The Paladin Book 1 Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Friday

November 19th

“Booker!” Mr. Miller called out, slamming one of his coding textbooks on the desk next to my head. I sat bolt upright and whipped my head around like I was expecting gunfire.

“What the fu-” I started before being cut off by the bell, marking the beginning of the class.

“Class just started and you’re already asleep. Pull it together,” he ordered before making his way back to the head of the class. I grumbled to myself and planted my head back on my desk, eyelids so heavy that felt like lead sinkers were tied to them. It had become very clear to me that going out on a Thursday night was a bad idea, especially when combating armed men into the wee hours. To explain it simply, I’m a superhero, at least that’s why I identify as. I have no powers, and what I’m doing isn’t exactly legal, so I suppose you could call me a vigilante and you wouldn’t be the first. In my off hours, when I wasn’t forgetting there was a vocab quiz in French class or waiting in line to be served food like products for lunch from angry middle aged women in hairnets, you could typically find me laying some hurt on some of Tar City’s least savory characters, of which there were plenty. Yet, even though I was pretty good at it (at least I thought I was), I still received the odd ass kicking from time to time. Last night was one of those times. My arms were achy from smacking around a local gangbanger, and my spine was sore from when said gangbanger’s friend responded, in kind, with a Louisville Slugger. To top that off, I had a brutal migraine from lack of sleep. Thankfully, the day was nearly over for me. I had AP Computer Engineering and Software last, which was about as enjoyable as school could get for me, so there was light at the end of the tunnel.

“Long night?” A voice asked from behind. It was a girl. This could be bad. I could deal with the injury and fatigue, but hallucinating was really going to bum me out. My curiosity got the better of me. I raised my head and craned my head around towards where the voice was coming from. She was new, that was the first thing I noticed. Either that or we’d actually been going to school together for years and I didn’t recognize her, both were distinct possibilities. Based on her look and how she carried herself, my guess was she was a sophomore like me. She was a petite girl, probably not much north of five feet; with waves of flowing black hair, tied up in a loose bun atop her head, cocked to one side as she analyzed me in much the same way I was her with amber eyes that caught the light like copper ingots. Whoever she was, I was intrigued. Sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the nebbish nerds of the AP Computer Engineering and Software class, she seemed to be making an effort to start a conversation.

“Yeah, something like that,” I confirmed, barely having the energy to sustain an answer. Her smile nearly blinded me with pearly white teeth.

“School problems?” she guessed. I scoffed. At that moment, school was not at the top of my list of worries. Getting shot by a .45 was ranked a little higher, though pre-calculus was more likely to kill me.

“No, no school problems,” I assured her. She analyzed me further, before making her second guess.

“Girl problems?" she guessed again, raising an eyebrow presumptuously.

“No, I don’t have girl problems,” I replied, getting a little defensive. You’d need a girl to have girl problems. I put down my head again, giving up on the conversation.

“Boy problems? I don’t judge," she prodded once more.

“No! And who are you exactly? Why are you so curious?” I demanded. The door closed and Mr. Miller walked in with the attendance clipboard in hand.

“Ah, Booker, I see you have already met our new student. I hope you’re giving her a nice Tar City welcome,” Mr. Miller brought up. Isn’t a Tar City Welcome what they call when you shake someone’s hand with your left and stab them with your right? “Class this is Alicia Romero. She just transferred in from Greenhold. How are you enjoying Tar City so far?" he introduced, putting his new student on the spot. Her name was so familiar but somehow I couldn’t place it. Maybe she’s related to someone I know. It was starting to bother me, but I ignored it and continued listening for clues.

“I love it so far. It’s so beautiful and the people here have been so nice to me, I just hope it’ll continue to be this great,” she answered. The way she said it was so disingenuous, it was a challenge not to either gag or snicker. What city are you living in? I stifled my laugh and class continued as usual. I assumed my previous position, planting my head back onto the desk, which in hindsight was a big mistake.

“Booker! I want you to show her the ropes, okay? Tell her the rules and such of the computer lab,” Mr. Miller instructed. I groaned to myself a little, peeling my face off of the cheap faux wood desktop which it had adhered to. It’d been a long day and the last thing I wanted was a girl asking me if it's okay to bring Starbucks into the computer lab. I pulled myself up from my seat and motioned her to follow half-heartedly.

