Due Recompense: Justice In Its Rawest Form

by Jason Trevor

  As she was lost in thought and barely paying attention to the little girl, the boom caught her completely off guard. From the back of Joey’s and Kanya’s house, she saw what looked like a pale blue coke can shooting into the sky. It erupted through the roof, spraying roof tiles and chunks of wood in all directions and leaving a trail of steam.

  The can sailed hundreds of feet into the air, making a small arc, and then crashed into the street in front of Shaniqua and her baby. She screamed, scooped up the little girl, and ran into her house.

  ◆◆◆

  Cody stood a few feet inside of the crime scene tape, scribbling notes into another new little spiral. Lieutenants Lakefield and Franks stood a few feet away in a huddle with Johnny Le. A medical examiner came out of the house and approached the trio. Cody moved that way to join them.

  “Major trauma to most of his body,” mumbled the ME. “The blast was so sudden and so violent that most of his major organs were instantly destroyed. The body is so disfigured that we’ll need to use DNA for identification. Fingerprints are long gone, and the jaw bone is in too many pieces to get a definitive ID using dental records. The gold teeth will help, but a lot of people have gold teeth. The identifying information that we do have matches him to the owner of the place, according to the description Sims gave me,” he droned. “It was a helluva blast. Unbelievably, most of the force of the blast was vertical, blowing the hole in the roof. He had to have been right next to it when it went off, because most of the damage to the house is in and around that one room,” A crime scene investigator had wandered into the group as well, and was listening.

  “Are we talking military-grade explosives?” asked Franks, trying not-so-subtlely to lean into the Danton angle.

  “No way,” chimed in the CSI. “Not even homebrew. There’s no sign of explosives in there at all. No smell, no residue, no bomb components. Nothing,”

  “What the hell?” Lakefield was confused, verbally expressing the same sentiment as the others.

  “I think I know,” Chimed in Sims. They all turned to him, curious for an explanation. “Have you looked at that water heater yet?” He asked the crime scene investigator as he pointed at the dented and partly crushed water heater tank up the street inside of the tape.

  “That’s my next stop,”

  “All of the plumbing connections are cut off and capped, even the safety mechanisms. The water heater was turned into a bomb while the power was out. Once the electricity was turned back on, the bomb was armed. It only took until the water was heated enough to build up too much pressure in the tank… boom. I’ll bet you’ll find the water heater’s wiring tampered with so that it heated all the time instead of turning off once the water got hot,”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” breathed Johnny. “All it took was a little bit of plumbing and a little bit of wiring and someone made an easy homemade bomb!”

  “I don’t mind pointing out the elephant in the room,” said Franks. “Would Danton know how to do this?”

  “An EOD would, most likely,” interjected Le. Lakefield nodded in agreement.

  “Was Danton ever an EOD?”

  “What’s EOD?” asked Cody.

  “Explosive ordinance disposal. It’s the military’s bomb squad,” answered Le.

  “No, Danton was a TACP,” pointed out Cody. Franks raised a questioning eyebrow. “Best I can tell from my research is that it’s kind of the Air Force version of an infantryman. They do a lot of joint operations embedded with Army and Marine infantry units,”

  “That’s about right. We had a few TACP’s come and go in my cav unit in Afghanistan. Crazy guys. Ain’t afraid of nothin’. I don’t think any of them would know how to turn a hot water heater into a bomb, though,”

  “Yeah, but Danton is a trained engineer,” commented Sims. All of them slowly inhaled and leaned back slightly as the light bulbs lit in their heads simultaneously.

  Chapter 19

  “I got another call from our friend at HPD a few minutes ago,” snickered William after Joe ushered him into his hotel room.

  “He’s a dog with a bone, isn’t he?” laughed Joe.

  “Did you,” William paused, afraid to finish his sentence because it sounded so incredible to him. “Did you turn a hot water heater into a time bomb?”

  Joe looked up from his room service menu, acting like he wasn’t sure what he had just heard. “Did I what?”

