INHUMANUM: A THRILLER (Law of Retaliation Book 1)

by Bradley Ernst

  Bonn nodded to buy time. BMX held the pistol down to his side and watched the car. Bonn slid out the baton and held it collapsed in his fist like a kubaton. “I always wanted to meet Gerry Cooney. That who gonna roll down the window and show me the briefcase full-a-money?” The car slowed, then stopped at the curb.

  An old Toronado.

  “Problem is—that there? That there’s my boss.” Bonn felt an impact on his back. He spun as he swung the weapon, crushing the dealer’s temple with the steel base of the baton, then flicked the weapon fully open.

  He got cut when he turned.

  The knife didn’t penetrate deeply into the vest, but the back of his arm stung and felt wet. A shot rang out.

  BMX. Point blank.

  The boy looked confused as Bonn swung the baton. He took the blow to his jaw, and peered up at him from the ground. Bonn kicked away the pistol and swung the baton again, destroying the sentry’s trachea. A shotgun blast made Bonn’s ears ring.

  That was a much greater impact than the pistol round. Guess the vest works.

  Backup pumped a fresh round into the chamber. Bonn dropped and rolled toward him. He held his breath and squeezed his eyes shut as he emptied the can of OC into Backup’s face, rolled, and pulled the karambit. As the doors of the Oldsmobile swung open, he registered shouting despite the ringing in his ears. Bonn unzipped Backup’s abdomen with the knife. Reflexively, the man brought his hands from his stinging eyes to protect his core. Bonn spun the knife by the ring on the end of the handle and sunk it into Backup’s ear.

  He had tunnel vision. That couldn’t happen right now.

  Tunnel vision would get him killed for certain. Someone just got out of that car.

  Run.

  Bonn ran. He heard gunfire but didn’t feel any impacts. He heard footsteps of people as they took chase. Though disoriented, he sped up.

  How many gunshots had there been?

  He squeezed his right fist, then felt his groin and hips for blood as he sprinted. His right arm was drenched in blood. It was hard to tell where else he might be hurt. Risking a glance back, he saw that two people chased him—two men, but they weren’t gaining on him.

  They didn’t appear to be athletes. Time to take stock.

  The OC spray was behind him in the street. No prints would be found on it. He still had the karambit. In fact, he had been running with the poisoned blade. He slowed, re-sheathed the knife, and felt for the revolver, then ran even faster to increase the distance while he planned his next move.

  He still had the gun, but the baton was gone. That wouldn’t do.

  That level of ineptitude would get him caught. It was bad practice. He ran past a group of guys with red shirts and white shorts. They laughed at Bonn until they saw who chased him—then they ducked into a doorway.

  Next hood over—as good a place as any.

  Bonn stopped in the street and turned. The men closed on him slowly.

  Flagging after only a few hundred meters? Weak effort.

  Bonn pulled the .357. He stood broadside to the men as they approached and concentrated on his breathing.

  He’d be ready when they got there—all he had to do was aim true.

  He cocked the hammer on the revolver and relaxed his right arm along his side. With a deep breath, he crouched. The men cartwheeled in on worn-out legs and burning lungs. The faster of the two brought up his pistol as he slowed.

  They didn’t expect the revolver.

  Bonn shot him in the brain through his frontal sinus cavity. The second man was a few yards behind. He understood too late that Bonn was armed. Fatigued, unable to control his forward momentum, he slid as though he’d stolen third base. As his sneakers caught on the pavement, he began to tumble. He dropped his weapon. The gun skittered past Bonn as he fired two quick shots into the man’s torso.

  Breathe.

  He picked up the thug’s ball cap and put another bullet in his head. Bonn pulled the hat onto his own head in a fluid motion, tossed the .357 on the ground next to the owner of the hat, and picked up the dead man’s submachine gun to check the chamber, then the magazine. He flicked the selector from “full-auto” to “three-shot burst” and engaged the safety.

  It was sloppy, but it was done. Now he’d go back for the baton.

  As Bonn walked, he listened for sirens. Hearing none, he approached the scene confidently.

  Just another curious thug.

