Eye For An Eye

by Michael Anderle

  James hopped out of his truck and hurried to his front door, slamming it once he was inside.

  He walked to his basement door. He might not always be able or want to swing by the warehouse in the coming days, especially if he were being followed, so it wouldn’t hurt to double-check his weapons and ammunition supplies in the basement.

  James unlocked the reinforced steel door’s physical locks before placing his hand on the palm scanner. The electronic locks clicked open, but more importantly, his traps were now disabled. Any fool could batter open a door if they worked on it long enough, and he wanted it to hurt if they succeeded.

  The bounty hunter pulled open the heavy door and made his way down the stairs. After the errand, it was barbeque show time.

  A few minutes later, a black van with tinted windows screeched to a halt in front of Brownstone’s house.

  “You ready, Cartwright?” the driver asked.

  The mercenary sitting in the back heaved his rocket launcher to his shoulder. “I’ve always wanted to use this thing. One of the best high-explosive yields you can get in a weapon of this size.”

  “Just do it already. We need to move before Brownstone figures out we’re here and wastes our asses.”

  “No one respects quality tools anymore.” Cartwright threw open the van’s doors and aimed the rocket launcher. “See you in hell, Brownstone, you cocky sonofabitch.”

  The rocket sped on its way, flame trailing behind, and slammed into the front door, exploding in an orange-red ball of death. A cloud of flame, wood, and metal fragments rained on the street, part of the roof collapsed, and a side wall groaned, cracking and collapsing a few seconds later.

  “Damn, that was nice!” Cartwright crowed to his partner.

  The mercenary reloaded the launcher and fired at the burning house a second time.

  The second rocket blew half the house apart, and the explosion that followed knocked the mercenary back inside the van. The vehicle almost tipped it onto its side but slammed back down, rattling the two men inside.

  “What the fuck was that?” the driver asked.

  Cartwright sat up, closed the door, and wiped some grime off his face. “Gas lines, I’m guessing. Let’s roll. No way the motherfucker survived that.”

  2

  The whole house shook. Part of the basement ceiling collapsed on top of a box filled with .45 magazines. The second and third explosions buried more of the basement and provided James an angled view of the inferno above him through the newly-created hole in the ceiling.

  The entire house seemed to be on fire—at least what remained of it—although no smoke detectors shrieked.

  Yeah, probably no one had ever thought about making them blast-proof.

  James shook his head. His ears were still ringing from the roar and force of the explosions, and he was unsure of what the hell had just happened. An earthquake wouldn’t have been over so quickly.

  The first explosion had sounded familiar, like something he’d heard more than a few times in his life. That kind of sound generally started with a weapon or three.

  James pushed through some debris toward the stairs. Flames eagerly danced at the top, and they and the smoke denied him a more detailed view of whatever remained of his house.

  James realized he didn’t have much time. He had more than a few grenades and explosives in the basement. If he waited, the fire would make its way down and blow him into a million tiny pieces. He doubted even the amulet could save him.

  He yanked his phone out of his pocket and tapped at his security app. He hadn’t been so hot on cameras, but with all the crap he’d gone through lately, he’d decided it wouldn’t hurt to install a few outside.

  CAMERA FEED INTERRUPTED.

  James grunted and backed up the feed. The arrival of a black van and the appearance of a rocket-launcher-wielding man in urban camouflage confirmed his suspicions.

  What was with the outfit? Was the asshole trying to blend in with the van?

  He shook his head. If he’d been upstairs, he wouldn’t have survived the first explosion.

  “Fuckers,” James muttered. “Stupid-ass motherfuckers. You blew up my fucking house. My fucking barbecue grill. My fucking signed recipe books.” He let out a long, loud bellow of rage.

  Some people never learned. The Harriken had murdered his dog, so he’d delivered the pain a hundred-fold back to them.

  Now some asshole had blown up his house. As a minimum they needed their houses blown up, and they also needed to be ground into pieces so fine that even a DNA analysis couldn’t identify them.

  Sirens sang in the distance, and James narrowed his eyes. He didn’t want to have to spend a lot of time dealing with questions. He returned his attention to his security app and initiated a remote backup of the last few minutes, then erased the footage.

  The police didn’t need to get involved—especially given the sheer volume of violence James was about to unleash in LA.

  He glanced down at his chest. The fight with King Pyro had demonstrated that when he wore the amulet he’d have at least some protection from fire, but putting it on to flee a burning house didn’t seem worth the risk.

  The sirens grew closer, and a loud horn honked right outside.

  The damned whispers from the amulet had grown stronger with each use, so he wasn’t sure how much longer he could use it.

  A lot of questions remained about the nature of the amulet, and today’s conversation with Father McCartney had only reinforced in the bounty hunter’s mind that his ultimate weapon could very well be evil.

  That might explain what happened to his parents.

  James coughed. Smoke filled the basement now, and the flames had crawled partway down the stairs. The police might have some questions if the rest of his place went up like a roman candle, but that could wait. Pissy AET aside, the cops had already looked the other way several times for him— and this time he was the damned victim.

  It just so happened this victim believed in dispensing personal justice. Very bloody personal justice. Or very crispy, in this case.