  “Detective Sims called my office today, telling me that someone rewired one of those gang guys’ water heater while he was in jail and his electricity was off. As soon as the electricity was on, it blew up and killed him,”

  “Oh, that water heater! Sure, I did. Did I get one of them? Great! It would have been a real waste of a B&E if it just blew up in an empty house,”

  “You’re not going to stop, are you?”

  “Absolutely, I am, once every last carcass with two B’s and a three tattooed on it is in the ground,”

  ◆◆◆

  “Wow, what’s this stuff used for?” asked the clerk as he grabbed the package of aluminum powder off of the counter to ring up.

  “Smelting,” Joe smiled. He supposed that the clerk at a craft store couldn’t possibly know the use for every single item in the store. This pimply-faced guy was pretty young, barely a teenager.

  “What’s that?”

  “You melt it and pour it into molds to make statues or trinkets and things. I’m going to pour it into an ant mound to make a mold of all of their tunnels. Look it up online. They’re pretty cool,”

  “…and the steel wool?”

  “That’s just for polishing up the finished product. I don’t actually need this jumbo economy-sized package of 200 pads. I’m just stocking up. The modeling clay is to make a pottery-type base for it,”

  “Ah, I see. People come through here buying supplies for some pretty crazy ideas. That’s the wildest one I’ve ever heard,”

  “Well, you’re still young. Give it some time,” Joe paid in cash and hurried out the door. It was a long drive back to his side of town, and he had selected this particular craft store for its distant proximity and its lack of security cameras.

  After a quick stop at a big-box store for a kitchen scale, he drove back to his warehouse and got to work, first by turning to the milk crate of Tannerite exploding targets he had mixed up in small white canvas sacks the day before. There was one can of the black spray paint left. He wanted them dark-colored. When he was done shooting all of the bundles a semi-covered, messy black color, he turned his attention to the steel wool. He unpacked the new little digital scale on a steel workbench that had come with the warehouse and put batteries in it, then set an old metal bucket on top of it. He pressed the tare button and the scale obediently zeroed out. Digging a 9-volt battery from his pants pocket and a steel wool pad from the giant package, he carefully touched the two contacts of the battery to the steel wool while holding it over the bucket. The strands of steel between the battery’s poles glowed for a few seconds, smoked, and then erupted into a tiny flame, which quickly began to spread across the pad. Dropping it into the bucket to burn, he added another pad, which also quickly lit on fire. Joe slowly added the pads, one at a time, until the entire package of them was burned, leaving a crusty black powder in the bottom of the bucket. Checking the scale again, he had managed to produce just under two pounds of black iron oxide. Red would be better, but he didn’t want to wait for days or weeks that vinegar or peroxide would take. Setting the bucket aside, he laid the cellophane package from the steel wool flat on the top of the scale and zeroed it again, then he slowly poured aluminum powder onto the package until the scale reported 10 ounces. After unwrapping one of the packages of modeling clay, he rolled it flat on the workbench with a rolling pin, shaping the clay into a big square, about a quarter-inch thick. Carefully lifting the package by the corners, he gently poured it into the bucket. Laying the bucket on its side, he rolled it back and forth on the table, tumbling the contents until they were a consist
ent powder. Then he delicately poured the powder all over the clay square, spreading it evenly and leaving a one-inch border around the edges. After it was evenly spread all over the clay, he rolled the clay into a spiral small log, like a salted nut roll, but with clay and grimy powder instead of nuts and nougat. He folded the log in half, pressed it as flat as he could with his hands, then rolled it into a square again with the baking pin. He rolled it up again and repeated the process, then again, and again, and then a fifth time for good measure. He snatched up another canvas sack from the package on the floor by the milk crate, gently wadded the clay into a ball, and stuffed it into the bottom of the sack, tying the neck into a knot like the others.

  ◆◆◆

  The two-story building just a couple of blocks off of Emancipation was abandoned and covered with graffiti. The pathetic padlock on the front door had required nothing more than two blows to pop open, and Joe now found himself on the roof, watching the sky turn dim and hazy as sundown approached.

