Eye For An Eye: An Urban Fantasy Action Adventure (The Unbelievable Mr. Brownstone Book 3)

by Michael Anderle

  “You that eager to die, Brownstone?”

  “Nope. But I figure I’m not gonna be the one dying. Did you call just to tell me the cops will be staying away?”

  “Nope,” Mack replied. “Even if we’re not going to be scrambling units to save your ass, it doesn’t mean I can’t pass on a little information.”

  “Confidential police information?”

  The cop chuckled. “I think any decent cop wants less trouble, not more, so telling somebody about how to avoid trouble is the right move, regardless of the source.”

  James did a mirror check to look for any obvious tails. Other than the police drones, he didn’t spot anyone. “So how do I avoid trouble?”

  “There’s a hot location ahead of you,” the cop said. “At least three suspects are set up in a parking lot right next to an exit. I think they’re waiting for you to get close, and they are going to nail you together.”

  At least the scumbags had finally upped their game.

  James grunted. “How do you know they are trouble?”

  “Well, the automatic weapons, for one.”

  “And the cops aren’t going to go arrest them?”

  The line fell silent for a few moments. “Right now the general party line seems to be that as long as any of these assholes are only focused on you we shouldn’t risk going after them and spreading the trouble.”

  “In other words, the cops are letting a bunch of hitmen wander free because they think either I’ll do their jobs for them or the hitmen will take care of me.”

  “It’s not my call, Brownstone,” Mack told him, his voice strained. “You know that.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Just good to know where I stand. I also know most of you have my back, even if AET and the gang guys don’t. Doesn’t matter. If all they have is three guys I can take ‘em.”

  “Careful, Brownstone. One of them is an elf.”

  James snorted. “Elves can’t take a punch worth a damn. Besides, that’s great. More fun. The last two guys were kind of a joke.”

  “Damn it, Brownstone! Take this shit seriously.”

  James chuckled. “I’m the one they’re trying to kill. Trust me, I’m taking it seriously. Fine, you got a brilliant plan to help me avoid the Three Musketeers?”

  “Yeah,” Mack replied. “In fact, I do. If you drop off the 5 and head down the 605, you could bypass them and cut back onto the 5 using the 22. Then you could hit the 73 and ride that for a while.”

  The bounty hunter considered all the roads mentioned and nodded. There were a lot of grassy hills on the 73 where he could take advantage of the Humvee’s ability to off-road.

  “What kind of cars they driving?” James asked. “Any off-road capability?”

  “Nothing fancy, just four-door sedans,” Mack told him. “They wouldn’t last long off-road.”

  “No trucks?”

  “Nope, not that we’ve seen. Certainly no Humvee shit, that’s for sure.”

  James nodded, satisfied with the plan. “Okay, Mack, thanks. I’ll hit your roads.”

  “Keep alive, Brownstone.”

  “Trying to. Talk to you later.” James hung up.

  He could do this. Three hitmen weren’t that impressive, and he’d fought necromancers and pyromancers. One elf didn’t scare him.

  These idiots would need to up their game if they wanted to have any chance of taking him out, but that didn’t change the fact that every fight slowed him down and gave other people a chance to catch up.

  There was only one real problem with the plan. The 73.

  Damn, I hate taking toll roads.

  “Remember,” Kayla said as she popped a magazine filled with armor-piercing rounds into her rifle. “Brownstone should be here any minute. We’ll take out the vehicle first, and then we’ll concentrate on the man.” The woman finished readying her weapon. “And we’re splitting the payout three ways regardless of who makes the final kill. Agreed?”

  She glanced at her two companions: one a hulking Russian, the other a lithe elf, both equally deadly.

  The killer glanced up the road with a smile on her face.

  The onramp had been blocked off for construction, but there were no workers present; only easy-to-avoid cones and signs. The three hitmen could leave their parking lot next to the abandoned Long John Silver’s and hit the highway in seconds. It’d be a simple matter of forcing the bounty hunter off the road and then finishing him.

