BREAKING POINT (Anonymous Justice Book 1) Page 5

  “I’m in,” Diesel says, a smile touching the edges of his mouth.

  “Now Lewis,” the voice says, “when you buy the other burner phones, be sure to text me the number of the next one, before disposing of the one you’re using now. Do that each time, right when we’re done with the conversation. Get me the next number right away this time. I’ll wait for it before I ditch mine. Understand?”

  “Yeah,” Lewis answers.

  “Mike, watch the news and watch over your friend Will,” the voice says. “I have a feeling that things are going to get pretty hot for him.”

  “I think so too, but--”

  I hear the click as the call drops, and then my cell phone starts buzzing. I pull it out and watch as the phone reboots itself. “Dammit, I hope I didn’t just lose all my contacts,” I complain.

  “Do you think he did the DVR as well?” Diesel asks.

  “If he’s good enough to hack into a place like this, and a traffic or ATM camera, then yeah. He don’t want to leave a trail either,” Lewis says.

  “What’s our exposure, between us that that person?” Diesel asks.

  “Until we text the number of the next burner and destroy this one, zero,” Lewis assures him.

  “Or until he figures out who we really are,” Diesel grouses. He picks up the photocopies from the counter, folds them, and puts them in his pocket.

  “He probably already has. Just don’t lose that burner until you text him the next number,” I say.

  “That makes sense, but your ass is still here, Lewis! Go grab some more burners and set up the next one with him. I’ll go wake up the guys. It’s time to sober them up with some of Momma’s hangover tonic.”

  Lewis smiles wickedly. “They’re gonna puke just smelling you make that.”

  “It’ll do them pansies good. Drinking half a case of beer each, and being that hung over…” Diesel says with a chuckle.

  I feel a chill, and remember Lewis’s order.

  “Hey Lewis, you still want that ammo?”

  “Naw, man. I’ll see you on the range here shortly. Later.”

  “I’m out too. Just play this as if nothing’s happened, and watch the news,” Diesel holds his hand out.

  I shake hands with him, my hand almost crushed by the silent power of the big man. He’s smiling, but it’s not a smile that’s designed to make people smile back. He’s thinking about things to come. Maybe he knew people at the church as well. No matter what, I haven’t done anything wrong, so I decide not to worry about it. I’ll just worry about how to get Will out of the hospital.

  “Take it easy, big man.”

  “Count on it,” he says and leaves.

  10

  Dharma and Jade:

  Home in Hamtramck, MI

  12:15 p.m. Sunday, Dec 20th, 2015

  “Did you see the size of that black guy Diesel?” Jade stammers. “He’s huge! His muscles have muscles!” She’s twirling her bangs on the right side of her face and smiling like a schoolgirl. I know what that means… I know all of this girl’s secrets.

  “Oh, put your eyes back in their sockets, horny-girl. You’re never gonna meet him. Hell, they all think they were talking to a dude, anyhow. The voice synthesizer worked perfect. I’m noting the settings, so I make sure I sound the same - if I ever talk to them again,” I say. “There’s all kinds of cool shit we can do, going out to cell phones from a computer.”

  “Your little program is a thing of beauty, that’s for sure. So, you’ll just come at them from a different phone number from your secret stash on the database each time, and what, have them text you the next burner number before they ditch each one?”

  “Exactly. No way can that ever lead back to us, or get them in any hot water. It’s just random phone numbers, connecting to their burners, which I’m sure these guys are smart enough to dispose of properly. There won’t even be any record on the log of the phone we’re going out through. Having the two extra guys there at the gun shop, looking like the bad-asses I’m sure they are, was incredibly lucky for us. I think we’ve stumbled into the perfect situation here.”

  “Yeah, most people think hacking is all magical and mystical,” Jade answers. “They don’t realize that, while there’s admittedly some genius parts to it, most of it is good old-fashioned grunt work and brainpower, mixed with an extra-large helping of luck.”

  “Speaking of luck; I hope this phone’s battery doesn’t die before Lewis texts the next number back. That’s one thing that we just can’t control.”

