by Adam Smith
Contents
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
About the author
Adam Lane Smith
Copyright © 2019 by Adam Lane Smith
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. Any questions can be sent to the author at [email protected].
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, fictional persons, or actual or fictional events is purely coincidental.
Cover design by Ivan Tao.
Formatting by Kevin G. Summers.
Editing by Brian Niemeier.
For Jordan. May your adventures and misadventures cause the rest of us to adore and appreciate each other all the more dearly. Your legacy will be one of mindful and unending love.
Acknowledgements
Maxwell Cain: Burrito Avenger began as a goofy concept scraped up from the edges of sleep. The author is enormously grateful to the wide range of folks who helped bring this crazy idea to life:
To the friends and acquaintances who encouraged this story from conception to completion. Special thanks to Project Wombat who grabbed hold of this story idea from day one and convinced me not to discard it, to the men in the Fraternity of Excellence who encouraged me in discipline to see the project through to completion, and to Hunter Drew who came out for me with all guns blazing and led the charge to finance the publication costs.
To my generous backers on Kickstarter who provided the means to get this story from my laptop to readers’ eyes, and especially to Texas Dom, Epoch Wolf, Nancy Smith, Brent Brown, Rick Zich, Hunter Drew (Founder of The Family Alpha), Padre Brendon, Samuel S. Thorp, SteelJanz, and the Hale Family. Your overwhelming support convinced me there is room in this world for a purely fun story.
To my Lord and Savior who sees me through every hard time and promises better times to come.
To Skuldarfin for her artwork in the Kickstarter campaign, her advice in marketing materials and arranging the cover, and her ongoing friendship as a fellow creator. Look for more of her gorgeous artwork in my upcoming projects.
To Jennifer D. Ledford for making the second Kickstarter video which was far more compelling than me speaking dully into a camera, and for her enormous enthusiasm in tackling the audiobook production of this story.
To Nick Cole for his continuing patience and mentorship as I work at learning our craft. Scribbling in crayon gradually becomes scribbling in pen, but the work of improvement never ends.
To my faithful and devoted wife who wrestles our savage beast children away from my workspace to give me time to write. If anyone enjoys this book, know that she made the writing possible.
And to you, dear reader. It has been my lifelong dream to be a storyteller, and by reading this book you are helping make my dream come true. From the bottom of my heart: thank you.
The year is 2055. In the megacity of San Pajita along the California Coast, society has decayed to the point that police don’t have the resources to respond to every little gun fight. Somewhere in the heart of downtown, a man is staring at a burrito...
Chapter 1
Before the Rage
Maxwell Cain had killed dozens of men. In fact, that was kind of the problem.
On a scorching day, in a small, cluttered office with air so thick and muggy he had to swallow it, Max watched the chief of police scarf down a carnitas burrito. Each slurping bite dumped an avalanche of rice and beans onto Chief McGarrick’s decrepit oak desk. Pork grease poured down the sides of the tortilla and aluminum foil in a waterfall and dripped onto a desk already so stained that the new grease added layers like an oil painting. The old man’s black uniform was still coated in breakfast droppings, but this early lunch was making a heroic effort to smother the evidence of the previous meal.
McGarrick was mad. Max could tell by the way the gray-haired Chief’s jowls shook as he spoke. “Cain,” Chief McGarrick burbled around a mouthful of food, “you really stepped in it this time. I’ve had reporters calling me day and night demanding to know the department’s official stance on what happened. And you,” McGarrick thrust the burrito toward Max and sprayed a wave of food in an arc across the desk, “can’t be bothered to give a shit.”
Maxwell Cain leaned back in his faded office chair with one arm draped over the backrest and one leg kicked out straight. Dark close-cropped hair and a clean-shaven face made of large cheekbones, a high nose bridge, and a powerful jaw matched with his piercing blue eyes gave him a rough and predatory look that others found intimidating. Max’s black police uniform was unbuttoned halfway down the front and thick, sweaty chest hairs poked through the gap.
The young cop continued to eye the burrito, even as his slobbering hog of a boss choked and gorged himself on it. The effect should have been disgusting but Max was hungry enough that his appetite persisted through the visual assault.
Max finally drew a breath to answer in a casual, almost bored tone. “A few dirtbags bought the farm. What’s the issue?”
“What’s the issue?” Chief McGarrick sputtered. One flabby hand waved a TV remote at a small screen built into the wall to Max’s left, and the bank surveillance video played again for the third time. Six robbers in black ski masks pointed their guns around a decorated bank lobby. One of the robbers grabbed a young man and stuck a pistol in the man’s ribs. The cashiers behind the desk screamed and hit the deck, which only pissed off the robbers. They started firing into the ceiling.