  “What if Brownstone kills one of us?” Dmitri asked, strapping on thick gloves covered in glowing runes.

  Kayla had no idea where the man had gotten the magical strength-enhancing gloves. When they’d worked together a couple months before he hadn’t had them. They would prove very useful in killing Brownstone, who seemed to have a little strength magic of his own.

  “We’ve got a good team,” she replied. “We can win this easily, especially since he doesn’t know about our trap.”

  Dmitri shrugged. “This is a man who has killed dozens if not hundreds of people. I would not take him so lightly.” He muttered something in Russian.

  Kayla snorted. “We’ve each killed dozens of people, and there are three of us. He’s just one man.”

  “Just saying.”

  “Hey, you’re free to run if you want. I’m happy to take the money all by myself.”

  Dmitri shrugged. “Just asking. Always better to know beforehand, not after. Less arguing, no?”

  Kayla shrugged. “If he takes one of us out it gets split two ways.” She grinned at the third hired gun, the elf. “You got a problem with that, Vex?”

  The elf snorted. “You’re more likely to die than I am, human. I’ll enjoy your share.” He gave her a feral grin.

  Kayla didn’t like working with Oricerans, but she couldn’t risk that Brownstone didn’t have magic on his side that simple bullets and strength couldn’t beat. Besides, she’d heard good things about Vex’s ability to get things done, and it was always smart to make allies for future difficult kills—even if she wouldn’t have to take another job for a while after finishing off Brownstone.

  “How far out is he, Vex?” Kayla asked.

  Vex opened his mouth and a complex, layered harmony came out. A small glowing orb appeared in front of him with a ghostly image on it. He narrowed his eyes.

  “He’s not coming,” the elf hissed.

  Kayla strapped her rifle over her shoulder. “What the fuck? What do you mean he’s not coming? He’s been coming our way for a while now. Is he dead?” She’d kill whoever took out Brownstone before her.

  “Don’t you speak your own language, woman?” the elf snapped. He pointed toward the road. “He pulled off the 5. He’s on surface streets, but still heading generally south.”

  Dimitri cursed in Russian and spat on the ground.

  Kayla threw open her door. “But you still have eyes on him?”

  “Not for long. The coming storm is leaking too much energy. It’s making it hard to maintain the spell, but...I think he might be heading to the 605.”

  “Then let’s move,” Kayla shouted.

  All three hitmen sprinted for their vehicles. Carpooling in pursuit of murder hadn’t occurred to them, even if they were in California.

  Esteban smiled as he watched the fools through his binoculars. His three inferiors scrambled into their vehicles, and the smug satisfaction on their faces vanished. The trio had thought they were so clever to set up their little trap, and the disappointment on their faces was delicious.

  He’d thought about killing them just to whet Isabella’s appetite, but he’d decided against it when the elf had produced his orb. Esteban valued self-improvement, and this would be a useful opportunity for just that.

  He was interested to see how Brownstone would handle a true magic user, not a thug with a toy like the human male of the trio. Witnessing that battle would provide useful information he could apply to future strategies for dealing with magical opponents.

  Esteban wondered if waiting would net a higher-value
contract. He didn’t need the money, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t enjoy receiving a higher amount—and the larger the number of his inferior colleagues who perished at Brownstone’s hands, the more the Harriken would panic.

  He gunned the gas on his Porsche, speeding toward the cars driven by his rivals. The hitman made a point of passing the ugly-ass sedans they drove. No style; no pride in their tools. Wearing suits didn’t make them his equals.

  “Pathetic,” he told them as he passed them. “I’ll enjoy watching Brownstone kill you.”

  James’ phone notified him of a text and he grabbed it, expecting a message from Sergeant Mack. Instead it was from Shay.

  Okay, dumbass, so I got your message and now I’m on a plane to Virginia, even though I think the girl would be fine there even if I didn’t go. I mean, if a school filled with mages can’t protect their students, who can?

  Anyway, you owe me dinner, and not something that involves red-and-white-checkered plastic tablecloths and ironically-named sauces. I want a fancy white cloth with some French-accented snooty asshole who puts a towel over his arm when serving wine.