  “So add a line that captures the battery charge gauge to your code, genius,” Jade suggests.

  “Doh! Why didn’t I think of that?!”

  “While you’re at it, add an ‘if-then’ condition to turn the rear camera on and off, if there is one, so we can see the environment without them knowing. We can see what’s going on where the phone is that way,” Jade added.

  “We’ve always made such a good team Jade. You wanna partner up with me on this Anonymous Justice thingy?”

  “Hell yes I do! Ooh, and that’s a good name too. Anonymous Justice. It has a good ring to it! I have a request though. Can I bring some of my hardware over here? We both still have to pay our bills. This isn’t gonna do that.”

  “For sure,” I agree, and a pact is formed between two best friends. “You wanna stay over tonight and work on the code with me?”

  “If you’ll make a pot of coffee and let me use your shower, it’s a deal. I just got a whiff of myself, and it wasn’t a good thing!”

  “Of course I will, and yeah, I was gonna talk to you about your stank…” I say, grinning. She hit me! I hear a ‘ping’ from my desktop, and the next phone number is on the screen. I send back everything we have on the targets, in a series of texts. Then I say, ‘If you have any questions, now’s the time. If not, hit me back with the next number.’ I wait less than a minute before I get another ‘ping’ and the next number appears on my screen.

  I go about making the coffee, and hear the shower start up. “I’ll get you some clean clothes,” I yell at the bathroom door.

  “Thanks.”

  Heh, and something skimpy, at that, I think, with a naughty grin.

  * * *

  We wake up at the crack of noon and decide that we need to eat before moving Jade’s stuff over here. “Let’s just stop at a restaurant on the way, ok?” I ask. “I don’t think either of us ate anything yesterday!”

  “That’s cool,” she mumbles, “not much of a morning person here.”

  I finish pulling on a clean pair of jeans, and picking up a pillow from the bed, I say, “You’re a bed-hog is what you are!” as I bust her one with it.

  11

  William David:

  Hamtramck General Hospital

  10:00 a.m. Tuesday, Dec 22nd, 2015

  I’ve been at the hospital for two days, probably a day longer than I needed to, but the doctor has been trying to keep me as safe as he can. The ADA has indicated in a press conference that me walking out with a gun on my hip was being seen as an inciting action. My argument with the protestors had been unnecessary, and that my words on camera spewed anti-Muslim hate speech.

  I’m floored and sickened. I’ve always thought of myself as a pretty decent guy. I don’t hate anybody because of their race or religion. I never considered that telling that man to “fuck off and fuck Muhammad” would be looked at as hate speech, and get me labeled as a racist. How can merely walking out in public with my gun visibly strapped to my waist be an inciting action? The ADA is arguing that I have my CCW/CPL, yet choose to open carry. Yeah bubba, you can’t conceal a big gun like that Raging Judge without some serious work, and with the city turning to shit, I wanted the extra firepower available.

  That’s why when Mike shows up to spring me from the hospital, I’m more than ready to go. He’d flat out refused to be interviewed and has had to close the store for a day, for crime scene investigators and police to go through everything and talk to the staff. My doctor has made th
em wait to talk to me, but I had to promise to go to the station as soon as I’m discharged.

  “You ready to go, Will?” Mike asks, when the doctor finally lets him in.

  “Yeah, but uh… did you bring any clothes?” I ask.

  I’d been able to get a nurse to get a message to him, because my clothing and phone were taken by the police as evidence. Hell, they even took my gun, and I feel naked without it.

  “Didn’t know your size, so I got you some sweats.”

  “That works. Shoes?”

  He pulls out a pair of boots and thick athletic socks from a bag and places everything on the end of the bed.

  “Do you need a hand?”

  I shake my head. “Naw, I’m mostly just banged up. Light concussion is why they kept me so long,” I lie.

  “Is that what made you pass out?” Mike asks, as I take the hospital gown off over my head and pull the sweater on.

  “No, the doctor thinks it was shock mostly.”