A man in black appeared at the bottom on the video. Max was proud to see himself stand straight and tall as he entered the scene and fired one-by-one at the six robbers. Sprays of blood redecorated the lobby with crimson fountains. A few of the robbers tried to shoot back, but Max dodged behind wooden desks as he returned fire. The desks erupted in showers of splinters, but Max kept shooting and the robbers’ heads kept exploding.
The only robber left was pressing his gun into the hostage. Max watched as his video-self stood from behind the desk and walked forward ten paces. The robber was shouting something and shaking the young hostage, who kept screaming in terror.
Max fired through the hostage’s upper right chest and into the heart of the robber standing behind him. The robber flew back against the wall and the hostage spilled across the floor. Without breaking his stride, Max continued forward several more steps before pumping another round into the struggling hostage-taker’s head. With a shower of blood and brains, the final bank robber lay still.
“The bank was
just lucky I happened to be making a deposit,” Max said offhandedly.
“You shot a hostage!” McGarrick thundered. “He lost a lung!”
“So get a doctor to clone him a new one. Should take, what, a week? Anyway, you should be giving me a medal, not keeping me from lunch. I took out six scumbags in one go and saved the public a lot of misery.”
“Those scumbags,” McGarrick growled, “would have had to pay a huge fine for the robbery. That fine could have gone to pave over some of our cracking roads or build shelters for the thousands of homeless bums out there. Or have you forgotten how rough the economy is right now?”
A look of anger finally broke through Max’s casual smirk. “Paying a fine from money ripped from the hands of citizens is no deterrent, Chief. The drug lords in this town don’t give two shits about paying some measly fine when their little bagboys get picked up, they just factor the cost into their prices and pass it along to the customer.”
McGarrick’s flabby mouth firmed into a hard line. No doubt the look was supposed to be one of authority but was spoiled by the grease which gave his jowls a shiny gleam. “Cain, you know how overcrowded the jails are. We had to shut most of them down for lack of funding.”
“And isn’t that a funny thing,” Max said. “With all the fines the city is pulling in you’d think we’d have more than enough cash to go around. Where’s all that money going, I wonder?”
“Max, this isn’t the Wild West. You can’t just go around shooting perpetrators. These men had each paid at least a dozen fines before this incident and were fully rehabilitated.”
“Yeah, real model citizens,” Max scoffed.
“And now,” McGarrick went on without replying. He had decided to just ignore Max. “Now you’ve dropped this steaming pile of a PR mess into my lap, and I’ve got to sort it out. Activists are out there right now calling for charges against you. They’re calling you “Bloody Rain Cain.” However, in light of your years of service—”
“And the fact that I’m the most decorated officer on the force with the highest rate of efficiently ending threats from violent criminals,” Max cut in.
McGarrick stampeded over him to finish. “—I’ve decided to let you off by just firing you.”
The thick air in the office filled with a new layer of tension.
“You’re firing me?” Max demanded. “I’m the best cop in the department.”
“You’re the most violent cop in the department,” McGarrick corrected him.
“That’s what I said.”
“Max, you can’t just shoot criminals and expect to be let off every time. There are consequences for actions. And I’m not willing to cover your ass on this one. It’s you or me, and frankly, you haven’t given me much respect over the years.”
“You haven’t given me much reason to respect you,” Max spat. He stood and yanked his gun from his holster faster than McGarrick’s eye could follow and slammed the weapon down on the desktop right in a pile of rice and beans.
“And your badge,” McGarrick snarled.
Max hesitated. The gun was one thing, but the badge would hurt. With delicate care he pulled his gleaming badge from his chest and placed it gently on the desk in the only clean spot he could find. Then his piercing blue eyes rose and stabbed into McGarrick’s watery brown gaze.
“You’re gonna miss me, McGarrick. Violence is gonna smother this town in an avalanche of blood and all your fines and fees won’t do a damned thing to shelter the citizens under your protection. When that happens, remember that you pissed all over one of the few officers still working to make a difference. Take my badge. I hope you choke on it, you putrid sack of grease.”
Max’s black boots thundered across the oak floorboards as he stormed out.
Chapter 2
Brothers in Arms
Growls of frustration poured from Max’s mouth as he snatched personal effects from his locker and crammed them into a faded blue duffel bag. He had stripped down to his boxers and socks, and his uniform sat folded on the narrow bench behind him. As always, Max breathed through his mouth to avoid the stench of unwashed clothes and dirty bodies. Apart from his grumbling, the barebones cement-and-metal locker room was otherwise silent.
Leaning against the opposite row of lockers on the other side of the bench stood the two other occupants of the fragrant room, Nick Sharpe and Hunter March. Nick Sharpe wore the standard black San Pajita police uniform. He’d been Max’s partner for two years now, and he knew when the fiery young man needed a few minutes of isolation to sort himself out.