  James wondered if he should text her back, but decided against it. He was confused as hell about where she actually wanted to go, given that she hadn’t seemed to mind the places where they’d eaten before.

  If she didn’t like the food we were eating she should have just said so. Maybe she wanted steak or something?

  James sighed. “Nah. If I ask her about it she’ll just call me a dumbass and say I’m trying to piss her off. I guess I’ll have to ask the Professor for some ideas.”

  His confusion over the message and future restaurant choices aside, the text gave him a small amount of comfort. Alison might have been safe with the school staff protecting her, but he was sure she’d be safe with both Shay and the staff protecting her. Any killers would need an army to get through that level of protection.

  The bounty hunter could now concentrate completely on delivering beat-down after beat-down to all the assholes coming after him, secure in the knowledge that Alison would be taken care of one way or another. He wasn’t planning to die, but he couldn’t guarantee he wouldn’t.

  Then again, if James survived he had another problem.

  “Fucking complications,” he muttered, passing an orange Volvo. “Now I’m gonna have to learn about restaurant people.”

  12

  Trey marched down the street with a half-dozen of his gang following him. They wore their colors proudly and openly, as they wanted everyone to know it wasn’t just a gathering of men having fun.

  It was a show of both force and respect.

  Dark clouds loomed on the horizon. The weather fit the gang leader’s mood when he stopped in front of the burned-out remains of what had once been James Brownstone’s home. His hands curled into fists.

  Disrespect. Pure fucking disrespect.

  That was what the destruction in front of the gang leader represented. Disrespect of the man who had the neighborhood’s back, and disrespect of Trey. No motherfuckers had come in asking for his permission to take out someone important in his hood.

  Not that he would have given permission, but at least the bastards should have asked. Instead, they had waltzed right in and had blown up a fucker’s home like they owned the hood.

  “Yo, Anton,” Trey shouted, gesturing to the rubble-filled pit. “You sure you saw our boy get out of there? I ain’t never seen a house like that before.”

  The Harriken bounty suggested that Brownstone was still alive, but Trey needed to be sure. Brownstone being alive would change his reaction, and his decisions would guide the gang.

  The other man nodded. “Yeah. He bust out of that burning shit half on fire, like he a demon kicked out of hell. This firefighter was all up in his face about, ‘Yo, you gotta go to the hospital’ and shit. Brownstone wasn’t having any of that shit. He just hopped up in his truck and drove off, and that old sweet-ass ride was all busted up. It had like wood and metal in it. It’s like God fired a big-ass shotgun at it, but Brownstone didn’t give a fuck because he needed to go give a beat-down. You know what I’m sayin’?”

  Trey nodded, satisfied with the answer. “Call the rest of the boys who ain’t doing anything. We need to clean this shit up and see if we can find anything of Brownstone’s to give back to him. Not that those rocket motherfuckers or the cops left much.”

  Lachlan snorted. “Why the fuck do we have to clean up that bitch’s house? That bitch gonna be dead, if he ain’t already. If he’s not, I’m thinking maybe we should go after him. That’s a lot of money. And we help out the Harriken, then maybe they cut us in on some good deals.”

  The gang leader spun and threw his fist into Lachlan’s face, where something crunched loudly. The gangbanger dropped to the ground with blood spurting from his nose.

  A chorus of “Damn!” went up from the other gangbangers.

  “What the fuck, Trey?” Lachlan yelled, his hands over his face.

  Trey let his hands slowly unfurl and glared at Lachlan. He rested a hand on the grip of his pistol. “Maybe I didn’t hear you right, but it sounded like that you were sayin’ that we should try and off motherfucking Brownstone to help out a bunch of bitches that don’t even live in our hood? But I couldn’t be hearing that, because that would be fucking bullshit.”

  “I’m just sayin’…half a million, Trey!” Lachlan grimaced. “Fuck.”

