree corner barely on two wheels, throwing Officer Marks to the left. He grabs for the dash. She guns the engine, pulling the car out of its skid. The force pushes Officer Marks steadily back into his seat.

  “DeLuca. Gina,” Gronkow
ski calls from the radio.

  “Ah, she’s a little busy right now,” Officer Marks answers him nervously.

  “Marks, get DeLuca on the line. Now!”

  Gina continues down the street at break-neck speed, blasting through a yellow light, driving up onto the curb to avoid a bicyclist. A combination of roses, carnations and lilies from the flower shop on the corner fly onto the windshield and up over the hood of her cruiser before she gets it leveled back out onto the road. “I guess I do this job to get heckled by some boorish man who thinks I’m too delicate to be first in. Come on baby,” she strokes the dashboard of the car, coaxing it on.

  As they near the residence from which the 911 call was made, Gina turns the siren off, and pulls up to the curb cautiously, as she and Marks make a visual assessment of the scene. The rundown house sits surrounded by others of the same make and model. The front porch steps creak as they accept the weight of Gina and Officer Marks. They share an uneasy glance, both putting on supportive smiles as they approach the main entrance. Gina knocks authoritatively, but only a few times.

  “Vanguard PD. Detective DeLuca. Open up,” she identifies herself, her hand casually but purposefully resting on her gun belt.

  After a few moments, the front door opens slowly. Gina scans down from the open space behind the door until her eyes meet those of a child, trepidation written in her expression. A young girl, maybe six-years old, her curly brown hair disheveled and unkempt, steadily wringing one hand in the cotton fabric of her oversized T-shirt, while the other grips a telephone.

  “Hi,” Gina says, flashing a settling smile at the girl. “Are your parents home?”

  The girl’s eyes remain locked in on Gina’s, as tears form in them. “No,” she replies, as her head nods up and down, contradicting her words.