He snorted and crossed the street. The last thing he needed was a prima donna amulet. He’d spent most of his adulthood using Whispy Doom as nothing more than glorified armor, not realizing its true potential. Now that another alien was hunting him, Whispy might be the only thing that would keep him from getting his ass kicked. The damned thing needed to work when he wanted it to work and without a lot of attitude. It was almost like the fucking symbiont thought he should be the one calling the shots.
The bounty hunter walked up the path to the door, his boots clopping on the brick. Several Andercarr delivery boxes were piled in front of the door. He knew the reason for the open gate now, although it increased the chance no one was at home.
“Did the fucker run?” James murmured. “Can’t settle scores if you’re already running, Calabrese. Don’t be such a pussy.”
James stopped in front of the door and rang the doorbell. The lack of response led him to knock hard on the door.
“Damn it,” he muttered. “Don’t have all fucking day. If he wasn’t even going to be here, I should have just stayed at Jessie Rae’s and had another sandwich before I ordered the ribs. Calabrese better be here if he doesn’t want to really piss me off.”
James pounded on the door again, not breaking it down only because he couldn’t be certain that Trey’s informant hadn’t sent them to some random innocent person’s house. He’d promised Mack and Maria he’d try to cut down on unnecessary property destruction. It’d help keep his insurance rates down, too.
The door swung open to reveal a man who had several inches on James. The thug’s chest and arms strained his ill-fitting suit, and the thick muscles of his neck forced James to take an extra second to distinguish the man’s head from his body.
The neckless wonder looked James up and down before glancing at the boxes, a frown on his face. “The fucking delivery company knows we don’t need to sign. We’re fucking tired of telling them that, so get the fuck out of here, dumbass. It’s not like you work for tips.” He slammed the door.
James grunted and rapped on the door again.
The thug threw the door open and stepped onto the porch. He pulled the door closed behind him. “You really want to get hurt, don’t you, delivery boy? You think you’re big shit because you’ve got a few tats? Maybe I should knock some fucking sense into you like I did the tatted-up loser I fucked up during my last spin in the joint.”
“I’m not with the fucking delivery company, and you’re starting to piss me off.” James grunted. “Take a look, dumbass. Do I look like I’m wearing a fucking Andercarr uniform?”
Give me a reason, asshole. You’ve already pissed me off.
The other man frowned, staring at James for a moment. His eyes narrowed as if the possibility of James not being a delivery man had never occurred to him. “Then who the fuck are you? Is this some buy-eBook-subscriptions-because-I’m-fresh-out-of-prison shit? I’m not buying your fucking subscription. Go get a job, leech.”
“I have a job,” James rumbled.
The other man sneered. “What job is that?”
“Bounty hunter.”
The neckless wonder laughed. “Oh, really?”
“Yeah, I’m James Brownstone,” the bounty hunter growled. “I’m here for Marty Calabrese. I don’t know who the fuck you are or if you have a bounty on you, so stay the fuck out of my way if you want to live.”
The thug snorted. “That supposed to scare me? Fucking a bunch of reporters or something to convince ‘em to run stories about you don’t impress me. This ain’t California crystal-shit LA, Brownstone. This is Vegas, and we don’t play. Get the fuck out of here before I put a bullet in your ass.”
He opened the door, entered, and slammed it shut, snickering all the while.
James let out another low growl. “Fine. We’ll do this the hard way then, fucker. I’m gonna do what that relationship podcast said and actualize my words into reality.”
Yes, Whispy hissed in his mind. Hatred. Anger.
Nah. This is just me being fucking annoyed.
James had been on the fence about bothering with a level three, but he obviously hadn’t been working enough bounties in Vegas. He needed to make a point so that the next time he showed up at an asshole’s door in Vegas, they’d understand why it hurt less to do what he said.
“Guess you always got to keep feeding fame if you want your rep to stay.” James cracked his knuckles and kicked the door off its hinges. “My fucking public awaits.”
