BREAKING POINT (Anonymous Justice Book 1) Read online

  Breaking Point

  Anonymous Justice

  Boyd Craven Jr

  Boyd Craven III

  Contents

  Copyright

  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

  About the Author

  About the Author

  The characters and circumstances in this story are a product of the authors’ imaginations, and represent no real person, living or dead. Any real public places or names are used only to build atmosphere for the reader’s mind.

  Copyright © 2015

  Boyd Craven, Jr.

  Boyd Craven, III

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this story may be reproduced in any way without the prior written consent of the author.

  * * *

  Mailing list signup for new releases: http://eepurl.com/bghQb1

  1

  St Stanislaus Catholic Church

  Caniff Ave, Hamtramck, MI

  7:30 p.m. Friday, Dec 18th, 2015

  The last of the crowd hurried inside to find their seats in a rush of controlled chaos, just moments before the performance was to begin. The air was thick with a mixture of scents; ‘old-lady’ perfume, cigarette smoke from those who had hurriedly gotten in their last puffs before coming inside, and the garlic from the Italian food someone had just eaten. There was no lack of crowd noise as mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers and grandparents alike settled into their folding chairs, arranged on either side of a wide center aisle that led to the stage. They came to see their little first and second grader’s Catechism class put on a skit reenacting the nativity scene, in the activity center on the parish grounds, across the parking lot from the church.

  Behind the black curtains that had been set up in a U shape to represent a night-time backdrop on the stage, the children were getting ready. An occasional voice or giggle could be heard, quickly shushed by many others. In the center of the stage, lit by a dimmed spotlight, was a simple wooden stable with a straw roof and straw covered floor. Above it, on a black pole, was a large tin-foil covered star, with a flashlight taped on the back of it, shining down on the stable. Now and then an excited little face would peek through the curtains to catch a glimpse of the crowd.

  The lights in the room dimmed right on time, at 7.30 pm, signaling the crowd to be quiet, just as someone’s baby let out a long solo wail. A soft male voice filled the room through the high quality surround sound system, narrating the story of Mary and Joseph coming to Bethlehem, which was his hometown, for the census. Soft piano music set the mood in the background. As Mary and Joseph took to the stage, dressed in the traditional garb of the day, looking for a room at the inns, a young Middle Eastern-looking man rose unnoticed from the back row, and slipped quietly out of the door. He walked quickly but calmly to a black SUV that was parked in the rear of the parking lot, and got into the driver’s seat.

  Inside, onstage, Mary and Joseph were talking to the keeper of a small inn, who told them that all he had available was some room in the stable. The inn keeper exited the stage, and the spotlight increased slightly in intensity on the stable, where Joseph and Mary kneeled on either side of a doll in a manger filled with straw. The narrator explained how soon, Mary gave birth to the baby Jesus, wrapped him in strips of cloth, and laid him to bed in the manger.

  Outside, the black SUV pulled right in front of the doors, just off the sidewalk. Two figures emerged from the back seat, both exiting the driver's side door, which was left open. Both were dressed in black tactical uniforms, wore black masks beneath helmets, and had on black gloves. Each carried a black assault rifle with a large capacity magazine in place. They had extra mags velcroed to the front of their carry vests, and a black side-arm on their hips. They quickly opened the doors, rifles up, and began firing into the crowd without speaking a word. They weren’t just spraying the room, they were aiming. They targeted those adults that were closest to them in the back rows first. They got off about ten rounds apiece, before the crowd in the front realized what was happening.

  The shooter on the right paused after 20 rounds, to let the shooter on the left empty his clip, then commenced firing while the one on the left reloaded. Back and forth they went like this, shooting anyone that stood up first, but methodically working their side of the room. They killed everyone that they could, man, woman and child, working from the back of the room to the front, but they never moved further inside themselves. The children on the stage stood frozen in fear. The shooters took out Mary and Joseph both, even blasting the doll that played the part of baby Jesus. They fired four magazines apiece, or one hundred twenty rounds each, then quickly walked back out of the doors unchallenged, and smoothly re-entered the open back door of the SUV, which then drove away into the darkness.

  Unbeknownst to the gunmen, the man who was recording the nativity scene to later upload to the church's website had caught the whole thing on film. The camera operator had been shot in the chest, but he’d held his camera in place until they had left, a sucking chest wound making it almost impossible for him to breathe. He also recorded a few terse words uttered between the men when the guns weren’t firing, and they didn’t sound to the cameraman like they were English.

  Inside, the activity center was a scene of total panic and mass carnage. There were the screams of the terrified, and the gurgling moans of the dying who were choking on their own blood. The metallic clanging of folding chairs tipping over and being tossed off the bodies on the floor by desperate, sobbing people checking their loved ones for signs of life, had replaced the awful rhythmic booming sound of high caliber, semi-automatic rifle fire. The smell of burnt gunpowder, mixed with the coppery smell of blood, fresh urine, feces and vomit replaced the scents from earlier.

