The Paladin Book 1 Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Saturday

November 20th

I had gotten home pretty late the night prior and I hit my bed like I was trying to give Sleeping Beauty a run for her money. My mom made me abundantly aware of that as she burst through my door.

“Eleven o’clock! Really Booker? How about you greet the day?” she insisted as she pulled up my window blinds, waking me from my sound sleep. I opened my eyes and the nearly noon sun beamed through my window and hit me like a hammer.

“Could you not?” I reflexively asked both the sun and my mom as I blocked my eyes from the light. Neither seemed to oblige. My mom walked out of the room without another word and that left me with one choice, get out of bed. I rolled over my twin sized mattress and threw a leg out like a fishing line, then with all my might forced myself up with a great heave. Alright, now I’m up. I had somehow forgotten the horrendous state of my room and how it looked like a bomb had gone off in it, but I was swiftly reminded of it as I started looking for something to wear. Clothes both clean and dirty had been strewn about on the floor, bureau and on my rolling chair. The desk where my computer sat was covered in last night’s (sometimes last week’s) homework assignments along with various sketch books filled with my ideas. These ideas ranged from new gadgets, armor designs, weapons and more. The walls were chaotic too, lined with trophies from wrestling, hockey, boxing, and even a medal in youth decathlon. My favorite trophy had to be a championship belt that I managed to win during a stint I worked for a pro wrestling company that sadly shut down. There was a bookshelf too, mostly filled with comic books and fantasy books but there were a few intellectual reads to make me look smarter than I was. The vast majority of my walls, however, were covered in posters. Posters ranging from Dungeons & Dragons, Vintage Superman, Pulp Fiction, Rocky, some local band posters, and my personal favorite, Admiral Ackbar in an Uncle Sam pose saying I Want You To Join The Rebel Alliance. After twirling around the room about four times I grabbed my cleanest looking pair of jeans, a wrinkled t-shirt and tossed on my pair of beat up boots. After that it was off to the forge.

While my house wasn’t much to look at, the plot of land it was on was pretty impressive given it was in the city and my parent’s lack of income. The truth was it was my grandfather's land, my dad’s dad. He bought the land when he moved to Tar City fifty years ago for a job. My grandfather and I always got along, regularly bonding over how annoying my dad could be. He was a historian who specialized in warfare and the one who initially taught me how to handle a sword (along with a few other things). Regaling to me stories of medieval knights and the code of Chivalry, I was awed by his seemingly limitless amount of knowledge. Anyway, he owned the land and helped me build a forge deep in the thickly wooded acreage surrounding our house that ended at the Peat river. It wasn’t fancy and didn’t have all the bells and whistles, but I made it work. Next to the forge was a shed where I kept all the completed weapons and armor. I never had to worry about people discovering my things because no one had any interest.

I sat on a bench near the forge with my extendable shield, repairing the bullet dings. The damage was minimal, and fixing them was more for aesthetics and personal pleasure than necessity. Heating up the titanium with a torch then flattening out the metal dings using a hammer was the best solution I found. My ears twitched at the sound of leaves crunching as I saw my dad walking towards me with a plastic bag in his hands. I was interested, albeit a little worried. He never came out to the forge. I dropped the shield and booted it off to the side so he wouldn’t see the bullet marks.

“Hey, dad, what’s up?” I asked. He smiled and took a seat next to me, placing his arm around my shoulder.

“Not much kiddo. Look, I’m sorry about last night. You gotta understand, I’m just trying to protect you. Even though it seems like I’m micromanaging… I really don’t mean to be an asshole. I only want what’s best for you, but I can see how I’ve been coming across lately. Lemme make it up to you,” he insisted.

“Okay… I guess,” I replied.

“Step one, I have a surprise for you. Remember how you always liked helping me solve cases back in the day?" he asked. I did. For a large part of my childhood and even a few of my teen years, I wanted to be a cop. One day, I didn’t and my dad took it pretty harshly. He unraveled the bag and inside I saw one of my throwing darts with blood on the tip. Oh shit, this is how it all ends. I looked at his face but his expression stayed the same; no disappointment, no anger. Just curiosity at the knife. “I know my knives. Shanks, cleavers, kitchen knives, switchblades, butterfly knives, bowie knives. Hell, I’ve even seen somebody stuck with an ice pick before. Can’t crack what this one is though. Looks like some kind of lawn dart. Can you help out your old man? You’re so much smarter than I am when it comes to this stuff,” he informed. I wonder why? “We got it from that vigilante that’s all over the news, the Paladin. Now Johnson and Quinn think it’s some sort of weird military knife, but I think that's bullshit.”