  “First of all, bitch, Brownstone ain’t some motherfucking pussy like you.” The gang leader pointed toward the house. “Your bitch ass would be dead if some motherfucker blew your house up with a rocket launcher. But Brownstone walks right out like it ain’t no thing. Except now he’s pissed, and he’s gonna fucking light up all the bitches who go after him, and then he’s gonna come back here because this is his fucking hood, where he shows proper respect to those in this hood. So you know what the hood is gonna do back, bitch?”

  Lachlan groaned. “I think you broke my nose, man.”

  “You should be happy I didn’t shoot your bitch ass, motherfucker. Talkin’ about cappin’ Brownstone. What-the-fuck-ever.” Trey glanced over his shoulder at his other boys. “We are this hood, and what the hell is the hood gonna do for Brownstone?”

  “Have his back,” the other gang members said in unison.

  “Damn right. Brownstone keeps shit under control. Fucking Harriken and fucking rocket-launcher bitches. They don’t give a fuck about us. They’d leave us to the cops if we did work with them.” Trey wiped his bloody knuckles off on his pants. “Now call the rest of the boys. Like I said, we got some motherfucking cleaning up to do.”

  James’ phone rang, interrupting his podcast. He grabbed it from the cupholder and glanced down. Unknown number.

  Probably some guy calling to tell me how he’s going to kill me, or worse, they want to sell me Amway products.

  “What?” he answered, adding even more gruffness to his voice than usual.

  “Um, is this Mr. James Brownstone?” asked a trembling voice on the other end.

  Okay, not exactly a good start to trying to intimidate me.

  “Yeah,” he barked. “What about it?”

  “Please don’t go through Laguna Beach on the 1. I’m seriously begging you here. If you were in front of me I’d be on my hands and knees.”

  James snorted. “Not saying I’m gonna do that, but why the hell shouldn’t I?”

  “Um, I’m... Well, without giving you my name, let me note that I am an ad-hoc representative of several of the local homeowners’ associations in that area, and we’ve been informed that you are currently involved in some minor trouble with men of ill repute that is taking you in our general direction.”

  “Yeah, ‘minor trouble.’ I like that. What the fuck does this have to do with any HOAs?”

  “Well, Mr. Brownstone, if you bring your trouble to our area and things end up...um, well, destroyed like your home, as I’ve been informed, that would have a very negative impact on our property valu
es. You have to understand there are a lot of hard-working people here who have a lot of equity built up in these properties. We haven’t done anything to deserve violence or destruction, so I only think it’s fair, um, that you...not come here.”

  He shook his head. “Whatever. I’ll avoid blowing up Laguna Beach and/or even going very far in that direction.”

  The relief in the caller’s voice was palpable. “Thank you so very much. I’m so glad that you’re such a reasonable gentleman. We really appreciate it, and I’m sure...maybe there’s some way we can compensate you?”

  James grunted. “I don’t need bribes to not blow up innocent people’s houses. And I’m gonna be nice and assume you are innocent people.”

  “No, no, no. You misunderstand. This isn’t about bribery. It’s just about showing our appreciation.”

  “You really want to show your appreciation?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  James almost laughed at how the man’s tone had become even more obsequious. “Then donate to your local orphanage.” The bounty hunter hung up. “I’m trying not to blow any place up,” he mumbled. “I can’t help it if other people aren’t as polite.”

  Maybe people weren’t in a toll-paying mood that day or the police had sent out some sort of notice, but for whatever reason traffic on the 73 was between sparse and nonexistent. That worked to James’ advantage, as he could cut loose without risking innocent people’s lives.

  Police drones still trailed him from a distance, but as before no police cars, trucks, or aircraft ventured anywhere near him.

  Just keep your distance until I get this all handled and everyone will be much happier.

  James glanced in his rearview mirror. Three cars were closing on him damned fast. He doubted the average street-racing crew would use the 73.

  Must be the guys Mack was talking about. At least these idiots were finally learning and not coming at him one at a time like dumbass cannon-fodder ninjas.

  James glanced to either side of him. Steep grassy hills bordered the toll road, and he started plotting escape routes if explosions started going off.