  He pulled the Yankees hat low. A large woman knelt over Backup’s body. She didn’t seem to notice him.

  The baton should be close.

  People hung out of windows. Some held cell-phones. Others brought their dinner plates with them.

  They must not have cable.

  The large woman began to wail.

  There. The baton.

  Bonn retrieved the stick from the gutter and walked to the Toronado.

  The car was still running.

  After a quick sweep of the interior with the submachine gun, Bonn got in the Oldsmobile and pulled the stick to “D.” At a light he felt dizzy and short of breath. He fastened his seatbelt and dialed Ryker’s cellphone.

  “Can you meet me in the garage? I’ve lost some blood. Yes. If it is something we can fix ourselves, I would prefer that.”

  ~Modus Operandi

  Terrence threw Stella a glance.

  She’d heard it too.

  It was the first “morning think tank” of any worth. The Brownsville case was well presented. A ton of witnesses, but none of the accounts matched. The detectives on the case gave a synopsis over the speakerphone.

  “One woman swore she saw a policeman shooting up the neighborhood. When asked why she thought he was a policeman, she had said, ‘Cause he was white.’ No one came forward who could identify the man.”

  Drug deal gone bad? Doubtful.

  “One witness swore there were many white guys rampaging through the block just east of Pitkin. Some wore baseball caps, some wore sweatshirts. They all ran like hell. The way the guy worked the neighborhood over is confusing …” The detective took a demoralized breath. “One victim took a blow to the temple. Another was doused with OC spray, disemboweled, then stabbed in the brain. He had a cardiac glycoside in his system. Lethal dose of it. Don’t ask me which one. One kid had a broken jaw and a fractured trachea—he’d apparently been riding a bicycle while attacked, or while on the attack—his prints were found on a pistol at the scene. Piece had been fired. He did manage to get a shot off—”

  Stella returned Terrence’s look. She leaned in to whisper, “I want that coroner’s report. We should compare it to the Central Park case.”

  “—the bullet from the bike-hoodlum’s gun hasn’t been found, but there was blood on the street that didn’t match the victims. Some of it on a knife. No local hospitals reported gunshot wounds or stabbing victims not otherwise accounted for.”

  Again. Stella leaned in. “Vest?”

  Terrence nodded. “Maybe.”

  Not our case, but maybe our guy.

  The detective cleared his throat and continued to report his findings in an increasingly dismal tone. “—and up the street two more men were shot. One a head shot from approximately thirty feet. Second one, double tap to the chest, one to the head. Looked to the CSI like the guy was down already when he was shot. Prints found on one gun on scene matched Martin Stone Slattern, aged twenty-eight. Long rap sheet. Martin was wanted for grand larceny and several counts of assault in Pennsylvania and New Jersey, but that lead didn’t pay off. I used ‘was’ because Martin was killed with something like an icepick on the subway a few weeks ago. His prints weren’t pristine, so someone likely took the gun from him on the subway—”

  Someone with gloves on.

  The trachea injury definitely reminded Terrence of the Central Park victims, but much of this was nonsense.

  Why would you poison someone by disemboweling them? If you can disembowel someone, then stick a knife in his ear, why would you need poison? Why the overkill?

>   “—a can of OC spray was recovered. Surprise—no prints.”

  Sure a thug can get some gloves on, but in a drug deal gone bad, is a guy going to pull OC spray? No. He’s going to pull a gun. Is it likely that an armed kid chased someone down on a bicycle, shot but missed, then is taken out with a lead pipe to the trachea?

  Stella leaned in. She had found some gum and cracked it in his ear. “It’s a populated city, Ham—but the trachea thing? That’s a pattern.”

  Terrence hurried to his desk to make some calls. Stella rolled her chair close. She took a soda out of his cooler and droned on about kids’ names. Terrence was getting to know her.

  Sure, she filled the air with noise—mostly junk—but the woman came up with good leads while she did it.

  “Daniel?” Terrence looked at her quizzically. “For a boy, Ham. Daniel. I think it’s sweet. Traditional. Simple. Danny for short—what do you think?” Terrence nudged his cooler under the desk with a toe and pointed at the phone he held to his ear.