2
The door flew several yards before crashing to the floor with an echoing thump. The neckless wonder from before stood a few feet to the side, staring at the door as if he’d just witnessed a miracle. A half-dozen other men, most in tracksuits but a few in tank tops, jeans, and gold chains shot up from the couch and chairs filling the room, surprise on their faces.
They gathered their wits and drew their weapons, turning their angry eyes on James.
He didn’t bother to pull his gun. Instead, he swept the room with a glare. There was no way any of these idiots could hope to do much more than scratch him. “Where the fuck is Marty Calabrese? I’m not here for you, so tell me where he is and fuck off if you want to keep breathing.”
The door thug raised his gun. “Fuck you, Brownstone. You ain’t nothing.”
He pulled the trigger. The bullet struck James and bounced off with barely a sting. It wasn’t even worth a grunt.
The thug blinked and backed up. He gritted his teeth.
Minimum adaptation potential, Whispy reported. Kill enemies.
James chuckled. The amulet never changed his general advice. Strong enemies, weak enemies—it didn’t matter. Kill them and move on. There was a certain comfort in that kind of consistency.
Killing gangsters who had attacked him didn’t bother James, but he did want to avoid unnecessary paperwork with the police.
These fuckers are going to add several hours to my trip, aren’t they?
James stared at the man. “There are two ways this can go down, fucker. I can just go through you all until I find Calabrese, or you can—”
The man fired again. The bullet bounced off James’ head, leaving a small scratch.
“What the fuck?” the neckless thug exclaimed. “Help me kill this asshole, guys.”
Everyone opened fire now, bullet after bullet striking James and bouncing off even as they perforated his clothes. He grunted a few times, but the impacts were more distracting than painful.
Knew I should have put another spare shirt and pants in the damned truck. Time to end this shit. They had their chance.
James bellowed and charged the neckless wonder. The man backed away, his lip quivering as he ejected his magazine and reloaded. A powerful backhand from James sent him flying over a chair. The thug landed on the floor, blood dripping from his split lip.
The other men continued firing, the sound not drowning out the thud of footsteps coming down the stairs.
“This shit’s gonna take too long,” James muttered. “Fuck it. Maybe the Vegas PD will let me do the paperwork later.”
He nailed several men in the throat or head with throwing knives. Whether from fear or bravery, the rest didn’t break and run, so he yanked out his .45 and put rounds into the survivors.
Their guns fell silent, and the few still alive moaned on the floor.
Reinforcements pelted the corner, shotguns and assault rifles in hand. They didn’t wait to take in the situation before firing at James.
This combined volley stung, but the pain faded within seconds, and the few scratches and cuts started sealing. Advanced mode might be required for James’ best weapons and full defense, but the amulet’s regeneration had improved even with only basic bonding.
A wave of annoyance flashed from the amulet. Minimum adaptation potential. Kill enemies. Seek stronger enemies for maximum adaptation potential.
James chuckled. Sometimes you just need to blow off some steam. Don’t worry. Maybe we’ll get lucky and run into s
ome thug with nanites.
His magazine was empty, so he tossed the weapon into his left hand and grabbed a nearby coffee table. He spun and hurled the heavy cherrywood table. The thugs’ bullets ripped into the table and blew several holes in the projectile before it shattered on two riflemen. They fell back, yowling in pain.
The makeshift formation scattered, giving James precious seconds to reload. By the time his enemy rallied, he had rushed forward and was firing again. The men fell one by one, their screams echoing through the house.
James stomped over to the bodies, frowning as he ejected his empty magazine and reloaded again. At this rate, he was going to run out of ammo and need to use the dead thugs’ guns.
A steep staircase lay at the end of a hallway around the corner, changing angles ninety degrees halfway up. No one was up there.
“Where the fuck is Calabrese?” James roared. “Don’t make me come and find you, asshole. I’m already pissed about all the extra reports I’m gonna have to fill out about your fucking men.”
Trey’s hands twitched as gunfire sounded inside. “Maybe we should go in. He might need help.”
