This book is a work of fiction. Names of people, organizations, characters and instances are a product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2012 James R. Pera
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1466341459
ISBN 13: 9781466341456
eBook ISBN: 978-1-62112-140-4
Library of Congress Control Number: 2011916856
CreateSpace, North Charleston, SC
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Part 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Part 2
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Part 3
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Part 4
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Part 5
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Part 6
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Part 7
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
PART 1
The Delgadillos
CHAPTER
1
Ryan O’Hara sat on the steps watching as an inferno engulfed a three-story Chicago brownstone across the street that had, until a few minutes ago, been the home of a couple of well-known radical college professors.
Leaning against the railing, he lit a cigarette and smiled as he drew in the smoke and watched the firefighters arrive too late to save the inhabitants from a painful death—a death that, as far as Ryan was concerned, was long overdue.
His only regret was that the bloodcurdling screams for help emanating from the third floor, where he’d tied up the two professors, would not last long enough. The agonizing cries of Professor Bill Delgadillo and his wife, Brenda, brought him pleasure and he found himself thinking out loud, “Burn in hell, you murdering slimeballs!”
He listened with delight as the former revolutionary terrorists from the Vietnam War era issued their panicked pleas for help to a street full of onlookers who could do nothing to save them. Their pain was his pleasure and he reveled in the thought of them melting away as if they were nothing more than wild pigs roasting over a barbecue at a rural hunting lodge.
Common sense dictated that Ryan leave the scene immediately after handcuffing the couple and their nephew and torching the building, but that course of action would not have brought him satisfaction. The vengeance he was seeking required him to secure and taunt his prey, watching as the gasoline he had spread throughout the ground-floor living room of the home and up the stairs to the second and third floors turned the dwelling into a furnace, with his victims as fuel.
The presence in the home of the nephew, Hugo Delgadillo, was a welcome bonus to his lust for revenge. Bill and Brenda had brought Hugo into their home when he was an infant, shortly after Bill’s brother Evo and his wife, Dilma, were sentenced to life imprisonment for the murders of two Berkeley, California, police officers and a bank security guard. The murders occurred during the course of a robbery in 1982.
Evo and Dilma, like Bill and Brenda, were members of a radical Marxist organization known as Lenin’s Legion. They’d committed the robbery and murders along with members of the Black Socialist Army, a black separatist group whose goal was to carve out a section of the southeast United States for a black communist nation.
The two radical groups were allied with one another and intended to share the money stolen in the robbery to finance their joint enterprises of killing cops, blowing up government buildings, and overthrowing the government.
Ryan had enjoyed telling Hugo why he must die. “You must die for the sins of your parents, your aunt, and your uncle,” he’d explained.
Hugo had pleaded with him, insisting that he was not responsible for the acts of his elders.
Ryan explained that he was of “bad seed” and would have to be eliminated with Bill and Brenda, lest he carry on their subversive and destructive agenda—something he knew Hugo was already doing. Hugo’s frequent trips to South America, where he served as an on-again, off-again advisor to several of that region’s Marxist dictators, made it apparent that he was following in the footsteps of his communist aunt and uncle.
Briefly interrupting his discussion with Hugo, Ryan ascended the stairs to check on Bill and Brenda, giving the emotionally destroyed man time to contemplate his demise.
He entered the third- floor bedroom overlooking the street where his other two targets were detained and smiled. He was there, he explained, “to bring closure to a little matter that has been left unsettled for thirty-six years.”
Ryan stepped into the hallway and returned with a can of gasoline that he’d partially emptied as he’d climbed the stairs a few minutes earlier. He had saturated the carpet on the staircase, beginning in the living room, where Hugo was handcuffed to the banister, and ending on the third floor, where Bill and Brenda were being detained. He poured some of the gasoline on the curtains that covered the bedroom’s two side windows and then sloshed some along the edges of the carpet, being careful not to splash any near his prey. He did not want them to be immolated too quickly, preferring that they have time to see the room go up in flames while they contemplated their imminent vaporization.
Bill began to cry. Ryan cuffed him across the face with the back of his hand, softly asking, “What’s the matter, little bomber boy, afraid to die for the revolution?”
Brenda pleaded but was quietly rebuffed. “Shut up, bitch! You should have thought about the possible consequences when you went down the path you chose forty years ago.”
After making sure that the two were still securely cuffed to the radiator in the bedroom, Ryan went back downstairs and explained to a panicked Hugo why he was going to be roasted alive. The young man fainted, but Ryan slapped him and doused him with cold water and Hugo soon regained consciousness.
Thus began the narrative that preceded the justice that was about to be administered to these lowlifes by a man whose family had suffered for the past three and a half decades. He was only asking that those who had caused the suffering pay by suffering, if for only a few minutes, as he facilitated their exit from the planet.
