Breaking Bad: 14 Tales of Lawless Love

by Koko Brown

  Lynne entered the bedroom in sexy lingerie, likely expecting a communal celebration. “You’re leaving right this minute?”

  “Yes. I must deliver on my promise.” Ex tugged the black T-shirt over his head. His biceps caused hills to protrude from the cloth. “Do not worry Mrs. Justas; we will have many years to love.” He walked over to her and planted a kiss on her soft lips. “Do zavtra.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He forgot she did not speak Ukrainian. If given the opportunity, he must teach her his language. “I will see you in the morning.”

  “Okay,” she said with a hint of disappointment.

  Ex gathered his backpack and departed before he changed his mind and took her to bed.

  TWENTY

  Ex cocked an eye at the landscape change. The homes were surrounded by more land and the cars were sparse. He reclined his head, smelling cabbage, onions and minced meat as families prepared for dinner. On Thursday his Mama cooked balandėliai. It was his Mata’s favorite. The memories appeared frequently. He dread the day, they did not. That might insinuate he had forgotten. But, he recalled as though it were yesterday, his Papa’s horrible singing and Mata’s mischievous doings. His Mama’s hands upon his cheeks brought a grunt from an invisible punch.

  “Are you alright Sir?” The Driver inquired.

  “Yes, hungry that is all,” Ex admitted. He would have taken Lynne to dinner, were things different.

  He took out his phone and copied her bank’s routing number and transferred all of his funds to her account. She would wonder what this meant; she’d be afraid, just as he at the thought of never seeing her again.

  The taxi stopped outside a stone gate. He tipped gratuitously and exited with a somber disposition. Cool air blew across his rising temper. He forced his body to relax. He longed for a glass of gira.

  Ex rolled the tension from his neck, and then marched toward the opening in the gate. An argument ensued near bushes leading to the walkway of the house between guests. He surveyed the perimeter, noticing there were Mafiya present, engaging in sordid activities. He strode toward over the parcel of land, getting an occasional shove from a gushing wind. Dry leaves scraped the ground as rubber-soled shoes broke brittle into mulch. He tugged up his collar and then glanced at the eaves projecting beyond the walls of the structure.

  The surrounding homes sat in the distance and forestry provided concealment for Tavas’ illicit parties. He climbed stairs to the entry and was ushered in by scantily clad hostesses.

  Tavas sat on the sofa in swim trunks. His arms dropped from the shoulders of the women and he rose. “Dobre! You are punctual. Come let us do business in private.”

  Ex trailed Tavas, sensing something was off. Once inside, his office, he was tackled and slammed face down on the floor. A gun pressed into his scalp.

  “Get the backpack. Let me see if he delivered what I need?” Tavas instructed.

  The backpack was yanked off and he was kept immobile, by the gun at his scalp.

  His eyes viewed Tavas claim the file and begin reading. “Yes! He delivered.” Then he walked to Ex and stomped on his back. “Did you believe I would pay double? You are not tough now, are you Didus?”

  Men laughed.

  Ex laughed, too. “Tougher than you Tavas, I am not the one who hires others to do my dirty work nor do I kill innocent children.”

  “There were no children in our contract.”

  Ex counted the number of bodies he would take with him to the grave. Tavas was one, the person holding the gun to his head was two and the hyenas near the door. “Do you recall the employee and her family that you ordered murdered? There was a boy. His name was Matas.”

  Tavas frowned. “I heard that was an unfortunate accident. Mr. Justas failed to maintain his vehicle. It is a sad thing when men cannot protect those they love.”

  The pressure released. The gunman stood and Ex reacted, he kicked the gunman’s weapon up and blew his scalp across the room with the weapon he removed from an underarm holster. There were screams at the sound of the gun blasts as Ex scrambled away. He fired at the figures by the door before any got off a shot.

  Tavas ducked behind the desk. But Ex’s bullet traveled fast, striking Tavas in the shoulder, rolling over his fancy chair and onto the floor. He wasn’t dead—yet!

  Ex barricaded the door, collected his backpack and strolled to the bleeding coward. “You are nothing more than a cunt,” Ex stated. He snatched the document off Tavas’ desk and stuffed it in his bag. “Now Cunt, you will sign over your stolen shares to me.”