  “Ringing—Stella, how is ‘Danny’ any shorter than ‘Daniel?’ They both have two syllables.” Estelle frowned. She tapped her finger at the air, ostensibly to count syllables. Suddenly she jabbed at the telephone, disconnecting the call.

  “If this is our guy and Brownsville’s guy, he’s a very busy guy. Let’s assume it is him—what’s the body count including Slattern?”

  “Including Slattern? Sixteen.”

  “That’s what I got too. After you talk to the guys at seventy-third, let’s get something to eat, Ham. Something mild. I’m tired of you always asking about my bowel habits. It’s getting creepy.”

  ~High Art

  Exercise helped Bonn think. He needed the burn. The ache—the stretch. It cleared his mind. He jumped rope, worked with the Mook Yan Jong, and swung kettle bells. He felt strong but remained troubled. The shot in the park was low. Though it had been a week, Bonn still needed to know why. Yes, it killed Alpha, but the neck shot was not his point of aim.

  What was perfection?

  Musashi knew better than he did. He looked to the mosaic. He willed the legend in the boat to talk to him.

  What would he say? One has to find limits to surpass them? Perhaps, learning from failure negates the failure itself?

  He doubted the master would go that easy on him. Bonn had lost sleep over the neck shot. He should be reviewing the events in Brownsville—only dumb luck got him through that night—but to Bonn, events were linear. He couldn’t move forward until he understood the low shot in Sheep Meadow. He put down the kettle bell and padded to the machine shop. He sat before a CNC machine and turned it on. He’d already pored over the rifle. It was pristine. He’d studied the brass. Earlier, he’d pulled and studied the primers from each empty cartridge, but he still couldn’t explain the low shot. With the tap of a few buttons, the expensive device began to carve a perfect looking bullet out of the alloy bar stock.

  Since human error was out of the equation, was the alloy to blame?

  The bullet was done. Bonn placed it on a small digital scale.

  406.22 grains. That was it—the bar stock.

  Bonn felt relieved. He reset the machine and cut another one.

  405.75 grains. No wonder. At subsonic speeds, the weight differences mattered. Even at short ranges.

  He had calculated bullet drop based on 402 grains. Bonn clenched the two projectiles in his hand and made his way back to the gym. Musashi remained in the boat—forever carving an imperfect wooden sword from an imperfect oar. The carving knife he used was—imperfect.

  Maybe guns weren’t the way to go.

  Musashi always made do with what was at hand. He had used his mind to win battles before they were fought. His lack of convention was what made him a legend. Bonn thought about the rifle. It was close to perfect. He’d succeeded in building an (unconventional) conventional weapon. Bonn ran his fingertips over the wound on his arm and allowed his thoughts to fall into their natural places.

  Surprise was more important than perfection. Precision was good, but artistry was better.

  Bonn reviewed his many mistakes in Brownsville. It seemed a laundry-list.

  Under-armored and under-gunned … he let people get behind him. He had to set the terms. Do something more meaningful … would the world be a better place because he killed five dealers? No. They were already replaced.

  Bonn decided to go back to Brownsville. He’d bring surprises. He’d pick his fights better.

  He’d hone his art.

  ~Everything That Comes After

  Henna waited in the green hallway to see Forsythe’s boss. His avoidant and long-suffering act was lost on her. She wanted to see some action. She’d gone through the trouble of making an appointment, but the time of that appointment was now long past. Henna felt her ears become hot as she became angrier. Finally the door opened. A slight-shouldered elderly man with a shock of unruly white hair shuffled out and turned to close and lock the office behind him.

  “Deputy Chief Constable Abernathy?” The man peered at Henna over the tops of his bifocals, then looked down at his big gold watch.

  “Yes, lass. Late for an appointment—Maxwell is it?”

  “Late, indeed. For my appointment.” Henna glared at her own watch. “Over an hour late—you can stuff the attempt to dismiss me and refer to me as ‘Doctor Maxwell.’ Give me five minutes. We’re both busy people.”

