Not unexpected.
She padded toward the dining room, keeping her gun ready. No bloodstains or bodies presented themselves on the floor, but .45-caliber brass shell casings lay all over. She performed a quick count.
Had to change mags at least once in here, I’m guessing. Probably only once, though.
A small amount of blood stained a side wall. Shay looked between the hole-pocked walls and the wall with blood, aiming her gun to help her visualize the line of fire.
Brownstone took a hit. Not enough to take him down, obviously.
Closer inspection of the wall led Shay to spot a small bullet hole.
So he took a hit, but the bullet passed clean through. Good for him, and lucky the Harriken weren’t using hollow-points too.
Shay shook her head as she headed back toward the stairs. Violence was an art in and of itself, and the gory scene at the house proved that Brownstone was the fucking Jackson Pollock of ass-kicking.
A few quiet moans sounded from the stairs. Shay rushed into the front room, hurrying behind a couch, gun drawn. A sprint to a chair followed. No Harriken popped up to shoot at her, so she approached the source of the moans: two survivors.
Sloppy, Brownstone. Then again, these guys are obviously gonna bleed out.
“Help...me,” one of the men groaned. “Can...pay...you. Earn...respect of the…Harriken.”
“Yeah, about that… First, I just got a big paycheck today, so I’m not as impressed with money. Second, it doesn’t make much sense to help out the guys who got their asses kicked and piss off the guy who did the ass-kicking. Sorry.”
Shay tossed her pistol into her other hand and yanked out her knife, then walked to the man, pulled his head up, and slit his throat. The other moaner met his end right after. A quick check of the other bodies confirmed no more survivors, but she sliced their throats to be certain.
Stray thoughts about the Rod of Supay filtered into her head, and Shay resisted the urge to head-shoot all the corpses. Not only would it waste ammo, but she wasn’t even sure that worked on zombies in real life.
Keeping her gun ready, the woman crept up the stairs and along the wall—more like a member of the SAS than a field archaeologist. She swept into each room, ready to shoot at any target presenting himself.
Each upstairs room stood empty, except for one containing a dead man with a katana beside him and a huge puncture wound in his throat. Shay stared at a bullet-riddled door lying against the wall opposite the open doorway.
Okay. Brownstone thought someone might be hiding, so he opened up on the door—or maybe he just was trying to see something. Why the knife? Downstairs showed that he’s got good aim. Not a single sloppy shot in the bunch, and he was under fire probably the whole time.
Shay furrowed her brow as she tried to piece the clues together.
Katana guy must have gotten the drop on him, otherwise Brownstone would have put a bullet into his head or chest. Or three bullets.
From the look of things, this guy was high-ranking. Harriken do place a lot of importance in personal ass-kicking ability. Maybe Topknot Boy knocked Brownstone’s gun out of his hand?
She spoke to the corpse. “You probably thought you had him, didn’t you?” Shay snickered.
She crept out of the room, pointing her gun downward as she approached the stairs. There was only one major area left to explore, and that lay behind the reinforced door to what she assumed was the basement. After a trip through the killing fields, she closed on the door.
Someone, presumably Brownstone had fired a shitload of bullets into the door to create a hole where the lock used to be. A huge pile of shell casings lay near the door, and she knelt to inspect them.
Only a few were .45s. Most were 5.45×39mm.
James opened up with what…probably an AK? Did you run in here with two guns, Brownstone, like some VR shooter sim?
No. That’s not right. The fuckers on the stairs all looked like they died from pistol wounds. Probably some Harriken guy showed up with the AK, and Brownstone took him out and then took his gun to use as the world’s bluntest lockpick.
Shay searched around and found the expected rifle, snapped into two pieces shoved under one of the bodies. Brownstone was covering his back.
A full picture of the assault crystalized in her mind. Brownstone hadn’t approached the headquarters with anything resembling stealth. Had never planned to. He’d boldly walked right up, knocked a guy out, and beat his partner to death in the process of using the man as a living battering ram.