  “Okay…okay. Monday I will do it.”

  Ex crouched. The pounding at the door had begun. He didn’t have much time. He retrieved a second form, pressed a pen in Tavas’ hand and snarled. “Sign.”

  Tavas obeyed. “There I signed it.”

  “This as well.”

  Tavas read the form heading. “I cannot…it is my company…I cannot!” Tavas cried.

  Ex removed a long blade from his boot and stabbed Tavas in the gut. “You will sign!” He growled angrily and applied pressure until Tavas screamed in fear at the thought of being gutted.

  “Okay look—yes—see I am signing!” Tavas moaned while scribbling his signature.

  “Dobre.” Then Ex put the document away and tugged the knife from Tavas’ flesh. He made a blood cross on Tavas’ chest. “You killed my family and you will pay. You lack remorse. You do not know who I am. I am Exeter Justas, the son you did not kill.”

  Tavas’ eyes bugged in shock and he cried, “Exeter Justas?’

  Ex fired at Tavas’ eye. “For Papa!” he said and fired again at his heart. “For Mama!” The final bullet shattered Tavas’ teeth and pieces of enamel hit the desk with the force of a pebble. “That is for Mata who can never smile again!”

  Suddenly, a barrage of bullets shattered the window, blowing the drapes into moth eaten capes. Ex jerked before hitting the floor, dazed by a bullet grazed to his scalp and another that went through his chest. Blood trickled in his eye as he struggled to get his bearings.

  Ex slid in his blood toward the door and found the effort taxing and chose to reserve his energy. He was bleeding to death, yet determined to deliver on his promise to Lynne. He’d never failed an assignment and he didn’t plan on breaking his track record.

  “One-two—three.” He growled, forcing the spinning room to stop. “Lynne!” he shouted and his limbs awakened during a volley of gunfire outside.

  He crawled on his forearms toward the door, almost there, he thought. Then the door flew open and Andric and Yayo burst in with assault weapons and light dancing on smoke over the dead.

  “Hold on Brother!” Andric ordered as he dragged Ex from the house as Yayo guarded them.

  Ex soon felt the wind—peered at the stars in the heavens twinkling and frantic voices.

  “Do not die Ex. We must go to America!”

  Ex found his voice, “How did you find me?”

  “We tracked your cell phone. We sensed something was not right and followed. You should have called us Ex—dammit Bra!”

  Ex scoffed at their ragtag Brotherhood. They were no match for Viktor Alexi. “You must leave me and take this to my wife.”

  “Wife?” Yayo asked.

  “It is a long story and we do not have time. Inside my bag are shares to Ogen Pharmaceuticals. Tell her as part owner she will have unlimited access to the medication she needs. Go, before the Mafiya arrive—we will all meet in America. Tell Lynne that I will find my way to her.”

  “There are cars coming, let’s get him in the vehicle. We can do it Andric!” Yayo shouted.

  But Ex took hold of his wrist. “Go Yayo—Andric and take care of my wife.” Then his hand slipped loose and he waited for life to leave. He heard men cry, and then the silence. Even the bugs in the grass he could identify. Didus didn’t appear; neither did his Mama, brother or Papa. What is wrong with the Reaper, does he not come on time? Ex fumed in his weakened state until an Old Man leaning o
n a carved cane hovered above.

  “Exeter you cause me much trouble,” Viktor Alexi stated as he stared at Ex with hawkish eyes. “Why should I let you live this time?”

  Ex absorbed the stance of the figures spread around clutching weapons. He scoffed. Tough old Viktor Alexi survived what annihilated strong families—wars. His Grandpapa did, too. But Ex’s Grandpapa strengthened his bonds with a loving woman and had children. Viktor’s wife and child perished in the Gulag and he refused to remarry. He had other family; Ex was the last of his clan.

  Viktor Alexi stared below at his sister’s grandson. One day he would join his order. But, he would not force Ex; he must decide where he belonged. “You cannot answer?”

  Why?

  Why do good people turn bad?

  Why do good people die and the bad live?

  Why?

  Ex blinked, growing fatigued. He refused to ask for mercy beneath the stares of the iron Brotherhood. He looked at his Grandma’s brother and stated the truth. “Tavas murdered Matas, Tato and Mama—they are avenged. My duty is fulfilled.”