  Actually, Henna skipped a rung in the chain of command. Forsythe’s direct supervisor was on vacation. He wouldn’t finish his African Elephant photo safari for another week. Henna couldn’t wait another week. She needed to see the men that hurt Stephen and murdered his friends behind bars. Abernathy’s head turned as red as his nose. He smelled of alcohol. Since he couldn’t quickly find a way to escape her, he turned back to the door he’d just locked. His jaundiced fingers fiddled with the keys until he had the door open again. Henna found the man repulsive. His liver appeared to be the only organ in his considerable abdomen. Henna followed Abernathy into his office. It was as she expected: big desk, crystal decanter. Expensive wood.

  At his pay grade it should be nice.

  There weren’t windows in the room, however.

  Abernathy’s boss would certainly have windows. And probably a decanter, since Abernathy got away with having one.

  She immediately disliked the man. Deputy Chief Constable Abernathy gripped the edge of his large wooden desk to ease himself into his comfortable chair. Once planted, however, his mild countenance changed. “I heard some talk about you meddling with an ongoing investigation, and I want to hear your thoughts, Doctor Maxwell. Why would that seem prudent, or even practical, for such a busy scholar?”

  Asshole.

  “I’d be happy to expound, but I’m not inclined to use my time that way. Tell me about the barriers to appropriate arrests when there are known and identified murderers free in the city. Don’t underestimate my resources or resolve, Mr. Abernathy. You may see a girl, but I know some people that may impress you and my temper is short. Consider this a motivational courtesy call.” Abernathy was unprepared for the challenge. He’d not been challenged by anyone in years. Henna gave him a moment to process things, but his eyes didn’t seem focused, so she pressed on. “This is when you tell me why no arrests have been made and we talk about action. Chief Superintendent Forsythe was forthcoming about these murderers. They’re connected to someone important. Who? Your boss is out photographing elephants. He’s been out of the country since the attack on the cabaret. I doubt he took a moment between epic dust bath and watering hole shots to jaunt over and tell Forsythe to drag his feet, so you must have … Why?” Abernathy looked vacant. Henna seethed. “Forsythe was a gentleman, but he wasn’t at the hospital to interview victims. He was there to canvas for friends and family who might cause trouble, because someone—perhaps you—told him to.”

  Abernathy glanced longingly at the decanter with the lovely burning elixir inside. He hadn’t had a drink in a half hour now. The co
mfortable film protecting him from demands and decisions had become too thin. He operated better at a drink every fifteen minutes.

  Of course he’d ordered Forsythe to gather information and halt all arrests, but he didn’t know why. It came from up high.

  His job was to be a stern and punctual middleman. He was told what to say, what to order.

  He was, in fact, ordered what to order.

  “Ah, well—” Abernathy poured himself a drink. He skipped the part where he offered Henna one. That would make him an obvious target. “Ms.—” Abernathy winced and started over. “Doctor Maxwell …” He poured the fluid down his throat. The comfortable film returned. His tongue relaxed. It knew what to say without the brain.

  Add scotch, tongue helps brain. Repeat. It’d worked for years.

  “I’m certain you’re very important indeed, although I myself have never heard of you. I’ve no doubt but that you are acquainted with important intellects of all kinds who are ready to storm the castle in their petition for justice. In due time, that very justice will be had—certain investigations take more time than others—to determine how to proceed with measures such as arrests. I’d humbly ask that you give our system the time it needs to—”

  He was stuck on a word. To what? To cover up the decimation of a group of drag queens? To allow criminals to escape? To hide? To literally strike again? The blood on those hammers was dry a week ago. Perhaps a sip would help? Ah, there.

  “To digest this tragedy and pick the correct course in assuring that the correct people are brought to the fore to answer for it.” The pesky girl’s ears shone red, so mad she appeared nearly on fire.

  The anger was lovely on her. Show us your tits, lass.

  “Digest?” The scholar pinched her earlobes and twitched. “How long does it typically take a ‘system’ to correctly digest, cleanse, gather the fortitude to take the appropriate action, Mr. Abernathy?”

  The film was back—just then. What a relief.