“How much do you know about computers?” I asked, pointing to the rows of desktops.

“Enough to know that those things are junk that some business donated to get a tax write off,” she scoffed. I looked back, raising an eyebrow. The nerve of you.

“Alright, don’t get too big for your britches, new girl. I personally helped Mr. Miller retrofit these bad boys. The monitors aren’t pretty, but the processors are up to snuff, and the ram is overclocked,” I assured. She wasn’t impressed. Instead, pulling out her own personal laptop from her backpack. It was nice. Really nice. Like computer technician or professional gamer nice. Rough estimate? Around three thousand dollars. I was no Sherlock Holmes but I could piece together that this girl had money to throw around.

“If it's all the same to you, I’ll use my own. Any obscure rules I need to know about?” she asked.

“Yeah. A few of these guys have never spoken to a woman before aside from teachers and their mothers. So odds are, if you do talk to one of them you might trigger an asthma attack,” I joked initially, beginning to pace around the room with Alicia not far behind me. “If you look to your left, you’ll see Richie in the corner there. He kinda fancies himself a Don Juan, unfortunately. So feel free to destroy his confidence for all of our enjoyment,” I explained, nodding towards Richie in the corner.

“Thanks for the tip. What about you Booker? I’m already intrigued by the name. You don’t meet too many Bookers these days.” she inquired.

“A unique name for a unique boy,” I replied.

“Did your mom tell you that?” she countered.

“Maybe,” I answered defensively. She snickered.

“So where does the name come from?” she asked.

“Well, you see, my parents are incredibly cruel people. You know the Johnny Cash song ‘A Boy Named Sue’?” I asked, with a preloaded joke in mind, not considering that not everyone shared my grandfather’s the same obsession with the Man in Black

“Can’t say I have,” she answered honestly. Damn.

“Well there’s a boy and his name is Sue…” I started to summarize before realizing how long it might take. “The kid’s dad gives him a stupid name so he has to grow up tough. You know that joke works a lot better with people who know the song,” I made clear. She stifled a giggle. The truth behind my name was that my grandfather, ever the music fan, suggested it after listening to some Booker Little. My mom loved the name and decided then and there that was going to be my name, meanwhile my father had precisely no say in the matter.

“Seems like you might need some fresh material then, maybe something from the last decade?” she suggested.

“That shit kills with the over forty crowd,” I assured. She furrowed her brow a little as if she was studying me, as one might look at a textbook. It was subtle but it still made me uncomfortable.

“So where do you fit into this class? You don’t seem to fit the profile you glamorously described,” she stated. I chuckled. It was true. I had at least rudimentary social skills, which was more than I could say for quite a few members of the class. Though one could argue that having an arsenal of medieval weapons used to fight crime was a lot nerdier than whatever was going on in the tech lab, and you would have a strong argument.

“Guess I’m one of a kind.”

“Can’t argue that,” she confirmed with a slight smirk. “Well… as fascinating as your tour has been, I think I’ll get to the computer engineering part of the class if that's alright with you? Figure I’ve got a lot of work to catch up on.”

“Your call, I was just getting to the good stuff though. The pencil sharpener and hand sanitizer are really something,” I joked, gesturing towards the aforementioned items in the back right corner.

“Thanks for the offer, but I’ll take a pass,” she replied.

“By the way, if you need any help, just ask me or Mr. Miller. I’ve got nothing better to do and Mr. Miller is a cool enough dude,” I offered.

“Thanks, Booker. I will," she confirmed with a smile as she headed back to her seat. Suddenly, I felt an arm wrap around my shoulder and someone lean against it.

“Bro, new girl is hot as hell, right?” he pointed out.

“Yeah… sure,” I replied, looking at his arm with a raised eyebrow.

“Don’t worry, though, I respect the rules. You got the first dibs on her, but don’t be mad if I come in for round two,” Richie made clear. I did my best to hide a grin and nodded in agreement.

“You know what, Richie, that's all you,” I assured, distancing myself from another awkward conversation about boundaries.