“It’s called a plumbata. It’s traditionally a lead weighted dart that they used to use all the way back in ancient Greek warfare. You should start with some custom knife shops and maybe some custom knife websites that deliver to Tar City,” I offered, subtly steering him off course.

“You know what type of steel it is? I made a bet with the new CSI boys down at the precinct, a hundred bucks said you can’t name the steel. So whaddya say, I’ll cut you in, fifty-fifty, and I’ll buy you a pizza,” my dad offered. It was a common bet the cops made, they’d all place money on how much I could identify based on looking at a piece of evidence. Typically weapon or metallurgy based. It felt awkward having the shoe on the other foot, being the person investigated, but hey, fifty bucks was fifty bucks.

“It’s hard steel, my guess from industrial tools or something, high carbon content probably. My guess is four twenty stainless.”

“These guys don’t stand a chance. I’m going to the precinct right now, you want to tag along? Johnson and Quinn said they miss you.” It was a little bit of a risk. A room full of detectives, most of whom were looking for me. It was also an amazing opportunity to see how much they knew. I’d have to take my chances.

“Yeah sure. I haven’t seen those two in years, plus you’re getting me a pizza,” I agreed. My dad smiled, patting me on the back.

“That’s my boy. Don’t tell your mother about the gambling thing. She’ll go ballistic and say I’m being a bad influence or something." I nodded and we headed off to the car.

I hadn’t been to the precinct in forever, yet, not much had changed. Lobby area in the front with two large double doors leading into a long hallway. The hallway fed into about ten different rooms, eventually leading into the bullpen. The only thing that had changed was that my dad was no longer in the bullpen, having his own small office now since making Sergeant after twenty years on the force. The first person I saw was Rosa, the receptionist, whose face lit up as I walked in with my dad. Rosa had been at the precinct for as long as I can remember and always treated me like one of her sons. When I was little, she would always ask me to help organize her office and then give me a lollipop as a reward. In hindsight, me helping her clean up was to keep me away from the crime scene photos that could be pretty brutal, but at the time I was blissfully ignorant and just thought I was a good organizer.

“Oh my God, Booker you’re so big now!" she exclaimed, getting up from her seat and giving me a warm hug.

“It’s great to see you, Rosa. How’s John doing? I haven’t seen him in a while,” I replied.

“He’s doing great, he’s at Midtown high, sophomore, like you. You should come by sometime, I’m sure he would love catching up with you," she insisted.

“All you need is Colt to reunite the trio,” my dad added. She smiled reminiscing about when Colt, Johnny and I were younger and inseparable.

“Yes, well did you hear about Colt starting up his second year at MIT? Very exciting, I always knew he was brilliant. Got that from his mother, what did Angie use to do again?” she inquired.

“Cell biology, botany, and pharmacology, or some combination like that. Big brain, not so big a heart,” my dad answered with a hint of bitterness.

“Bill!” Rosa chided

“What? The woman left my best friend and her kid high and dry. Can’t say I’m overly fond of her,” my dad pointed out.

“I know, and at such a young age too, right after Colt beat leukemia, horrible,” Rosa agreed.

“Yeah. I gotta get to work. This Paladin case is really kicking my ass, but hopefully Booker here will be able to shed some light on things,” my dad said, Don’t hold your breath. “Captain hasn’t said anything yet, has he?”

“Nope, all clear for now. Good luck Booker, hope you can help," she encouraged with a smile.

“Thanks, Rosa, I’ll try,” I replied. My dad and I made our way through the bullpen and headed to his small office in the corner. Waiting in his office were Johnson and Quinn, each holding a manila folder. Tobias ‘Toby’ Johnson was my dad’s old partner, who drew the short straw and was paired with then-rookie, Quinn. Eight years later, they got along pretty well actually. Johnson was a tall African American, mid-forties, and in good shape. He was my dad’s best friend on the force, so much so that my dad was his daughter’s godfather. Jennifer Quinn was practically the polar opposite. Caucasian, in her early thirties, at the time she became a detective she was the youngest one on the force. Although that was some ten years ago. From what I could see, the files they were holding looked like they were on my case, shit. Despite looking like characters from a bad buddy cop show, they were two of the best detectives on the force, which did not bode well for me.