  Viktor Alexi peered at his sister’s grandson. “If you survive these wounds, expect a year’s penance. Tavas deserved death. Had you come to me, it would have been exacted—without undue bloodshed.” He sighed. “Ex what will I do with you?” He did not wait for an answer. Instead, the notorious Viktor Alexi ordered his lackey’s to handle the mess and sauntered to his chauffeured car. Soon, Ex was hauled in the backseat of another car and driven away. While traveling he deliberated on the nature of punishment. A year’s penance is a fair price for hope; living provided him an opportunity to go to America and join Lynne. An ass whooping by Viktor’s goons and then servitude—he scoffed—is nothing.

  EPILOGUE

  THIRTEEN MONTHS LATER

  The silver sphere needed paint. It was more impressive in photos. He surveyed the park goers. Some people rode bikes, others frolicked neared the grass, and they appeared happy. His head bopped to soft music emitting from a car in the parking lot close to the museum. He’d listened to a lot of American songs to connect to its people.

  There were people of many cultures in New York and he liked viewing the sun, snow and dessert on the flesh. He looked around at freedom—however temporary it might be. He did his year’s penance. There are accounts of his deeds in newspapers. The description of the suspects is often vague and the Mafiya is rumored to be responsible, yet they are rarely brought to justice.

  A nice automobile with tinted windows entered the lot. He swiveled on the wooden bench. The car door opened and Lynne exited. His knees weakened at the sight of the beautiful woman. To endure a year without physical contact—without her kiss or her warmth—that had been the hardest part.

  Her hair was a bit longer, but it was the Lynne he pined for in his dreams. Then she crouched and reached in the car and emerged with a child. Ex’s heart beat rapidly. He rose, strolling to meet her and the child.

  “Ex…oh my god, you’re finally here.” Lynne’s eyes were wet. They stood on a path between a sculpture of the world and a highway. Words failed to form as he caressed the boy’s crop of curly hair. He had Matas’ light eyes and his Papa’s mouth. They were strong features—the Justas lineage survived. “What is his name?”

  “Andric said you had a brother— “

  “Bra!” The toddler interjected and then giggled.

  Ex took the child, marveling at how large he was and smiled. “Bra-that is Ukrainian for brother,” he said to his son. “I have much to teach you.”

  “His name is Exmatas.”

  Ex smiled at the beautiful name. He cupped his wife’s head and brought her to his chest, kissing her hair. “I missed you Lynne. Every day I hoped that you trusted me and that we would be together again.”

  “You kept your promise. I am happy that you did.” She wiped away a tear. “We have so much to catch up on.” Then he kissed her, tasting the salty liquid and promising to be good to her. He smiled when he withdrew. Exmatas tugged hard on his ear and he chuckled. He asked, “Your Father…is he…well?”

  “See for yourself.” Lynne then turned toward the car and gestured. Andric and Yayo exited and began assisting a man out of the vehicle. The man used a cane to ambulate, but possessed vitality in his carriage of a person who received a second chance at life.

  “Dad, this is my husband Exeter, Ex this is my father Mr. Rayne.”

  “It is nice to meet you Mr. Rayne.”

  They shook hands. Soon Andric and Yayo surrounded Ex and they welcomed him to a new homeland. “Prīvіt brother,” they chimed in Ukrainian.

  “Prīvіt brothers, we are finally together again.”

  ABOUT SW FRANK

  S. W. Frank has served with the FDNY Emergency Medical Services and during a stint in Law School was a writer for the law school's journal. Writing has been a mainstay of the Author's life since childhood. It is no surprise that the novelist decided it was time to shake off the dusty manuscripts and write full-time. "S.W. Frank stories are like moving images of people set to prose," a reader stated. Since sharing her novels, readers have hailed the author's work as, "Bold" and "Unapologetic!" (Guardian, Books, Gems of Indie Publishing)

  The author supports literacy, anti-bullying and many other social causes. To learn more about the author, please visit Author S.W.Frank's Official website, or visit her Amazon page for other titles.