CHAPTER
2
Ryan spotted a liquor cabinet, retrieved a bottle of brandy, and, after a few seconds, located a snifter. He poured a generous slug for himself as Hugo watched anxiously. Ryan drank and enjoyed the warm, soothing effect of the alcohol.
“You know, Hugo my boy, I’d give you a pull off this bottle, but you’re going to be dead soon and that would be a terrible waste of good booze. So I think I’ll just drink your share while we talk.”
Hugo gagged, his throat
tightening as he tried, unsuccessfully, to emit something that resembled speech.
Ryan continued, “So, Hugo, do you have any family other than those two cretins who are upstairs waiting to die?”
Hugo whimpered but did not answer. Ryan became impatient, clenched his fist, and smashed him in the nose. Blood splattered across Hugo’s shirt and he screamed in pain as it gushed down his chin and onto the floor. He sobbed uncontrollably.
Ryan said, “Oh, you do have a voice. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like you to answer my question, scumbag. Do you have a family?”
Hugo managed to point upstairs as he choked out the words, “My aunt and uncle.”
“Oh, yes, them I know. But do you have any other family?”
“Yes!” cried the doomed man. “My cousins.”
Ryan looked amused as he continued, “Too bad they’re not here. I’d have liked to meet them. Maybe I’ll have that pleasure another day. Do you think they’ll miss the three of you, Hugo?”
“Well, I uh…”
Ryan cut him off. “Shut up, shithead, and listen to my story. I’m going to tell you about families who miss their loved ones, and when I’m finished, you’ll know why you’re going to fry.”
“Once upon a time,” he began, “there was a little eight-year-old boy with red hair and a freckled face. He was full of joy and happiness and was part of a big, happy Irish family in San Francisco. The little boy lived with his parents, his younger sister, and his little brother in a nice house in the Outer Sunset district of the City by the Bay, just down the street from his grandma and grandpa.” He paused. “Are you listening to me, Hugo? Or am I going to have to give you another face-lift?”
‘Yes. Yeah, I’m listening. But what’s this got to do with me?” he whimpered.
“Oh, it’s got everything to do with you, Hugo. Just listen and you’ll soon see what I’m talking about.”
He went on, “My grandpa was my idol and I was the apple of his life. We were inseparable. We went everywhere and did everything together. When he got off work at eight o’clock in the morning, he’d come straight home and drive me to school. When school ended at two-thirty, he was right there to pick me up and take me home, usually after a stop at the ice-cream store for a treat or at Golden Gate Park to throw the ball around. Sometimes he’d take me over to Stow Lake for a boat ride. On Saturdays, he’d take me fishing at Lake Merced and then finish the day by treating me to a hamburger and milkshake at my favorite Drive-In on Geary Boulevard.
“He sang old Irish ballads. He told me about growing up in the Mission District during the Depression, whiling away his time in the neighborhood parks playing football and baseball, or boxing at the local Boys’ Club, where he trained for the Golden Gloves.
“After he graduated from high school, he served in World War II as an Army Air Force tail gunner on a B-17, flying missions over Europe.”
“But what does…?”
“Shut up!” Ryan barked. “Shut up, you filthy scrote, and listen to my story. The only thing I want to hear out of you is a prayer before I light your ass up!
“Now, getting back to my story, I was really proud of my grandpa and I’ll tell you why. My grandpa was a policeman. He wore a big gun and a blue uniform with a seven-pointed star. When he took me to school each morning, all the kids looked at me with envy because they wished they had a grandpa who wore a big gun and a blue uniform.”
Hugo was shaking. Ryan could see that his victim didn’t know where all of this was leading, but he knew it wasn’t going to end well. Hugo began to weep again.
“You act like a little girl—just like that perverted uncle of yours in the upstairs bedroom,” Ryan observed in disgust. “Here, sissy, I’ll give you something to cry about,” he continued as he picked up an ashtray from a nearby coffee table. He smashed it into Hugo’s mouth, knocking out a couple of teeth, one of which stifled his scream as it traveled down his throat.
“Now, shut the fuck up and stop being a pussy. Listen to my story and when I’m done, try dying like a man.”
Hugo continued to sob but was now whimpering much more quietly and cowering like a cornered animal.
“I want to tell you about an event that destroyed my once-happy Irish family,” Ryan began again. “I was asleep in my bed about four o’clock in the morning on a rainy January day in 1974, when I was awakened by a pained and hysterical scream coming from the front of my house. Startled, I jumped out of bed and crept down the hallway to the living room, where I saw a uniformed cop and two inspectors. “I saw my mother collapsed on the sofa, weeping, with her head buried in her hands. My father stood next to her and stared blankly at the policemen, who were speaking softly to both of them. When they saw me, the policemen stopped and looked back at my parents.
“My father, whose face had drained of all color, motioned for me to come to him. He put his arm around me and tried to say something, but all he could get out was the word grandpa before he broke down in tears.