Well, semi-living.
Outnumbered and outgunned, the bounty hunter had executed all his enemies while taking only a hit or two.
All because these men had killed his dog.
James Brownstone was a living bulldozer crossed with a tank designed in Hell.
Shay shook her head as she processed it all. The fight against the warlocks hadn’t demonstrated one-tenth of this lethality. Anyone picking a fight with Brownstone should schedule their funeral ahead of time to save their relatives the trouble.
A couple of thuds sounded from downstairs, and Shay nodded to herself. Brownstone didn’t need her assistance. The death tableau had proved that.
I can still walk away. The Emperor of Destruction here doesn’t need my help. Leeroy has been avenged, and then some.
Shay stared at the basement door and shook her head. “This is stupid.” She sighed and grabbed the handle.
11
James gritted his teeth and flexed his arm. His shoulder ached from the bullet wound, and a burning sensation radiated from his side. Not the worst pain he’d ever been in, but not exactly fun either.
He stared down at the two dead Harriken at his feet with bullet holes between their eyes. They’d probably been the most impressive all night, given that they’d managed to slice his side with their swords.
The man who shot him would receive no respect. Throw enough lead in the air and you were bound to hit something. If they’d been fighting one-on-one James might have given him a little mental fist-bump.
The glint of gold caught James’ attention.
The bounty hunter knelt and pulled a gold watch off one of the dead men. The cops didn’t pay as much money for dead bounties, and the dead gangster wasn’t going to need it anymore.
The fucker had probably bought it with drug and sex-slavery money anyway.
James pulled a silver ring off the other man and stood. Once he finished the last few Harriken, he’d have to take a few minutes to collect the smaller valuables. Not exactly evil blood warlock-level money, but at least it was something. He could cover the cost of ammo, if nothing else.
He took several breaths, doing his best to ignore the aches in his shoulder and side. Only one damned room remained in the basement.
Two low voices exchanged some curt words in Japanese behind the door. That didn’t mean there were only two men, but he hadn’t encountered more than two or three in any of the previous rooms or the hallway.
The entire basement was divided into six small sealed cement-and-metal rooms linked by a central cement hallway lit by fluorescent lights. A nice, oppressive vibe—all very East Germany circa 1980. He wondered why the assholes didn’t invest in some LEDs, already.
Most of the small rooms were nothing more than storerooms for weapons and drugs. One room appeared to be an in-house tattoo parlor. Another was the security center for the house, with live feeds from the drones.
James wasn’t the Professor, but as far as he could tell none of the rooms contained magical artifacts. Though he couldn’t confirm that, it wasn’t like he could haul the entire contents of the Harriken house back to his place.
The cops would show up eventually, and even if they did like James, he didn’t want to spend a lot of time answering questions. Plus, there was the small matter of the dozens of homicides he’d just committed.
Unfortunately “he needed killing” wasn’t a valid legal defense in the state of California, no matter what Father M
cCartney had said about the Eleventh Commandment.
Going through each room and methodically killing every remaining Harriken had grown tedious, but at least James had ensured that almost everyone in the building that night now lay dead or close to death. From what he could tell, the remaining men had hoped they could wear him down or surprise him. Kicking in wooden doors and then shooting them made the last floor almost trivial compared to the massed attacks upstairs—except for the lucky side slashers.
Should have grabbed more watches.
James furrowed his brow and ran to the first storeroom. His first inspection only found boxes filled with drugs. He shoved those aside.
After popping a few more lids off boxes, James discovered one containing diamonds and another containing several gold necklaces.
“Jackpot! Sweetheart, I’ll be back for you in a second,” he murmured.
James stepped out of the room and marched toward the end of the hallway. It was time to clear the final room. He pulled the magazine out of his pistol…only to find he didn’t have another one. Rather than switch to a back-up pistol, he holstered the weapon. Even though his arm and side hurt, the remaining few Harriken didn’t worry him. With his bloodlust sated, his focus had fully returned. He wanted these last men to understand the depth of their mistake.