“And here he comes; the human encyclopedia, the lady killer, the king of cool, Booker ‘The Bookworm’ Kelly! Haaa! Haaa!” Johnson bellowed, inserting his own cheers at the end while all of the other cops ignored him. Johnson had the tendency to do that every time I walked in the station. I think after the fifth time, everyone was over it, and we were well past the fifth time. The two walked up to me, giving a spine crushing, lung-busting, group hug that was as awkward as it sounds.

“Oh my God, you’re so big now Booker. I feel old. Please don’t grow anymore, I can’t take it. Just go back to the little squirt who wanted to be his dad’s deputy,” Quinn insisted. I blushed, that was one childhood memory I could have lived without having refreshed.

“That’s right! Sheriff Booker. I remember that phase. What happened? You were such a cute little guy, what happened?” Johnson recalled with an amused smile.

“Thanks, Jen, now it’ll be another two weeks before my dad stops referencing that,” I groaned. She smiled, reveling in the memory.

“So what did you say about the knife? Johnson and I had twenty bucks riding on that you would have the right steel and style. The new CSI guy said that there was no way you could guess the steel type,” she inquired.

“It’s four twenty stainless and it’s a plumbata, which is an ancient Roman military dart,” I recited. Johnson and Quinn knuckle bumped each other.

“Well, we might not have said Roman, but we did say it was military. Besides, that wasn’t the bet, so no loss there. Damn this kid is a ringer, just gotta wait for the CSI guy to show up with the report,” Johnson noted. As if on cue, the new CSI technician came in from his office, next to the police station. A middle-aged guy, somewhat paunchy with a receding hairline and glasses, clutched the results of what I assumed was his spectrometer test.

“This your ‘ringer’? All right hotshot, what did you think the steel was?" he asked somewhat tauntingly. I almost felt bad taking his victory away from the guy. Almost.

“Four twenty stainless steel, pretty standard for tools and small sharp blades,” I answered blatantly. His face narrowed and he looked back at his report twice before he outright scowled.

“Okay, how did he know that? Seriously, Johnson, Quinn, did you steal my file?” The CSI technician demanded.

“We were out here working. Just cough up the money and we’ll be square?” Johnson replied. Much to his chagrin, The CSI technician pulled out a wad of cash that Johnson allotted to my dad and Quinn.

“So as fun as this has been, Dad, I’m actually kinda curious about the case. You know, seeing how you guys are approaching solving it and stuff. I mean, hey, maybe I could help ID some weaponry or something,” I ployed. My dad looked ecstatic. I didn’t need to ask twice.

“You heard our special consultant, Quinn. Why don’t you bring him up to speed on what you can with the Paladin case while I brief Johnson on where I want you guys next?” my dad suggested. Quinn looked more than happy to oblige. She motioned me over to her desk and flipped open a file. It was pretty thin which was a relief, but I wasn’t out of the woods yet.

“So, from what we’ve seen of this guy over the past couple of months, he likes to attack up close. M.E. said the wounds on most of the victims were made by a club of some sort, along with these dart thingies-”

“Plumbata,” I filled in.

“Plumbata. As well as his good old fists and boot. This guy goes medieval on people, but so far hasn’t dropped a body yet. Though, with most cases like this, it typically escalates into murder. Physical descriptions are all over the place. Some guys say he’s a giant, others are saying he’s just an average Joe. The only thing we know is the perp was strong enough to pick up a hundred and seventy-pound man and throw him through solid drywall. Victims agree he is a Caucasian male, so that narrows it down to about a couple thousand suspects. He’s good too. Haven’t been able to find one bit of evidence on him. He even contaminated DNA samples with hydrogen peroxide. He’s a cut above, especially when compared to these other vigilantes,” she summarized. Club? It was a flanged mace, they were two distinctly different weapons.

“What’s the deal with these other vigilantes? Maybe they’re involved with this medieval guy?” I questioned, wanting to learn more about these new heroes.

“With the Paladin? I doubt it. We found a video floating around the internet, Morpho and Desperado are what they’re calling themselves,” Quinn started.

“Morpho?” I questioned.

“Type of butterfly,” Quin elaborated. And I thought the Paladin was questionable. “These guys barely got out of their last bust alive, and by the looks of it, left a hell of a lot of trace evidence behind. If the perps they were trying to bust hadn’t burned down the place they’d be locked up by now. I’m not worried though, if they screwed up this bad once it’s only a matter of time before they do it again.”