Damn. I should just have gone in with the big man. Two people watching the back? What’s up with that bullshit?
Maria shook her head and flattened herself against the wall next to the door, a stun rod ready. “No, the point is to get Calabrese. No way Brownstone is getting seriously hurt by guns. We’ve both seen what it takes to make that guy bleed. He took on King Pyro in a fist fight, and that guy could melt steel with his hands.”
“But I’m bored as shit,” Trey complained. “James is having all the fun.” He stared longingly at his gloves. “These boys are itching for me to pound a face or two. Zoe ain’t said so, but maybe they lose their power if they don’t meet a quota, you know?”
Maria smirked. “Don’t worry, some of those losers will be coming this way soon enough. I hear footsteps. Maybe we’ll even get lucky and it’ll be Calabrese. Feel free to punch him.” She shook a finger at him. “But remember, we need the asshole alive.”
“I will, and I appreciate your generosity.” Trey grinned and pushed his knuckles together.
Maria held up her left hand and narrowed her eyes. Trey crouched, ready to pounce on whoever or whatever came through the door.
The door flew open, and a sad, pathetic man in nothing but a sweat-stained undershirt and boxer shorts emerged at the forefront of a column of fleeing thugs, their faces etched with terror. They were so intent on fleeing that none of them bothered to look to the side.
Maria let several go past before she stunned the first man. Trey launched himself into the group and threw several quick punches. Each powerful blow sent a man crashing to the ground in pain.
One thug managed to get his gun out before Trey slammed a fist into his stomach. The man flew back into the house, knocking several other fleeing criminals down. A collective groan rose from the stunned men.
“This shit’s like bowling,” Trey announced.
Maria and Trey rushed inside past the downed men to stun or knock out the rest while most of the thugs were still fumbling for their weapons. The fear only built on their faces as they realized they’d fled from a monster only to run into his friends.
“It’s like they’re running from a fucking dragon. Thought they were all badasses? Hope Calabrese didn’t pay too much for these bitches.” Trey laughed. “Might have some bounties off these fuckers, though.” Trey grabbed some zip-ties. “Let’s just tie them together in pairs. We should have enough for that. I only have a couple of pairs of cuffs.”
A loud, thumping rattle shook the building, and the roar of a heavy machine gun echoed from upstairs.
“That’s a big gun,” Maria yelled. She jammed her stun rod into her pocket.
Trey shrugged as he shoved two groaning men together and bound their hands. “James is starting some shit with someone a little tougher than these rats fleeing the sinking ship. Ain’t no thing.”
Maria knelt to zip-tie another pair of men. “I hope he remembers we have to take this guy alive to get any money.”
The thug’s chain gun shredded the banister as James crested the stairs. The bullets slammed into him and fell to the floor, crumpled. Thin trails of blood leaked from cuts on his body, and pain radiated from his ribs. The stream of bullets forced him back, teeth gritted, then he leapt to the top of the stairs and fired three quick shots into the chest of the gunner.
The criminal fell back, his finger still on the trigger for a few seconds. The bullets ripped through the roof, and dust, wood, and insulation showered down. A few sparks shot from exposed wires in the ceiling.
James grunted. Blood covered the front of his chest, but his wounds were already beginning to heal, the pain dulling. The adventure against Calabrese and his men was proving enlightening.
Used to be even something like that would still be a decent hit, even with you on, Whispy. I’ve been shot tons of times, but it’s that much better now?
Improved baseline defensive capabilities associated with achievement of advanced transformation and permanent interface body modification, Whispy responded.
James snorted. He wasn’t sure if that meant the amulet had been holding back on him all these years because he didn’t understand the whispers or if there was a more fundamental change in how Whispy’s defenses worked. Either way, he was satisfied with the results.
So if I play your game and get pissed, James thought, you have an easier time improving my abilities?
High levels of power necessary for long-term and efficient adaptation and modification of host.
James grunted. Whatever kept him breathing was fine by him.