  The building’s parapet was about two feet tall, the perfect height. A dead rooftop air conditioning unit ten paces from the edge made a perfect sniper’s nest, where the muzzle and flash of his M&P would not be visible from the street. Two blocks to the East were a pair of seedy hip-hop bars across the street from each other. Next door to one was a dirty little auto repair shop with a single bay door. The door was halfway open, with the tail end of a familiar Monte Carlo protruding from it. Thump and Bullet milled around by an open rear car door. A pair of legs protruded from the door, belonging to someone working on the subwoofers. Two other guys that Joe had never seen before were standing on the other side of the car, talking through the open window to the person laying down inside. Peering through the M&P’s scope, Joe looked closely at the unfamiliar pair. Both bore the tattoo on their necks.

  “That ink is a mark of death now, guys,” Joe muttered to no one. “You might want to invest in some turtlenecks,” He set the rifle down and picked up his modified AR-15 from next to it, with the M203 grenade launcher and a recently acquired holographic scope attached. He grabbed one of several 40mm grenades that he had lined up on top of the air conditioner, slid the barrel forward, pushed the munition into the chamber, and latched it back again. Then he pushed a one hundred round drum into the bottom of the gun, chambered it, and set it back down.

  The fun would begin soon…

  ◆◆◆

  Thump hitched his oversized basketball shorts back up around the middle of his buttocks again. They kept falling down, from wearing them so low to show off his boxers, but they didn’t have belt loops to tighten them down at just the right height. He had to keep fixing them. Letting them get too low also caused them to block the new tat on his left calf, which he was very proud of. He was the group’s DJ at parties, and the caricature of himself smiling through gold teeth over a pair of turntables with a naked woman on his arm was exactly how he saw himself. He was deliberately keeping his back to the street so that any passers-by would see the new ink. He and the others were, in fact, so preoccupied with the car’s stereo and his new ink that they didn’t even notice the small painted-black burlap sacks stuffed in between the burglar bars and the dirty glass of the windows on either side of the roll-top door.

  ◆◆◆

  “What the hell is that supposed to be?” Joe mused to himself, peering again through the scope at Thump’s calf. “You’re probably not as good of a DJ as you think you are if your resume is on your calf!”

  It made a perfect target.

  ◆◆◆

  Everyone on the street heard the crack of the rifle but didn’t recognize the sound. It echoed over the rooftops and down the street. It took a few seconds after Thump’s calf had exploded before he felt it, then he dropped on the spot to the dirty pavement, screaming. He still didn’t know what had happened, but flames of pain were shooting up his leg and paralyzing his back. The three others ran to him as the fourth scrambled out of the car to see what was going on, confirming for Joe that he also had the Blood Brothers’ tattoo on his neck. A commotion ensued, as none of them were entirely sure what had happened or what was going on.

  Another crack. A small hole appeared on the bare chest of the one who had been in the car. He stood still for a split-second, looking dazed, and dropped a heavy wire crimper that he had been holding at his side. A red spray had erupted from his back and splattered the inside of the car and the door panel, and he slunk into a heap on the ground next to the screaming Thump.

  A third and fourth crack rang out, followed by the windows on either side of the roll-top erupting in a spray of glass with ear-splitting booms and a plume of smoke.

  Panic ensued. Everyone on the street found their way into the nearest door. The three Blood Brothers left standing grappled and bumped into each other, slammed the car’s door, and dragged the other two inside of the roll-top as they ran for cover, leaving the lower part of Thump’s leg, with the foot still in the sneaker, outside by the car.

  There were a few seconds of quiet. Bullet made a movement to run outside and grab the leg and shoe, but another crack shredded the flesh even more and it skittered under the car, leaving a trail of blood and tissue. Bullet retreated back into the garage.