  A number of people who had been seated in the front-most rows, on the right side of the aisle, had been able to run into the kitchen area. The shooters had not left their position. They had not pursued them. Several were able to call 9-1-1 on their cell phones, while the shooters were still shooting. They were still talking loudly, with sobbing voices, to the emergency dispatch center, telling them what they were seeing. On the stage, broken props and collapsed curtains covered fallen little bodies too.

  On the floor in the middle of the room, were broken, bloody folding chairs with holes shot through them, scattered everywhere amidst the dead and dying. A pile of .223 shell casings littered the floor in the rear of the activity center. Some brave young men ran from the kitchen towards the back doors yelling a war cry, and intending to confront the shooters, but they were already gone. It was over.

  The first police car rolled onto the scene four minutes after the shooting had begun, but two minutes after the shooters had left. The shooters had counted on that. They knew that it would take exactly two minutes for them to burn through four magazines apiece with constant, but alternating fire. Seconds later, sirens could be heard coming from all directions as word got out about a mass shooting at the church. Police cars, emergency vehicles from fire and rescue and ambulances all came racing to the scene. They were followed shortly afterwards by the media.

  All that the survivors could tell authorities on first contact was that two or three pe
ople had burst into the room and began shooting immediately without speaking. They told police that the shooters wore black masks beneath their helmets, wore military looking gear, and were shooting military looking rifles. They didn't see where they went once they went back out the doors, as everybody had been on the ground, running away, playing dead, or trying to help others. Nobody had seen the black SUV. Their method of transportation was a total mystery.

  2

  Dharma Bednarski:

  Home in Hamtramck, MI

  8:00 p.m. Friday, Dec 18th, 2015

  Sitting in my home office, where I work as an app developer for Android devices, I get a text from a friend saying, “OMG turn on CNN right now!” I do, and I am totally horrified by what I see. Police cars, ambulances and SWAT teams fill the screen. I immediately recognize that they are all over the parking lot and the street out front of St Stanislaus Church, where my niece Gwen has a part in a Christmas skit of some sort tonight!

  I know my sister Grace and my brother-in-law Brad are there as well. Of course they would be. I was supposed to be there too, but I’ve been so swamped with work lately, that I kind of lost track of time and missed it. I feel the tears welling in my eyes, and the dam is threatening to break. I feel like someone’s punched me right in the gut. I can’t quite seem to catch my breath for the wave of overwhelming panic that’s flooding through me.

  “WTF!” I shout to no one. Nobody else is here, as usual.

  “What's wrong with these assholes?” Then I think, Holy shit, I should’ve been there. Maybe I could’ve done something...

  Now the panic is replaced by guilt. Oceans of guilt. I have no idea what to do, or which way to turn, but I find myself headed to my car.

  I’m driving like a maniac for the three miles that separate my place from the church, talking out loud to myself the whole way, it’s a wonder that I don't crash. Flashing lights are everywhere on Caniff Ave., and there’s a roadblock closing it off right at the intersection. I can't even get remotely close to the church. Out of frustration, I pull into a random driveway, and try calling Grace. It goes straight to voicemail. I try Brad’s number, and get the same results. Not knowing what else to do, I turn around and head for home.

  Back inside, I find myself just standing in front of the TV, watching CNN repeat the same pictures and information over and over while holding my cell phone in front of my face, willing it to ring, and bawling my eyes out.

  “You rotten fucks!” I shout. “Some way or another, I'm going to get you for this!”

  I’m not sure what I can really do, because I don’t own a gun or anything. I’d be afraid to even be near one. I’m not a physical kind of person, so kicking someone’s ass is pretty much out of the question, but I vow to find a way, somehow, to get the bastards that did this.

  CNN has the screen on the TV divided in two. On the right side it shows a single file line of people walking out of the activity center. They all have their hands in the air, and there are police on either side, in front, and in the rear of the line keeping them moving. The camera zooms in to their faces as they walk past. They look absolutely terrified. Most of them are covered in blood and gore, but they seem to be walking fine, if a bit mechanically. Must not be theirs, I think.

  “C’mon, be there, be there, be there!” I shout, wanting badly to see my family’s faces walk by. Sadly, I do not. “Where’s the rest of the people at, dammit? There’s a helluva lot more peeps in there than this!” I demand of the TV.

  In the box on the left side of the screen, a female news reporter is talking into the camera: “...and here we see police escorting survivors out of the building. It’s sad that I know what they’re doing right here, but unfortunately, I’ve seen enough of these incidents to know that the police are just making sure that the shooters don’t try to sneak out in the crowd, or have other members hidden in the crowd. This is just standard procedure. They bring survivors out of the building, out of sight of the gore, to be sorted out, questioned, and attended to as needed...”