“Hmm.”

“So we figure the Paladin is probably former military, given how easily he takes these guys out, maybe a private contractor. Any thoughts, Sheriff Booker?"

“Wow, good one Quinn, ever thought of being a comedian instead of a detective?”

“I’ve thought about it, but I figure I’m not taken seriously enough as is,” she countered.

“Well anyway, I’d say look into some HEMA clubs and Dojos, you know, like medieval fighting and martial arts gyms. I bet you’ll find your guy there.” It was some sound advice, if I hadn’t known it was me, that’s where I would have looked.

“That’s actually a pretty smart idea there. Let me see what I can dig up,” She pulled up Google and started scanning through the listing. “Two HEMA clubs in Tar City alone, ten located close by, about ten Dojos that teach weapon use in the city, and seventy within a reasonable distance. That’ll keep us busy until I get a roster of who’s training at these places. Then it’s just a matter of checking backgrounds. Good stuff, Book." A little part of me felt guilty about lying, but it was counteracted by the relief of throwing them off the scent. My cell phone buzzed in my pocket. I checked it to find I’d gotten a friend request from Alicia. Interesting. I accepted but not without Quinn noticing. After all, she was a detective.

“Oooh Booker, is that a girl?" She really knew how to make things awkward for me.

“Yes, it just so happens to be a girl, Jen. I do have some social skills despite what my dad has probably told you.”

“Do you like this girl? Are you dating her? Do you plan on dating this girl, spill the beans.”

“Third degree much? I just met her yesterday. She’s new in school and I am her first friend. That’s where it ends.”

“I’m trained for this type of thing, Book, and that is not where this ends. You like this girl, I can tell. Have you told your dad about her?”

“First off, we are just friends. Secondly, no I haven’t told my dad, and neither will you. He already doesn’t like her dad, who just offered me a job, so it’s a whole mess. Also, don’t tell Johnson, he’s an even worse gossip than you are.”

“I’m so confused, I feel like we’re in a teen romance novel.”

“Just friends!” I insisted, inviting a few stares. She dismissed my correction as I continued explaining in a quieter tone. “Her father is Alexander Romero, you know the guy who was arrested for sabotaging his competitors in Greenhold? Even though the charges were dropped, my dad still thinks he’s guilty, and that he just played everyone.”

“All I know is, it’s not this girl’s fault, whatever her father did. No one should take it out on her.”

“So you’re telling me to ignore my dad?”

“Yeah, but if he asks I’ll deny it and squarely blame you," she confirmed, causing us both to share a smile. Now that I knew what I needed to do, it was time to go. The longer I stayed, the closer I got to screwing something up and giving myself away.

“I gotta go, but it was nice seeing you guys again,” I finalized, turning towards the door.

“Where are you going? You just got here?" she questioned.

“I got… homework and stuff.” She gave me a skeptical look but must have been convinced it was to see Alicia because she simply grinned and shooed me off.

“Alright Romeo, remember what I told you.”

“Just friends, Quinn,” I repeated one last time. She waved me off as I left the bullpen and hailed a cab back to my house.

After I headed home and gathered my things, I went down to midtown and scouted out Brick and Mortar. So far, my source had proven reliable. After some scoping out with binoculars, I spotted the aforementioned upstairs party which had a number of high rollers checking out merchandise. When my newly found contact said anything, I figured he was exaggerating. There was a whole host of weapons, drugs, technologies, information, and people for sale. It was like Walmart for all things illegal. I figured my entry point could be either the bottom of the club or the roof. Since I didn’t see myself growing wings anytime soon, I figured the ground floor was my best bet. I slid down the fire escape and approached the front door. The doorman’s eyes widened as he realized he had problems. He ran inside, mustering five beefy bouncers to the front. I drew my mace and pointed towards the five of them.

“You guys better think long and hard about what you’re doing. Is this job worth what’s about to happen? I’m talkin’ broken bones, dislocated limbs, torn muscles, months of rehab and crazy expensive medical bills?” I posed. They looked at one another and after mulling it over one of them shrugged.