  “Fuck it,” he muttered. He wasn’t going to sit still and force some firefighter to risk his life when he could get out without help.

  He didn’t need the amulet. He’d won against King Pyro the first time without it. Escaping a burning house would be far easier.

  James bounded up the stairs, arms in front of his face, and charged through the flaming opening where his basement door used to stand. Pain spiked through his arms as fire licked his arms.

  The blasted and half-melted remains of the steel door lay a few feet away.

  The bounty hunter rushed straight toward the front door, or at least where it used to be. The front of his house didn’t exist anymore, which made escaping the raging fire far less of a chore.

  James gritting his teeth as he sprinted through the flames.

  Two fire trucks were parked on the street, their crews hustling to get their hoses set up.

  A firefighter dashed toward him. “Sir, are you all right?”

  The bounty hunter waved him off, ignoring the light burns on his arms. “I’m fine.”

  “Do you have any idea of what happened?”

  “Gas leak,” James offered nonchalantly. He headed straight toward his truck.

  His hands curled into fists. The bastards hadn’t blown up his F-350, but it hadn’t escaped unscathed. Wood and metal debris were embedded in the hood and the passenger window, including a charred two-by-four. It looked like some giant shotgun had blasted his truck.

  If those fuckers had killed his truck, he would rip apart every motherfucking criminal in this city.

  The firefighter hurried after him. “Sir, you need to get checked out by a paramedic. And that vehicle doesn’t look very safe.”

  “This truck has saved my life more times than I can count.” James hopped inside. When he turned the key and the engine roared to life, but the CHECK ENGINE light was on. Relief warred with the homicidal rage burning in
side him.

  He patted the dashboard. Don’t worry. I’ll get you somewhere for repairs soon.

  The bounty hunter turned back toward the firefighter. “My house just blew up, and it’s not exactly morning. The first thing I need to do is find a place to sleep tonight, and you need to back the fuck up because I have a shitload of explosive flammables in my basement and there’s a good chance they’ll go up in a big boom. So move your fucking ass, and get your guys back before someone else gets hurt.”

  The firefighter’s eyes widened and he yelled. “We’ve got a good chance of secondary explosions. Everyone back the hell up.”

  The firefighters scurried back as James pulled out between the fire trucks.

  James was halfway down the street when he spotted the huge fireball in his rearview mirror.

  The singed man had driven for a good fifteen minutes when he pulled into a Costco parking lot to make a call. For a second he wondered if the store sold any Oriceran spices in bulk, but before long his angry thoughts returned to his housing mishap.

  The fuckers had blown up his house with a rocket launcher. On some level he could respect the sheer balls of someone willing to do that, but that also meant they weren’t practicing anything remotely in the realm of what people would call restraint.

  It was like they were him—and no one liked facing themselves.

  James grunted. If he stayed in a hotel innocent people might get caught in the crossfire, if not blown up.

  “Those fuckers.” The bounty hunter slammed his fist on his dashboard. He’d been told someone might come after him, but not that they’d blow up his house. A few bullet holes here and there would have been fine, but the entire building was gone.

  He sighed. Guess I should have had a few backup houses. Lot of fucking good that does me now.

  James yanked his phone out of his pocket. He knew a lot of people who might be willing to help him with a little temporary lodging, but the overlapping part of the Venn diagram that included those same people and people who could protect themselves from rocket-launcher-wielding assholes was damned tiny. There was only one real choice.

  “Hello, lad,” the Professor answered after two rings.

  “Some asshole just blew up my house.”

  The Professor sighed. “That’s rather annoying. How? Magically?”

  “Nah. He kept it old-school. Used a rocket launcher.”

  “That would do it. And you want me to find out who did it?”

  James grunted. “Not so worried about that right now. The issue is, I need somewhere to stay.”

  “I’m not a real-estate agent, lad. Couldn’t one of your fine churchmen put you up?”

  “I’d prefer the church not get blown up by a rocket launcher. I’m pretty sure there’s a commandment about that.”

  The other man laughed. “I can see how that wouldn’t be appealing. So you’d rather my house be blown up? I’m hurt, lad.”

  “Nah. I figure you’re smarter than me so you have a few spare places scattered around in case some necromancer or ancient Chinese general shows up looking for shit you might have. I’m thinking you’re a man who deals with powerful artifacts without trouble, so you know how to hide stuff from prying eyes.”

  Silence reigned for a few beats. “All right. I understand, and aye, I do have a place you could use. A small apartment. There’s no paper trail linking me to it, and it’s protected against a variety of types of spying, magical or technological. But you’ll owe for me this, Brownstone.”

  “Fine by me. Just try and not send me anywhere that’s too fucking far away when you cash in that favor.”

  “Stop by the Leanan Sídhe in a few hours, and I’ll have some keys and an address for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Shay grumbled as she sat on the edge of the soft hotel bed. There was nothing like traveling halfway around the world only to find your target site was now a huge crater. At least she hadn’t been in the place when it’d become a hole.

  The locals didn’t have much useful information to offer, other than something about a group of men heading toward the site and then seeing a massive explosion. The authorities mumbled something about a crashed plane, but the level of destruction Shay had witnessed could only be produced by a military-grade bomb or some sort of magical artifact.