“If you surrender,” he yelled. “I’ll kill you quickly and mercifully. Not planning to torture you or anything—not really my style—but I can’t guarantee you won’t suffer more if you fight me.”
The last door flew open and two Harriken stepped out, swords in hand. James had to give it to these guys; at least they wouldn’t die like little bitches. They stood no chance, so they were morons, but at least they were brave morons.
James flexed his arm, trying to fight the stiffness from the wound. “Congratulations, assholes.”
The men narrowed their eyes. The one on the left gestured with his sword. “What are you playing at, oni?”
James barked out a low laugh and gestured to the trail of bodies and blood behind him. “Does this look like a fucking game to you, fuckhead? Anyway, congratulations. You’re the last men standing, so you’ll be the last to die. I don’t know, maybe take some pride in that shit?”
“You’re insane,” said the man on the left, glancing behind James. “Totally insane.”
The man on the right said nothing. His eyes screamed sweet fear.
At last somebody understood what Leeroy had gone through.
“I’m insane?” James took a single step forward. “Okay, before I kill your ass, explain that one to me.”
“You do all this for a fucking animal?” Lefty argued. “A dog? You’d kill so many men over a pet? No animal is worth so many lives.”
Neither anger nor fear burned in the man’s eyes. Confusion reigned. James would kill him last. At least Righty finally understood the error of his ways.
James shrugged, the motion sending a spike of pain through his shoulder. “You see, that’s some bullshit. A dog doesn’t matter?” He took another step forward. “Obviously Leeroy fucking mattered, or you douchebags wouldn’t have butchered him and put him in my dining room.” He pointed to Lefty. “So don’t bitch to me now about dogs being less important than people, asshole. You and your people wanted to make a point, and you did. Now it’s my turn, and I’m making my goddamn point.”
The Harriken gripped his hilt so tightly his knuckles turned white. “Even if you kill us all here, we will be avenged. The Harriken will grow again, and wreak their vengeance on you and all you love.”
James lifted an eyebrow. “That didn’t work out so well for you last time, did it?” He shook his head. “All I had was a dog, and now all I have left is me.”
Lefty’s partner moved to the side. The attack would come soon.
James held up a hand and turned it back and forth, examining all the blood splatters. A little intimidation never hurt in a fight, although he wasn’t sure how much of the blood was his and how much of it was from his enemies. It’d been a long time since he’d been forced to kill this many people at once.
“I already chose the douchebag at the entrance to be the lone survivor,” James told them. “So what I’m guessing is that he goes and tells everyone how James Brownstone came in—by my-fucking-self, by the way—and took out an entire house filled with Harriken enforcers.” He shook his head. “I think every fucking pussy left who remotely gives a shit about anyone in the house will pack up and run away. You fuckers thought you ruled through strength and fear.” His eyes narrowed and his deep voice rumbled. “You don’t know what strength and fear are.”
Lefty and Righty charged, but James dodged by sprinting right past them. The surprised Lefty’s sword missed his neck by under an inch.
James kicked the Harriken in the chest, sending him flying into a concrete wall. A dull thud echoed in the hallway and his sword clattered against the cement floor. He groaned, his eyes rolled up in his head, and he slumped.
Righty stabbed and swung with wild abandon. James dodged the attacks with ease, despite the flare of pain that came with every quick movement.
“You eat barbecue?” James asked conversationally as he ducked a stab.
The Harriken blinked and sliced at him, but this attack was no more successful than his previous ones.
“I said, ‘Do you eat barbecue,’ asshole?” James spoke a bit louder.
His opponent took a step back. Sweat beaded his brow, and his gaze kept darting to the side. He probably wanted to make a run for it, but James didn’t care. The asshole wasn’t escaping.