  STAR-CROSSED

  KOKO BROWN

  Star-Crossed

  We’re born. We die. Repeat

  Everyone should be so lucky. Star-crossed lovers, Christian and Lèsè have an intangible connection, a destiny born of unfortunate circumstances. Lèsè can’t help being bad, she’s bred that way. And Christian can’t help but love her and only her. In fact, she’s his reason for living–and the reason he dies.

  A life cut too short

  Who wouldn’t want a second chance or a hundred? Born again and again, into one new existence after another, Christian can never win the girl’s heart before it’s too late. With the help of a meddling xammte, Christian is armed with the key to getting off this rollercoaster. Can he unlock the girl’s heart in time?

  A TIME TO BE BORN

  ONE

  SOUTH CHINA SEA

  “It’s a boat load of whores, Commn’der.” Christian Flynn handed the spy glass to his superior. “Do you want to change course?”

  Archibald Talbot squinted at the junk boat. In contradiction to its orange sails flying at full mast, the ship bobbed listlessly in the distance.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Talbot snapped the brass instrument closed.

  “Sir, I would err on the side of caution. Change our path, get into the wind before the crew’s aware.”

  “The men are already aware of it and its cargo.”

  Christian eyed the upper deck. Unaware of the conversation between captain and his second-in-command, a half a dozen, able-bodied seaman scurried along the brig’s intricate rigging.

  “Why would a junk of whores be this far from shore?” He asked, voicing his reservations aloud. “Commn’der I would—”

  “I did not solicit your opinion,” Talbot barked. “And I do believe you’re still first mate, not master of this ship. We will stay on course.”

  Stewing, Christian folded his hands behind his back. A commander’s order was equivalent to an act of God. The seven stripes slashing his back attested it.

  “Straight ahead, Fergus.” Misgivings burning like hot lead in his gut, Christian issued the order to his young helmsman.

  “Aye, aye, Mr. Flynn,”

  Pressed into maritime service at the age of twelve, Christian had encountered his fair share of floating brothels. None of them so far out to sea. By his navigational estimates, they still had a hundred a seventy nautical miles to cover before they breeched the coast of Macau.

  God willing, he’d wagered they’d make land in a few days. Once ashore they would dry dock their ship during the winter then make the return trip home, c
offers filled with Chinese luxuries, within the safety of a convoy of other merchant ships.

  Christian eyed the wide expanse of sea. Ribbons of blue stretching before him as far as the naked eye could see. Other than their undesirable company, the day had been idyll. The sky was blue, the sun shone bright and the wind had kept them at a fast clip.

  Picturing the green, rolling hills of East Sussex, salvaged Christian’s disgruntled mood. His wage for this voyage would provide the final payment on a small estate. After learning wealth trumped experience when it came to obtaining a command, he’d abandoned the idea of becoming the master of his own ship long ago. Paying for one’s promotion–rumored to be as high as £8,000–fairly made him choke.

  Christian didn’t need to look in his spy glass to confirm the steady approach of the junk boat. He only needed to look at his crew. Their numbers had grown exponentially to almost all hands on deck as news spread of the approaching brothel.

  A quarter of their size, the junk ship boasted three masts with orange sails resembling a partially open fan. The blue hull, horse-shoe shaped and made of teak. The foreign design and flamboyant coloring paled in comparison to the hot house flowers wrapped in pieces of silk clinging to the vessel’s bulwark. Arms as pale as rice paper, reached out to them like sirens beckoning.

  “God save the Queen,” Talbot muttered. Pleased with this unexpected find, his meaty lips arched into a lascivious grin, revealing a row of molted, crooked teeth. “You’ll thank me for this, Mr. Flynn.”

  Of a contradictory mindset, Christian eyed the port side of the ship and its ten cannon chases. He should’ve sent Harry, their cabin boy below to alert their gunners. Even his crew were unarmed. Their armaments, like the twenty cannons, stored below deck.

  Like an untried youth, Talbot walked about the poop deck tracking the smaller vessel. His mind on defense, Flynn noted the ships’ sudden swing. The sharp pivot caused by the dropping of a light anchor while in motion. A jolly tar like himself had to admire the pilot’s exemplary execution of the tactical maneuver used to gain an advantageous firing angle. The same stellar propensity was used to broadside them with a light kissing of their hulls.