The rest of the day went by pretty quickly. However, as soon as the bell rang, I was out of the building. I’d made it a habit to not spend any more time than was needed in school, and that day was no exception. Heading for the door, I danced through the crowd of students, packed together like sardines. Finally, outside, I made a bee-line from the north exit onto Main street which fed into Tar City Plaza, where my job just so happened to be. Contrary to what one might believe, being a superhero wasn’t cheap. Maintaining my armor, weapon making, ammo replacements, and first aid were all bills that needed to be paid somehow, and the way to pay it was Hansel’s Hardware. The job wasn’t terrible. It paid minimum wage, I never got too tired from work, and I was allowed to buy all the defective hardware at a massive discount. To the average employee, the perk of getting scrapped hardware and unused materials didn’t seem like that much of a win. But for a guy who knows a bit about power tools and goes through steel like most people go through paper towels, it was incredibly beneficial.

After going through my typical routine, saying hi to Hansel Sr. in the back and checking in with Hansel Jr. at the front for any news, I grabbed a coffee from the breakroom and sweetened the crap out of it with about four sugar packets, then finally made my way over to my booth. Despite the perks, it was still a boring gig. The vast majority of my time was spent planning my night while I doodled behind the counter. I typically went out on patrol around nine PM and was back at the house around one AM, so I needed to be smart with my time. I was going to start at the South Side of town, where I lived, move through the low-income housing district along to the East Side, where the local businesses were set up and middle class families lived. Afterwards, I would move up to the North Side, check around the Delworth Dam, and the upper class neighborhoods where just about nothing ever happened. Eventually, I’d move down to midtown, see if there were any white-collars scoring coke or picking up pros and shake them down for info. Then I would end in the West Side around the docks and see if there were any drunken idiots trying to start something. Unfortunately, I couldn’t cover all of Tar City in one night. But I knew where a few hotspots were so it was never too hard to find trouble, it was ending it that was the hard part. Suddenly, the service desk bell rang.

“Welcome to Hansel’s Hardware, where we make hardware easy, how can I help you?” I asked before even lifting my head up from my desk. I looked up to see Alicia, from earlier, accompanied by a tall, imposing man in a three piece suit worth more than your average car. The resemblance was pretty strong so I was going out on a limb and assuming that it was her father.

“I am looking for some fiber optic wiring and was wondering if you could help me find it. Also, a staple gun, and soldering irons,” the man began, as more of a statement than a request.

“Hi Booker,” Alicia greeted with a wave. I looked at the man’s face and had an epiphany which hit me like a freight train.

“You’re… You’re… Hi Alicia… I didn’t know your dad was Alexander Romero. Also hello Alicia’s dad, slash Mr. Romero… I’m… I’m Booker,” I stammered, so stunned by my realization that I didn’t notice I’d offered him a handshake. Alexander Romero was one of my all-time idols. Near billionaire owner of Tech-Sync, one of the largest tech firms in the world, with a multitude of patents to his name, patron of the arts, and a huge nerd. The guy was pretty much everything I hoped to be and more, and his first impression was of my stupid face guffawing at him. He shook my hand happily, with his famous multimillion-dollar smile accompanying it.

“You know this kid, Alicia?” Mr. Romero inquired.

“He was that boy I was telling you about from my Computer Engineering class. Booker, remember,” she reminded. His expression shifted to a grin in recognition. Wait, I realized, I was telling you about earlier? That’s intriguing.

“Oh yeah, that’s right. Alicia says you’re a nice kid and that you were really helpful,” Mr. Romero remarked. My face got flushed, and despite the fact that I couldn’t see myself, I’d be willing to wager I looked like I was about to faint.

“I do what I can,” I answered, barely able to squeeze the words out.

“I can’t tell you how much it means to me, especially as someone who moved around a lot as a kid. To have someone welcome my daughter on the first day of school, in a new town, warms my heart. You grew up around here?” he asked.

“On the South Side, right along the Peat River,” I informed.

“No kidding? I grew up on the wrong side of the river too. Patricia’s Bakery just down the road, the stadium just over the water, good times. Anyway, back to the issue at hand. Alicia and I are setting up the family room back at the home front. I’m pretty sure I can do it all myself, yet this one seems to think I’m incapable. Forget the fact that I have master’s degrees in electrical, mechanical, and computer engineering,” Mr. Romero explained, looking back at Alicia as he put particular emphasis on his three different degrees. To be fair, if I had three master’s degrees I’d probably flaunt them as much as I could too.