“What the fuck are you talking about, oni?”
“Barbecue. American-style, you know—not like yakiniku.” James shrugged. “Nothing against it, just, I mean, gotta love the flavors of your homeland, right?”
The man blinked and shook his head as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“That makes me think, though. You know, all these sauce flavors and different techniques—they’re the result of different cultures in America blending together. English, African, French, German, Mexican, on and on. It’s some pretty deep shit if you actually get to studying the history.”
The Harriken tried another few stabs, but James dodged them with even less effort. His attacker’s face screamed panic now.
“Why are you talking about food?”
James gave the other man a demonic grin. “Food defines a culture. Fuck, food defines a culture in a way that a lot of things don’t. I mean, shit, language? Plenty of people speak the same language, but don’t eat the same shit. I was just thinking about whether I’m wrong to not want Oriceran ingredients in my sauces.”
Lefty moaned and stirred on the floor. It was time to stop playing and finish things.
Righty’s breathing grew ragged. “Oni. Bakemono. Yokai. I don’t know what race you are, but you’re a monster.”
James shrugged, then winced at the pain. “Yeah, well, fuck you too.” He sprinted forward, dodged the incoming attack and smashed his fist into the other man’s face. The Harriken flew backward, smacking into the floor and rolling a good distance.
Groaning, the man tried to right himself, but James was already on him. The bounty hunter brought down his boot on the man’s sword hand, crushing it. As the man screamed, James snatched up the wakizashi and sliced his head off with one clean stroke.
The bounty hunter turned toward Lefty. The remaining Harriken pulled himself to his feet and dropped his sword. His trembling hand pulled his pistol out of his holster.
The criminal let out a bitter laugh. “You’re just fucking with us. I see. I understand.”
James stalked toward the man, keeping his gaze on the pistol. He wasn’t fast enough to dodge a bullet, but that wasn’t the trick. The real skill came in predicting where an opponent might fire.
“Please enlighten me, asshole.”
“This isn’t about your dog.”
James glowered at the other man. “Oh, this is about my fucking dog. If you wou
ld have left Leeroy alone, you’d all be breathing tomorrow instead of decomposing.”
A shot rang out, but James had moved to the side before the man had even pulled the trigger. Another quick jerk put him out of the line of the fire for the next shot. By the third, he’d closed on Lefty and yanked his arm up. All the Harriken managed after that were several shots into the ceiling.
The bounty hunter’s fist slammed into the man’s stomach and Lefty doubled over in pain, gagging. He collapsed to the ground, clutching his stomach.
“Now,” James growled, “you’re gonna apologize to Leeroy on behalf of the Harriken.”
12
Shay crept down the stairs, only to run into more of the aftermath of Hurricane Brownstone. The bottom of the stairwell led to a short corridor that turned to the right before joining a larger hallway. With the cement walls and stairwell, Brownstone would have been fed straight into a kill box.
Except he wasn’t the one who was dead.
A dead Harriken lay against the wall, his face bruised, his eyes closed, and his nose askew. His sword had been driven right through his chest. Another man lay on the floor facedown, a pistol a few feet from his hand. His sword remained in its sheath.
Several flattened bullets littered the floor. Huge chips in the cement walls suggested the man had fired his pistol and missed his target.
Shay began to wonder how these final men could have believed they’d even have a chance against Brownstone. From what she could tell, they’d had fortifications and surprise…but still lost.
Maybe a few rocket launchers or some sort of powerful magic would have helped.
Brownstone’s voice echoed from the other end of the basement, and the tomb raider sidled closer to him. She holstered her gun and peeked around the corner just in time to see the bounty hunter decapitate one man and rant about barbecue to the second before punching him in the stomach.
The only surprising thing about the sight was that Brownstone’s second target didn’t cough up blood and fall to the ground dead.
Feared By Hell: The Revelations of Oriceran (The Unbelievable Mr. Brownstone Book 1) Page 10