“Screw it, they don’t pay us enough anyway,” he dismissed. They all went their separate ways leaving the entrance wide open. Oh, whaddya know, it worked. Patrons in the club had already started to scatter as soon as I walked in. Nobody wanted to get involved and probably for good reason. I spotted the staircase up to the second floor, tucked in the corner, with two men standing guard armed with machine guns (AK-74’s if we’re being technical). They opened fire and I charged up with my shield blocking the oncoming swell of bullets. CRACK! I smacked the first one in the leg, snapping it like a twig forcing him to tumble down the stairs. I checked the second one through the door and it flung off its hinges as he tumbled into the second floor VIP room.

“I’m looking for a guy who’s buying slaves! Anyone think they can help me out?!” I yelled. The whole crowd scattered and booked it towards the exits. From the crowd emerged four men dressed in black suits with assault rifles of their own. SCAR-H, a heavier caliber than the AK-74, this is gonna to hurt. They didn’t seem surprised or even taken aback by my appearance. Instead, as soon as they spotted me they opened fire with reckless abandon, indifferent to the collateral damage. TING! TING! TING! TING! My shield blocked the first few bullets, but they started punching through soon after a few sustained hits. There was no way that these guys were amateurs. They were planted. Someone knew I was coming. I dove behind the nearest cover and evaluated the situation. The bullets must have been tungsten core, no way anything else could puncture my shield, save for some depleted uranium. Even the hefty SCAR-H rounds could get through on their own. The four-man fireteam fanned outwards and kept on shooting, chewing through the pillar which I was hiding behind. I wasn’t going to win this fight, I had to accept that. Goddamnit. I looked towards the massively wide glass window that stretched across the side of the room overlooking the street and took a deep breath. Twenty-five-foot drop, combined with my shield’s shock absorbers, my suit’s insolation, and a little bit of luck. I should be fine. I sprinted towards the window, a storm of bullets in pursuit. I felt searing pain tear into my right shoulder as I hurled myself from the second floor towards the street. CRASH! Shattering the glass windows, I plummeted down onto a car below which helped break my fall, the roof caving in under my weight. My chest felt like I’d received CPR from a Silverback Gorilla. I’m not fine. Although it didn’t feel too nice, I was alive, and everything seemed to be in the right place. I rolled off the hood of the car with a groan straight onto the asphalt, my helmet protecting me from the faceplant. I then picked myself up and ran off before I caught any more bullets in the back.

That was not smart, was all I could think, as I tried to climb in my second story back window with tungsten fragments buried in my shoulder. After a solid twenty minutes I managed to tumble in through my window which I hoped and prayed nobody heard. It was twelve o’clock and the night was definitely over for me. I took off all my gear as gingerly as possible, making sure not to scuff any of the fragments while also trying to be as quiet as possible. I grabbed my first aid kit and little plastic baggy, moved to the mirror and proceeded to take out the shards with a pair of tweezers. I had been hit with enough ricochets and shattered bullets to know the drill, however, it didn’t make it any less unpleasant to remove the shards.

“Oh, baby! That’s tender,” I groaned as I slowly removed the shards one at a time. Then wiping off the blood that was seeping from the wound as I removed the metal until all seven silver slivers were out. I put the fragments in the plastic bag and tucked it under my pillow for later. I quickly rushed to the bathroom next to my bedroom and turned on the shower. Stepping in quickly, each wound screaming like a road flare had been jabbed in my shoulder. I grabbed the shower sprayer with my good side and sprayed the wound non-stop for a couple of minutes. Soaping it up periodically, gritting my teeth through the pain. It sure as hell wasn’t going to feel nice, but it would be a whole lot worse if I didn’t clean it. I made sure to scrub down my whole body about a dozen and a half times. The last thing I wanted after getting a shrapnel wound was an infection on top of it. Once I was done with the shower, I dried off, grabbed some distilled water and iodine I kept under my bed and mixed it up in a squirt bottle. Once I was set up, I started cleaning the wound out. One, two, three, I couldn’t do it enough times; the pain panging from the gory gouge. Finally, I grabbed some bacitracin, applied it liberally, and then slapped a bandage over it. That should be good enough for now. I moved on to my smaller injuries, ice for the bruises, band-aids for the scrapes, and some stretching to try and avoid any more cramps or pulled muscles. After my cursory treatment, I grabbed the heating pad from the bedside drawer, placed it under my covers, and gingerly sprawled across it with a wince. “Gahhh!” I exclaimed, pain shooting across my body. That was not smart, I scolded once more as I looked up at my ceiling. Thinking about all the things I did wrong as I slowly drifted to sleep.