“Dad, all I’m saying is that you should let a professional handle it. We’ve got the money, so why don’t you just let someone else deal with the hassle,” she pointed out.

“Because sometimes, as a man, you just have to do things with your own hands to prove you still can. It’s a guy thing. Think, The Old Man and The Sea,” Mr. Romero explained. Alicia shrugged, not understanding the reference. “Ernest Hemingway? One of the great American novels? Ringing any bells? Booker knows what I’m saying?” he elaborated, to no avail.

“I think I get where you’re going with this. Follow me,” I assured, at best vaguely understanding the reference from my Freshman year english class where I skimmed that particular book. I led him to the fiber optic wiring section in the far back, passing the cheaper stuff as I guessed money wasn’t his issue. “These are the best we sell at the store. Faster ethernet connection, little to no wavering, super durable and waterproof if you wanna run it outside. If you’re hardwiring, this is the way to go,” I informed.

“Would you use it?” he inquired.

“Say what?”

“Would you use it on your own setup? Do you use this type of cable or did you special order another type? Alicia told me you were good with technology, so I am wondering about your opinion? As a fan of computers,” he clarified.

“It would be a waste of money for me, sir. Using a hundred dollar ethernet cable on a three hundred dollar computer is a bit… Well, it’d be like putting spinners on my dad’s old Crown Vic,” I explained.

“Three hundred bucks?”

“The build quality is much higher than that. I bought broken parts off the web and repaired them myself. I’d estimate it at around a nine hundred dollar build if I got all the parts unused. It bugs out occasionally, the screen has a few little cracks, and the tower is basically a metal box I made. But overall it’s a solid rig, no complaints. I actually managed to get this great graphics card off of some guy a couple of weeks ago, the only problem was the fans were broken so I-” I rambled, getting lost in my story.

“Oh no,” Mr. Romero interrupted, halting my jabbering with his hand. “How much do you make around here? Per hour?”

“Minimum?” I answered, my voice going falsetto, not knowing how best to respond.

“You seem like a good kid, Booker. And equally important, you know your stuff when it comes to technology, which I appreciate. Do you want an interview at Tech-Sync? An internship opened up recently, nothing crazy, just simple things. Grabbing coffee, writing down notes, communicating with my secretary, that sort of thing. But if you get the job you’d be working with me personally, and that, Booker, can open doors in the future,” he offered. If running around as a superhero hadn’t improved my cardio, I might have had a heart attack on the spot. “If you get the job, starting salary would be about twenty-five an hour, plus we have a fantastic healthcare package, and select employees get complimentary beta versions of our newest platforms. The V3’s are hitting the market this New Year’s, so you’d be getting your hands on some pretty nice tech. What do you say, champ? Beats minimum wage in a hardware store, doesn’t it?” he added. I opened my mouth to respond but couldn’t find the words. “I’ll let you think about it. Stop by the office on Monday. Top floor; tell my receptionist, Suzy, that you and I have an appointment. We can talk about your options,” he assured. He looked back at the ethernet cables and his newly acquired soldering kit and gave a nod of approval. “Appreciate the help, Booker. Hope to see you on Monday.”

“Bye, Booker,” Alicia farewelled, leaving me with a palpitating heart and a lot of confusion.

By the time I walked through the back door, my parents had already set the dinner table and were just about to serve the food. My younger twin siblings Marian and Blake, seated, forks in hand, waiting for dinner to be served. My dad sat at the head of the table with the day’s newspaper, fingering through the pages, as my mom sat next to him. She looks pretty pissed that I’m late for dinner, either that, or she’s practicing her scowl.

“Where have you been all day? Eight o’clock is family dinner. All I ask is that my kids be at the table at the same time once a week, yet for some reason that is too much for everyone to handle," she ranted, starting in on her usual late-for-dinner diatribe. Guess it’s the former. I sighed, taking my seat at the table while trying to not let her speech ruin my good mood.