A door squeaked open, and a man in a belted blue robe walked out, gun in one hand, oblong silver grenade in the other.
James looked the man over for a moment and chuckled. Sometimes people on the run tried to change their appearance because that split second of confusion could help them escape, but Marty Calabrese still had the exact same damned haircut as in his mugshots and bounty records.
“You really like your style, huh, Calabrese?” James rumbled.
“James Brownstone? Shit. Just my damned luck.” The man stared at him, wild-eyed. “Fuck. Why aren’t you dead?” He shook his head. “You’re shredded. They must have hit you a hundred times.”
“Yeah, that sounds about right.” James nodded at the dead machine-gunner. “He might have hit me that many times himself. It kind of stung. Made me even more pissed.” He shrugged.
Calabrese narrowed his eyes. “Your chest is all fucked up, though. It’s like something got jammed in there. What the fuck is up with that?”
James glanced down. The annihilation of his shirt exposed the bonded amulet. He chuckled and patted the alien artifact. Calabrese’s guess wasn’t far from the truth.
“Marty Calabrese,” James rumbled. “You’re coming with me. You have a little appointment with the Vegas police.” He pointed at the dead gunner. “I’ve taken out all your guys, or they’ve run their asses away because they knew they didn’t stand a fucking chance. Your crew is gone, so don’t be a dumbass.”
Calabrese shook his head. “Screw them and screw you, Brownstone.” He held up the grenade. “Maybe you’ve got some bulletproof artifact shit, but you can’t survive this nice little toy I got from a friend of mine. He got it from the CIA or some shit like that. Don’t know fuck-all about how it works, but it blows up real good, he says. Can melt a car. Been waiting to try it, so you should be honored. Great James Brownstone’s gonna die by my ultimate weapon, not some bitch-ass gun.”
James shrugged. “A fancy grenade won’t save your ass. You come with me, you don’t die. If you try to fight me, you might. I guarantee you’re gonna get hurt. Easy fucking choice, from where I stand.”
Calabrese scoffed. “I go back into the system, I’ll be dead in three months anyway. This way I take the famous James Brownstone with me and become a legend.”
James growl
ed. “Not my fault you’re too much of a fucking dumbass to not cause trouble in Witness Protection, so get rid of the grenade and make this shit easy or not—I don’t give a fuck. Just make it quick.”
The mobster raised the grenade. “Back right the fuck off now, Brownstone, or you get to see how your tax dollars are spent up close.”
James shrugged. “You’re not escaping, asshole. It’s just a matter of how much pain you want to feel first.”
Calabrese glared at him and hurled the grenade. “Fuck you.” He leapt into the bedroom and closed the door.
Estimated adaptation potential minor, Whispy reported.
James jumped over the railing as a blue-white explosion enveloped him. The force of the blast accelerated him toward the ground. He smashed into the hardwood planks on the first floor, the wood splintering and cracking.
The explosion had done some of its work, turning his clothes into burned scraps and his gun and phone into molten goo. Burns covered his body, and the cool breeze of the air conditioning stung. Whatever the hell Calabrese had thrown at him, it was far from a standard-issue fragmentation grenade.
Huh. Really must have been some fancy CIA crap. I thought he was just talking shit.
Moderate adaptation to attack forces, Whispy sent. Moderate damage. Regeneration in progress. Full tactical restoration not immediate. Kill enemy.
Mild satisfaction flowed from the amulet.
James grunted. Nothing like a masochistic defensive artifact.
Now the fucker’s gone and made me mad.
He stood, frowning at the fused mass on the floor that used to be his phone. His pain would go away, but he could never recover wasted time. He had everything backed up in the cloud, but that still meant he was going to have to waste time going to a damned store to buy a new phone and re-download everything.
And I had that shit set up just the way I like it.
“Damn,” Trey announced from behind him. “You all right?”
“He tried to blow me up,” James rumbled. “I survived, and now I’m really fucking pissed.”
The Unbelievable Mr Brownstone Omnibus 3 Page 21