Nick, a tall man with olive skin and almond-shaped eyes, ran his fingers back through his perfectly coiffed black hair one more time as Max let loose a string of expletives that would have peeled the paint from the walls. That is, if McGarrick hadn’t already appropriated the paint budget for his personal vacation fund. The handsome partner blew a hanging strand of hair out of his eyes before finally breaking in on Max’s violent soliloquy.
“Like you said about four times now, Max,” Nick said patiently, “you’re the most dedicated cop this department has. I give it a day, maybe two, before they call you offering a job.”
“If McGarrick thinks I’d take a job from an overgrown sack of festering snot like him, I’ve got a wake-up call ready.” Max dropped one hand to hoist his crotch suggestively before diving back into his locker.
“Yeah, I get you.” Hunter laughed as his angry friend pulled on a clean black tank top and faded jeans. Hunter wore the black pants and boots of the police force with a clean white undershirt. His bushy brown beard glistened with oil under the florescent lights.
Max flopped onto the bench to lace up his tactical boots, and Hunter went on. “Gonna suck to lose you, man. Things are gonna get a whole lot darker without you out on those streets.”
Max didn’t say anything for a moment as he finished donning his boots. As he rose, he stepped toward Nick and Hunter. An earnest and worried look marred Max’s usual carefree expression. “With me gone, it’s just you two standing against the hellions of this city. Everyone else in this precinct is either coasting along or pocketing cash. You need to hold the line.”
Hunter shot Max a grin. “Holding the line is what I do. We’ll find a way.”
Nick looked concerned as he asked, “Have you thought about your next step? You can’t make money killing criminals. Well,” Nick corrected himself, “not without joining up with one of the drug lords. And that ain’t you. So what’s next for Bloody Rain Cain?”
“I don’t know yet,” Max admitted with more anger than concern as he yanked on a flannel overshirt but left it unbuttoned. “All I know is that I need a burrito. I’ll grab a bite and have me a good long think about the future.”
Hunter held up one hand and Max clasped it without hesitation. The two men pulled in for a quick hug before slapping each other on the shoulder and drawing back. Max repeated the gesture with Nick, but before Nick let his old partner’s hand slip away he locked eyes.
“Stay sharp out there, Cain. San Pajita ain’t getting any friendlier.”
Chapter 3
Burrito Interruptus
Plates jumped and clinked as Max slammed his beer mug down on the oak bar. “I tell ya, Adán, and don’t you forget it: McGarrick just made a huge mistake. If he keeps tying the hands of officers, things are gonna get a whole lot worse in this city. Scumbags will be shooting up the streets day and night. More than they already are, I mean.”
Behind the bar, Adán Vera kept wiping the inside of another beer mug. The stains on the rag cast doubt on whether Adán was actually cleaning the mug or not, but maybe it was the thought that counted. The muscular man was as wide as a door with the shoulders and chest of a gorilla and skin so dark his black tattoos were barely visible in the hazy light of the bar. Then again, only half of the dirty light fixtures in Taqueria Del Ranas had bulbs in them.
The polished oak bar between the two men ran the length of the wall to the right of the front door. Behind Max’s back sprawled a collection of cheap tables and wobbly chairs that either mostly matched or had fabric cushions close enough to pass for the same color.
The few customers sprinkled around the taqueria hunched over their meals. The smell of cooking meat and bitter alcohol filled the air. Flat screens on every wall played a different soccer match with Spanish audio and closed caption subtitles. The authentic Mexican cantina feel was marred only by the heavy metal playing in the back through the kitchen doors, turned up just loud enough for Adán to hear it at his bar. Despite the dilapidated look of the place, Max knew his friend took great pride in his shop and kept it as clean and repaired as his drippings from the broken economy allowed.
Adán’s shaggy black curls glistened and bounced in the greasy light as the huge man nodded along with Max’s complaints. “I know it, Max. Had a punk in here last week, little bastard pulled a gun on me when it came time to pay for lunch. For lunch! Total came to under twenty bucks, and he drew on me for it. Had to break his wrist and toss him through the door.”
“Yeah, I was wondering about the plywood.” Max shook his head as he looked down into his half-empty beer. The ex-cop bared his teeth. “I’ve been thinking about bailing out of this town. There’s got to be somewhere better.”
“I know the feeling Max, but where would you go? You got no family in the area, but are you really gonna leave the people you swore to protect just ‘cause they took your badge? That don’t sound like you.”
“I don’t know what sounds like me,” Max sighed. He pushed his beer away and leaned back on his creaky stool. “I just don’t know if there’s work for me here right now. McGarrick and his bosses make the rules. If the public really wanted different they’d raise a bigger fuss about it and get more cops on the streets.”