“I’m sorry Mom. I had to stay late at work cause I dipped out early last time. Some cool news though. I met Alexander Romero today. His daughter is in my tech class and they came into Hansel’s looking for some ethernet cable and a soldering kit. Pretty cool, right?” I shared with a large grin on my face. My dad gave a skeptical look as he put down his newspaper. Blake, who was as into technology as I was, gawked at the notion.

“What was he like? What did you talk about? Did you nerd out? Please don’t say you nerded out,” he shot off in rapid succession.

“Wow, you guys are so cool,” Marian mocked.

“Shut up,” Blake retorted.

“At least our role model actually makes a difference in the world. Who are you idolizing these days? Someone I don’t give a shit about?” I countered.

“Really Booker?” my mom sighed.

“Crap, someone I don’t give a crap about?” I corrected. My dad simply scoffed at the first part of my rebuttal, a telltale sign of his disapproval. Though I had a feeling it wasn’t my language that he was disapproving.

“What is it now Dad? Get on my case for not being productive with my life, but when I’m talking to a fortune five hundred technology mogul somehow you have a problem with that, too. I’m shocked,” I dug in, picking up the same scowl my mom was wearing earlier. My dad had an innate ability to push my buttons without even speaking. I think that was his superpower.

“I knew Alexander when I was a kid. Did you know that? He was a troublemaker then and he’s trouble now. Look at what happened with his branch in Greenhold. The cops down there say he’s violating some serious laws; insider trading, tax evasion, spying on his customers, hacking other companies, intimidating witnesses. Stop me when you find something redeeming about him, Book, cause I sure as hell can’t.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me, Dad. First of all, they dropped all the charges, which typically means he wasn’t guilty, no? Secondly, those were just B.S. charges that somebody tried to slap on him to bring down his company. And third, working for Tech-Sync has been a dream of mine for years, and for some reason, you can’t be happy about it. Why?” I countered.

“Bill, be happy for him. Booker, stop antagonizing your father. For once, can we just have a nice family dinner without you two at each other's throats? Christ Almighty it's like a dogfight every time we eat together,” my mom protested.

“Hold on Lisa, this is important. I don’t want our son getting intimate with the wrong types of people,” my dad made clear. I laughed sardonically. Of course he managed to find something to criticize about my life. He always did.

“Oh, I wanna hear this one,” I retorted. He put up his pointer finger, the way he does when he interrogates perps.

“Booker, I’ve been on the force for twenty years, okay? I’ve seen this type of thing happen time and time again. They bust the right guy, but the prosecutor can’t come through. Sometimes it's not about guilt, son. It's about who can afford the best lawyer.”

“If it's an imperfect system, why do you enforce it, dad? Hmm? Seems a little hypocritical to work for a system when you disagree with it.” I’d hit him with a good one, but it wasn’t the first time I’d pointed this out. He had his response locked and loaded.

“It may be an imperfect system, Booker, but it’s the best one we have. Would you rather us live without rules, just like animals? Cause that is what it would be without the law Booker.”

“How about this for a theory, dad? You’re jealous that a kid from Tar City managed to make something of himself. You’re jealous that he made it out and now he’s rich and successful and you’re still stuck here. Does that sound about right?”

“I don’t need to be rich, son. I have integrity. And I do good work, which is a lot more than I can say for Romero and Tech-Sync. I don’t want you messing around with him. Period. If I hear about you talking with him again, I’ll ground your ass until you graduate. Capiche?”

“Well, you’ll be glad to know he offered me an interview at Tech-Sync. I think I’ll take him up on it.” With that, I grabbed my plate of food and stormed off up the stairs. My mom threw her hands up in exasperation.

“Over my dead goddamn body, Booker!” my dad exclaimed as I walked off. There was an awkward pause at the dinner table.

“Great mashed potatoes mom. Do I taste a hint of garlic?” Blake asked, trying to change the subject. My dad threw down his napkin in a huff and got up from his seat to follow me. My mom halted his movement with a look.

“Kids, you can eat in your rooms,” my mom informed. They didn’t need to be told twice, each grabbing their plates and running up the stairs. They knew an argument was coming. “Real nice work there, Bill.”

“Don’t give me that Lise, I’m just trying to make sure he doesn’t get involved with the wrong people. God knows, the last thing we need is him getting wrapped up in Alex Romero’s business,” my dad defended. She looked at him in disbelief.