“I was scared, Hugo. I was scared because my father was a big, strong, tough guy. He drove semi trucks for a living. I’d never seen him act like he was acting that morning. Up until then, I didn’t think that big, strong daddies cried.”
Ryan reached over, grabbed a wad of Hugo’s bloody shirt, and pulled the terrified man’s face to within a couple of inches of his own. “Am I boring your punk ass, you slimy little prick?” he snarled.
Hugo managed to blurt, “No!” as Ryan released his grip.
“Good. Maybe I’ll let you live until I finish my story.
“Anyway, my father finally got ahold of himself and sat down next to me on the couch. The policemen stood by silently as he began to explain why they were in our home. ‘Grandpa had an accident, Ryan,’ he said.”
“‘What kind of an accident?’ I asked as I felt an awful fear well up inside me.
“‘Son, I want you to be brave. That’s what grandpa would expect,’ my father continued, but that only made me feel worse.
“‘Daddy, Daddy, what happened, Daddy? What happened to my grandpa?’
“My father tried to soothe me by gently explaining, ‘Grandpa has been called home by God. You will see him again some day. But for now, I want you to be brave for him and for your little sister and brother. Can you do that for me, Ryan?’
“My father wouldn’t tell me then, Hugo, but my grandpa had been killed by a bomb. I found out a few days later during his funeral mass at St. Brendan’s Church. I figured it out as his fellow officers eulogized him, referring to him as a cop’s cop. Some had worked the streets with him since the early fifties and knew him as a fearless, two-fisted brawler who was able to hold his own in a street fight with the meanest of thugs. But they also spoke of his compassion for crime victims.
“‘No finer Irish cop ever walked a beat or pushed a radio car than the legendary Sergeant Mortimer Dermott O’Hara,’ proclaimed one of the countless speakers who took to the lectern. ‘He dodged bullets, fended off knife attacks, and fought barehanded with bad guys but always came out all right. That is, until the night some lousy, gutter-crawling rat planted a bomb under the hood of his radio car,’ said one graying speaker who had mentored grandpa in his rookie years.
“I couldn’t comprehend this thing about a bomb, Hugo. Christ, I was only eight years old. Cops were the good guys. I never pictured anyone wanting to kill my grandpa. It was foreign to me. All I knew was that grandpa was gone and this thing about a bomb was making the word accident sound like a whole lot of bullshit, even to an eight year old.”
Ryan continued, “After the mass, we got in a limousine and traveled to Holy Cross Catholic Cemetery in Colma. I have to tell you, Hugo, that my little eight-year-old brain was spinning a hundred miles an hour as I watched the motorcycle escort speed by the limo to the front of the procession to lead the mourners out of town for my grandpa’s burial.
“Watching my grandma as we traveled the ten miles to the cemetery was an agonizing experience for me. She wept silently, saying no
thing, and all attempts by my father and mother to console her were futile. My grandma never recovered. She died from a broken heart less than a year later. She was only forty-nine years old.” Ryan paused. “Well, at least you won’t have to go through the pain of watching your loved ones die like I did, Hugo, because you’re going to have the luxury of dying with them. What a lucky break, huh, dirtbag?”
Hugo started to gag. His gagging became spasmodic as it progressed into an eruption of heaves that caused him to vomit small portions of stomach acid.
Ryan chuckled as he shoved a fist into Hugo’s solar plexus. “Anytime you’re ready to calm down and get ahold of yourself, let me know, and I’ll continue what I was saying.”
Hugo slumped over and recovered his breath, trying hard not to let the nerve-induced gagging start again, lest he be subjected to additional torture.
“Are we back in class now? Do I have your undivided attention?”
Hugo was unable to answer but managed to emit a sound that resembled a grunt.
“I’ll take that groan to mean that I do, so allow me continue. When we arrived at the cemetery, I remember looking around me. Police cars lined all the roads leading to the burial site. There must have been a thousand police officers standing in ranks at attention. They had come from all over the state of California to pay tribute to a fallen brother. Ever loyal to the profession they served, it didn’t matter that many of them didn’t know Grandpa. They were cops and that made them brothers. It was for that reason that they had come to pay their respects to one of their own.
“I mentioned the word loyal when I described the large contingent of cops at the funeral. Did you catch that word, Hugo? Do you even understand what it means? No, you pathetic spawn of a murdering, terrorist slut. You wouldn’t know what loyalty is, would you? That word isn’t part of any Maoist or Marxist doctrine that you learned from those two perverts upstairs waiting to die, is it? Well, is it, you little punk? Answer me!”
“No…uh…uh…I mean…Oh, God! Please! Please don’t do this! I…”
Ryan cut him off. “You’re pathetic. Just pathetic. You should be thanking your lucky fucking stars that I’m going to put you out of your misery, you little piece of shit. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll continue.
The Rampage of Ryan O'Hara Page 1