  ◆◆◆

  Joe chambered the M&P one last time, but set it down and picked up the AR. Peering through the holographic sight, he fired the M203 toward the opening in the roll-top. The slow-moving grenade took a few seconds to arrive at its mark, passing over the roof of the car and glancing off of the hood into the depths of the garage. The whump sound of the mortar charge detonating was subdued from being inside of the building, but the sudden eruption of screams from inside of the garage made it clear that at least a few of them had taken shrapnel, despite the small blast radius of the 40mm shell.

  Flicking the thumbswitch to auto, Joe trained the holo-scope on the street beyond the car and waited. This had been a complete turkey-shoot so far. Once he had some moving targets in the street, he would spray the street with his hundred rounds and see if he managed to hit any. As expected, three bodies scrambled into the street in terror. They were moving too fast for Joe to make out who was who, but one was bleeding down the entire right side of his body from the shrapnel punctures. One was holding his face, and the other seemed unscathed. Joe squeezed the trigger and began spraying all around them. They ran in opposite directions, doubled back, tripped over each other, and zigzagged back and forth in the street in confusion as .223 caliber lead slugs rained around them. One round found a mark into the side of someone’s rib cage as he ran. He immediately sprawled onto the pavement and lay still, except for an occasional twitch from his foot. The other 99 rounds didn’t find a mark, only serving as grazing fire.

  Pushing the M203 barrel forward, Joe quickly replaced the spent shell with a fresh one and yanked the chamber shut. Taking a few slow seconds to find a spot, he squeezed his left index finger and fired the next grenade at an empty spot in the middle of the street. It boomed and erupted into its small spray of shrapnel, but not close enough to hit anyone. It was, however, enough to keep anyone still standing ducked behind cover.

  Audible sirens were now approaching from a distance to the West and South. Time was up. Joe broke down the AR and the M&P, stuffing their parts into a backpack along with the unspent grenades. Carefully counting, Joe gathered up all 105 shell casings into the backpack and hurried to the open roof hatch, closing it as he descended the ladder and hearing the approach of a helicopter.

  Peeking out through a rip in the paper covering the front door of the building, Joe watched a police cruiser zip past with its lights and siren blaring, followed closely by an ambulance. Emancipation was otherwise deserted. Slipping out the door, he headed West, toward the dingy gas station where he had parked the Suburban. This would be the most dangerous part of the evening. Being caught walking through Third Ward with a backpack full of evidence would be the end of things for him, and it was hard to look nondescript. The streets were deserted as peopl
e cowered indoors and he was sure he stood out like a sore thumb. He bent over slightly into a ducking posture and began to trot. As he approached a street corner, a police cruiser whipped around it. The driver spotted him, screeched to a stop, and leaned out his window.

  “Hey!” shouted the cop. “We have an active shooter on the loose around here. Get indoors!”

  “I heard the shots over that way,” Joe pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “I’m trying to get the hell out of here!”

  “You find a safe place indoors right now. You can get out of the area after we drive through announcing an all-clear on our speakers. Get off of the street,”

  “I don’t know anyone around here!” Joe motioned to the houses and apartments up and down the street. “Can I at least get to the gas station up there?” He pointed. The cop sighed, fully aware that no one was going to answer their door to a stranger right now.

  “Fine. Hurry!”

  “Yes, sir!” Joe broke into a sprint to cover the last 2 blocks to the gas station and his truck as the police car sped away in the opposite direction.

  Chapter 20

  Biggie sat at the end of the interrogation table in a folding chair, with his poorly bandaged foot extended under the table in front of him but off to one side to make room for the feet of Bullet, Needle, and Kanya, who slouched in folding chairs of their own, lined up on the long side of the table. Needle bore a fresh square of gauze taped to his cheek, with a red dot in the middle where blood had soaked through. Detectives Sims and Le stood at the other long side of the table, and Lieutenants Lakefield and Franks stood by the wall near the door. Near the adjacent wall was a tiny woman in a hurriedly-assembled skirt-suit, with a leather attaché case leaning against the wall next to her and a yellow legal pad cradled in one arm as she scribbled notes on it. The little interrogation room was crowded.