“I get your intentions are good and I know you have a history with Alex. But you need to start thinking about this from Booker’s perspective. You were a detective, for Christ’s sake, it shouldn’t be too hard. Blake and Marian don’t know how deep in the hole we are, between the mortgage, the insurance payments, college loans, and the debt your father left. But Booker does. He gives half his paycheck every week to help us, voluntarily. We’ve never once had to worry about his grades or his extracurriculars or anything. After everything, he’s been a rock, and neither of us have ever given him credit for that.”

“Credit for it? What? Does he want a medal? You know my dad had me paying rent from the time I was thirteen, and if I wasn’t getting A’s in my classes he’d double it.”

“And you had such a healthy relationship with your father,” my mom countered. My dad sighed, rubbing his temples to alleviate some of the stress. He knew he was wrong, but that didn’t mean he wanted to admit it. “Booker’s just trying to help. And when a successful businessman offers him a job, he sees a possible solution to our problem as well as an opportunity for himself. So you need to swallow your pride and apologize. Otherwise, things could get a lot worse if he decides to act out, you remember what happened with Brandon,” she rationalized

“Yeah,” he agreed absently, as he thought about the rest of her words. She got up and started clearing the table as my dad sat mulling over the conversation while picking at his broccoli.

Suffice it to say, I was pretty pissed off. That day had been a roller coaster and not the fun kind. I needed to blow off some steam. I figured that if nothing else, beating the crap out of some asshole criminals would help remedy my mood. It didn’t take long for me to encounter some shady business going down on the ports. I was in the alleyway between two massive storage buildings when I came across a group of armed men unloading malnourished people by the container. There didn’t seem to be much of a pattern. Men, women, even some children. Different races, different builds. I wanted to charge in right then and there. That was the adrenaline talking. I couldn’t act recklessly, the last thing I wanted was a bullet to the back of the head. Like always I did a quick check of my equipment before I went in. Helmet, gauntlets, chestplate, greaves, all of them strapped on tightly. Sword and mace in their respective holster and scabbard. Shield collapsed on my arm. Throwing darts with stun gun circuits attached to deliver some extra damage. I used to use throwing knives cause I thought they looked way cooler but after several failed throws that left me looking like an idiot I opted for weighted darts. I proceeded down the alleyway and quickly slipped into a maze of shipping containers on the West Side docks. My best advantage was the element of surprise. At this point, there were about seven men, a few armed with baseball bats, chains or knives. The rest were armed with semi-auto pistols from M9’s to Glocks, and one of them packing a Remington 870 shotgun. Remington was going down first and hard. Buckshot and slugs were never fun, even with armor. The next priority would be neutralizing the pistols. After that, it was a cakewalk. I snuck closer and pressed myself against the closest container, biding my time, slowly edging my way closer. I was nearly on top of Remington when he noticed.

“What the hell!" he exclaimed pulling up the barrel of his gun. It was too late for him. Crack! I swept out his leg with a perfectly timed swing of the mace. Safe to say, his dreams of becoming a ballroom dancer had been dashed, then and there. I grabbed the shotgun by the pump, yanking him into an uppercut. Squelch! His nose fractured under my gauntlet and spurted blood like I’d taken a ball-peen to a tomato. He instantly dropped the shotgun and fell unconscious, his face immediately beginning to swell. I tossed the shotgun into the bay, extending my shield, quickly deflecting incoming pistol fire. BANG! The first shot rang. The rest were muted by the loudness of the first. I’m gonna have such bad tinnitus later in life. I sprinted towards the first gunner and smacked away his pistol. Crunch! His hand looked like shattered popsicle sticks inside a stretchy rubber ball. I wasn’t done there, sweeping his feet out from under him, sending him to the ground where a swift kick to the face awaited him. He moaned as he lay broken on the ground, clearly rethinking his decisions in life. Pistolero number two stepped up, only to get dropped by a dart that embedded itself in his hand after a well-placed throw.