  Now that the field archaeologist was back in civilization she needed to catch up on her mail and messages, so she pulled out her phone and started skimming the subject lines of her messages. One in particular caught her eye, and she opened it to read the detail.

  “Oh, shit,” Shay muttered. “Damn. Guess that explains it.” She immediately dialed Brownstone.

  The bounty hunter picked up after a single ring. “Hey, Shay. What’s up?”

  “Harriken, Brownstone.”

  “Huh?”

  “The hit on you. It’s Harriken-funded.”

  James muttered something under his breath. “Not a huge surprise. I figured it was Harriken or maybe Grayson, even though technically the mercs weren’t our fault. Not saying I had any problems with what Nicole did.”

  “Sorry to break it to you, but from what I just read Grayson’s looking for you as well. They get a premium if one of their guys takes you out.”

  He grunted. “I’m glad I’m bringing people together.”

  “So, anything happen so far? Anyone take a shot?”

  James chuckled. “Nothing big. They just blew up my house.”

  Shay blinked several times, not sure if she’d heard him right. “What?”

  “Some assholes showed up in a van, and they blew my house up with a rocket launcher. My truck’s fine, thank God. But my house is a fucking crater. The initial blasts were bad enough, and then the fire got down to the basement. I’m bumming a place from the Professor. Fuckers. Lost all my barbecue equipment.”

  Shay wished she were in LA so she could see the expression on his face. She couldn’t tell if he was taking the situation seriously or not.

  She finally decided to go with “no.” “You okay, Brownstone?”

  “Don’t worry about me. If the fucking Harriken didn’t get the message before, they’re gonna get the message now—even if I have to kill everyone last one of those bastards in California.” James sighed. “But I need you to promise me something.”

  “Sure. What?”

  “If something happens to me, make sure Alison’s okay. She’s all set up financially with the trusts and shit. She just needs someone to have her back and visit her.”

  “No, Brownstone. Screw that. You’re not dying, and you’re not doing anything without backup.”

  James grunted. “I’m not gonna sit around on this, Shay. These fuckers blew up my motherfucking house. I need to make my position clear on what happens to people who blow up my residence.”

  “I get that. Just relax for five seconds. I’ll hop a supersonic flight back, and we can do this together. I don’t like how you’re giving me speeches about taking care of Alison. This isn’t like you. It means your head isn’t screwed on right. Wait for me, okay?”

  James hung up.

  Shay gritted her teeth and slammed her phone down on the nightstand so hard her fingers hurt. She shook them out and looked at her phone, which now sported a jagged crack across the screen.

  “This might have been a cheap burner phone, Brownstone, but I’m still gonna make you pay for it,” Shay ranted. “All this stupid machismo crap from men and their stubborn asses. Plus… You know what, Brownstone? I’m gonna make you pay for the airline ticket too.”

  3

  Jiro Ikeda, leader of the Harriken in the United States, sat behind a rather spartan wooden desk in his temporary headquarters in Los Angeles. He didn’t want to breathe the air of a city that stank so much of failure, but the Brownstone situation needed to be resolved and Grandfather required a personal touch.

  The Harriken leader stared at the bandaged stump where his left hand used to be. His superior had already shown him great mercy by takin
g only a hand and not his life, but Jiro knew that any more failure wouldn’t be tolerated.

  There was a light knock at the door, and Jiro looked up.

  “Yes?” he called in Japanese.

  A beautiful young Japanese woman in a black skirt, camisole, and jacket opened the door. “Your appointment is here, Mr. Ikeda.”

  “Send him in.”

  She nodded and closed the door.

  A few moments later, a brown-haired man in an ill-fitting suit stepped inside.

  Jiro kept his face blank, even though the man in front of him reeked of arrogance and incompetence. He begged to be humbled.

  Mercenary scum. He had no honor. All he did was what he was told.

  The Harriken might be considered criminals by many, but they were their own masters—not puppets to be pushed around, like the Grayson mercenaries.

  Jiro gestured to a leather chair in front of his desk. “Sit,” he directed in English.

  The other man took a seat, and an appreciative look appeared on his face. “Nice chair.”

  “Let’s be efficient at this meeting. I have other matters to attend to today.”

  The man grinned. “You like to get down to business? So do I. I’m here to talk about the money for rubbing out Brownstone.”

  “Mr. Cartwright, was it?” Jiro leaned back in his chair. “That was what you said over the phone.”

  “Sergeant Cartwright, and I don’t like the fact that your people made me give up my gun out there. That’s disrespectful to me and to the Grayson PMC Services company.”

  Jiro gave a faint shrug. “We treat armed men who aren’t part of our organization as a threat.” His eyes narrowed. “And be aware, Mr. Cartwright, that right now you are a guest of the Harriken. You will show respect to me.”

  “Listen, pal, I don’t give a shit about your jumped-up Yakuza bull—”

  Jiro pulled a sword out from underneath the desk and had the tip at Cartwright’s throat in a flash. “One cannot demand respect. One earns respect through actions and demonstrations of one’s willingness to pursue such actions.”