  The screen changes to a full-screen picture, panning back and forth across the entire scene. SWAT began coming out of the building. The news anchor is still talking. “...and now they’re giving the all-clear sign for rescue teams and EMT personnel to assist the wounded.”

  As the stretchers began rolling out to the waiting ambulances, the camera is trying its best to capture faces. I get right up close to the TV watching for my family. Right away, I notice two things: I’m holding my breath, and all of the EMT people are coming out crying. The camera is too far away for sound, but it’s obvious that every patient that’s conscious is screaming and crying uncontrollably.

  “...sources say that there were upwards of 150 people inside the building at the time of the attack. So far, including the patients on the stretchers coming out, we count 33 leaving…”

  My heart sinks; I now fear that Grace and her family are among the dead, still inside. “You need to sit down Dharma girl, before you fall down,” I chide myself. I sit right on the floor, knees drawn up to my chin, rocking ever so slightly.

  “… our sources tell us that two or three shooters, dressed in black tactical military-type uniforms, carrying AR-type rifles, wearing black masks and black helmets burst in the doors and just began shooting everyone. Oh wait, hold on, I’m getting word in my ear that the police chief will be holding a press conference right here, in about one hour, to bring us up to date…”

  My phone rings, and scares the crap outta me. My heart races, but when I look at the screen, it is Brad’s mother, Mrs. Ciesielski calling.

  “Dharma, are you at the church?” she asks.

  “No, I couldn't get there,” I say. “I was supposed to be there for the skit, but I just didn't make it. Have you heard from Grace or Brad?”

  “No, I tried them both, but it went straight to their voicemail,” she says.

  “I looked for them in the lines of people coming out of the activity center on TV, but I didn't see them there either. I’m beginning to get a terrible feeling about this,” I say. By now, we are both crying so much, that it’s hard to understand each other. “I don't know what else to do except watch the news and wait, but that's killing me right now.”

  “Please call me right away if you hear anything Dharma, promise?”

  “Yes, of course I will,” I say, and hang up.

  I need to get up off the floor, I’m freezing. I sit down at one of my computers and get on Google. I type in the name of the church and click on the link for Maps. I switch it over to street view. It looks weird to see a nice calm empty parking lot on the screen, since know that isn't true. Old picture. I pan left and pan right to see what I can see in the surrounding area. Across the street, in the parking lot of a little shopping plaza, is an ATM machine.

  I think before I start hacking into secure data-feeds; it’s time to put my latest piece of code to the test, and see if it works as well as I hope it will. It's a piece of malware, written specifically to be used on the world's most popular social media site, targeting Android devices specifically.

  Disguised to look like an annoying risqué advertisement, it has a prominent X in upper right corner that should make one think will close it when clicked. What it really does, is if the ad is touched anywhere, it close as expected, but it will also install a tiny program that sits dormant on their device. They’ll never notice anything odd to alert them. Once a day, at a random time, the program checks to see if Wi-Fi is enabled on the device. If it is, it sends the IP address of the router that the device is connected to, and the network password saved on the device to a database I have hidden on a hacked server elsewhere. Nothing leads to me.

  I can choose any phone on that database to use, at random. Then I can pass through the associated router from my computer, and into that phone, using the saved passwords. Once inside, I can access everything on the phone, and also go back out into the Internet, as the owner of that phone - which is, of course, the real objective. Anyone that track
s what I’m doing will hit a dead-end at that phone. It’ll look like that phone is the end of the IP address chain. I will only ever use a number once and then it will be deleted from the database. It works with any Android phone, on any carrier, anywhere in the world - providing I can get them to click on that X. Even if they make or receive a call while I’m using it, they’ll never notice me. Dharma, you’re a genius!

  Almost immediately after posting that little beauty from one of the fake accounts I have on said social media site, from an IP address that is bounced all over the Internet before logging into it, I get a bite from some dork that clicks on the picture of a scantily clad girl (guys are such suckers for that) and right away I go out through his phone to begin looking for a way to hack that ATM’s video storage.

  * * *

  Later, while looking through the hard drive that contains the video from the ATM, I happen to catch a black SUV turning the corner out of the driveway across the street. That driveway is the church, and the right time stamp is right! No other vehicles come out before the police cars go in about two minutes later. I can only make out a glimpse of the license plate, and I screen capture that, so I can play with enhancing it to see it better.

  3

  Doom and Boom, Inc.

  Detroit, Michigan

  9:00 a.m. Saturday, Dec 19th, 2015

  “It happened in a church, they can’t call it workplace violence,” Diesel groused, pissed off.

  The five men had long been buddies, and had literally gone to war together. Diesel was close to six foot eight inches tall. He walked away from his final year of college on September 12th, 2011 as had Tank, Lewis, (who never ranked a nickname) Grim and Playboy. Tank had been a weld robot tech at GM, Lewis was working as an auto mechanic, Grim a Flint Police officer, and Playboy was working as a male stripper.