“GAH!” he screamed in pain. After a couple of seconds of stumbling around, he received a violent electric shock which sent him to the ground. One of the baseball bat wielders stepped up to the plate with a home run swing, but I blocked it with the shield and knocked the wind out his gut with a harsh mace blow, then bashed him in the back of the head with my shield, knocking him unconscious. The last gunman unloaded his clip but I managed to roll out of the way of most of the shots and bring my shield up for the last couple, the 9mm rounds pinging of the hard steel aegis. When he was out he holstered his pistol and rushed me with a switchblade. Dumbass. He swung viciously with a downward slash but I intercepted with my off hand, seizing him by the wrist, and flipping him over my hip onto the hard concrete. WHAM! The mace found its mark straight between his legs, incapacitating him instantly with a whimper. Sirens blared and the last couple of guys saw what happened and ran off realizing there wasn’t much hope of winning. Before the rest came to, I zip tied them all up and ran off before the police came, deciding to carry one of the traffickers off with me.

I’m not typically a cruel guy, but from time to time I get pretty angry and vent my frustrations in a healthy way; work out, take a walk, that type of stuff. This wasn’t one of those times. At least I don’t think this was what psychologists would deem as healthy. I had the remaining human trafficker I had snagged from the crime scene strung up by his legs, dangling off of a five story tall fire escape in the South Side projects. The building was abandoned, so we had plenty of privacy, and it had a great interrogation ambiance. The zip ties I was using said extra heavy duty, two hundred and fifty pounds weight limit. For his sake hoped they weren’t lying. He was hanging face to face with me, his ankles zip tied to the guardrail above. I sat, sharpening my sword, waiting for him to come to. He woke up swinging, lurching forward to grab me with his uninjured hand. I dodged the pitiful flailing and calmed him down by pressing my sword to his throat.

“You should probably calm down or all the bloods gonna rush to your head and you’re gonna pass out before I even get to talk to you. And then we’ll have to do this all over again,” I warned. He stopped squirming, a look of terror on his face.

“What do you want, man? I don’t have money. Why do you think I’m shipping people? For the goddamn fun of it?" he demanded. Why were people always so rude in interrogations? I propped my feet up against the guardrail and leaned back, keeping the sword trained on his throat.

“Does this look like a shake down to you?” I countered.

“I don’t know!” he retorted.

“I don’t need your cash, or your life story. I just wanna know who’s the buyer? It’s that simple,” I assured. “If you're a good boy and tell me everything I might even treat you to some ice cream before your eight-year stretch. If I were you, I’d take that option. Partially because I like a good Rocky Road, mostly because, well, if I were gonna go to prison I’d like to go there in one piece. So what’ll it be?” I continued. He looked scared, genuinely frightened. I smirked under my helmet with pride. I’m getting pretty good at this.

“Look man, I don’t know anything. I just ship em’ I don’t know where they go, or what the freaks do with them when they’re done."

“Hmm,” I sighed looking down at my sword. It was pretty nice, I had to say. Forged it myself, three pounds of beautifully crafted high carbon spring steel, it hadn’t even gotten any use, yet. “What would you say is your least favorite part of your body: hand, foot, ear, peeper?” I asked, poking each region out with the tip of the blade.

“Okay, Jesus, I’m just the middleman. I don’t even do livestock most of the time, cept’ a couple of weeks ago the boss tells me we’re shipping these folks for big money. Some rich asshole needs em’ for something. I heard my boss worked out a deal to send the guy like twenty of ‘em a week, but they got to be high quality, you know, no diseases or nothin. Probably doing some freaky Eyes Wide Shut bullshit if you ask me.” Livestock? It took every ounce of restraint I could muster not to lay him out right then and there, but I still needed information.

“I don’t need speculation, I need names, addresses, you know, helpful shit.”

“Guy I work for’s name is Byron. British guy, real badass from across the pond, he owns Brick and Mortar down on Melrose. But it ain’t just a nightclub, it’s a front. Almost every Saturday night he’s got a separate party upstairs, crazy black market, drugs, weapons, IDs, hookers, you want something, you get it there. Odds are whoever you're looking for may show up there.” I sheathed the sword and exited down the fire escape. “What’re you doin’? I’m gonna get brain damage or something hanging like this!" he yelled.

“It’ll be negligible I’m sure. Cops will be here soon,” I assured. “Oh! Remind me when you’re out of prison that I owe you an ice cream,” I remembered as I walked out of earshot.