  “So it has nothing to do with the fact you had, like, seven people stomping the shit out of your head… Yeah… Sure.”

  “I didn’t know it was seven,” I say, finishing getting dressed. “I just…”

  “I know man, I know,” he said, putting a hand on my shoulder.

  “How bad is this going to be?”

  “Do you have a lawyer?” he asks and, for the hundredth time since the shooting, fear - real fear - shoots through my veins.

  “No. I’m kinda a paycheck to paycheck kinda guy.”

  “You make enough to live large, yet you drive a shitty Toyota and have a tiny apartment.”

  “That’s because I’m paying off my cabin up north,” I tell him, smiling just thinking about it.

  What I don’t tell him, was that it is a little more than a cabin. I’ve been stockpiling my long-term storage food there, and extra firearms and ammunition, in case the SHTF. I’ve been a prepper my whole life, but I never realized it until they made a TV series about it. Then books like Lights Out and One Second After were published and brought the reality home to a lot of folks in the good ol’ USA.

  I’d found myself a pretty awesome spot. The cabin had been built many years ago using old railroad ties, with lengths of re-rod nailing everything together. There is almost no chinking, and I spent the past summer furring out the interior walls with 2x6s on end, to add insulation. Some farmer’s hunting shack has become my fallback location. The creosote darkened log cabin sits up on a hill, the last driveway on a dead end road that goes nowhere. I can’t even see my next neighbor. I only own a few acres, but I’m surrounded by farmland and state land. It is quiet and secluded. I’m three payments away from being mortgage free, and I’ve already stockpiled a few years’ worth of food. It has a new well and septic system and, unless an EMP hits, I’m pretty well set.

  “You have another place?” he asks, disbelief in his voice.

  I snap my mouth shut. Operational security. Mike is one of my friends and, even though he owns a gun shop, would it make sense to let him know about my plans? The couple of times I’ve broached the subject of preparedness with him, he’s laughed it off, and asked me if it was anything like “Doomsday Preppers”. I can’t convince him that preppers aren’t all whack jobs like some of the people on TV. I’m more of the ‘have a backup plan in case the city turns to shit’ kind… and here it is, turning to shit. Already, a terrorist threat in the form of the church shooting has people on edge; now I’ve killed three people and the nonstop news coverage pretty much has me sweating bullets and wanting to hide.

  “Yeah, an old hunting shack really. Next to some state land.”

  “Good for you. You might need that for a little bit,” he says, offering me a hand.

  I take it, and he helps me to my feet. I’ve been in fights growing up, but not since I turned 18, and let me tell you, getting thoroughly stomped and kicked hurts. My torso and parts of my head and face are purple and yellow from the bruising that seems to be making my skin rainbow colored. My ribs are a mass of pain.

  “What do you mean?” I ask, already shaking from the fear and adrenaline.

  “We’re not heading out the front doors. I talked to your doctor, and we’re gonna go out a different exit. We’ve got this planned out,” Mike tells me.

  “What?”

  Mike opens the door and Doctor Rasmussen is there.

  “Here’s the wheelchair, as promised,” he says, and I groan.

  I had argued against the wheelchair, but now that he mentions it, my legs are a bit rubbery, and if it makes my ribs not scream bloody murder, I’ll sit in the damn thing.

  “Ok Doc, now what the hell is going on?” I demand.

  The two men give each other long looks, and then the doc points to the chair. I sit, grumbling the whole time.

  “You’ve been watching the national news,” Doctor Rasmussen says. “They have picked up what the local news already is reporting.”

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “There’s a media circus, and a large protest downstairs by the lobby, waiting for you. We’re going out the back door to where Mike has parked his truck in the loading docks. It’s in a different building, but the utility tunnels connect everything here. You’ll be in the truck and gone before the mob even finds out you’re leaving. Oh, and I might have leaked that we’re discharging you an hour from now.”

  “Thanks doc,” I say, feeling less pissed, now that I had seen how much trouble they had gone through on my behalf.

  “Yeah, yesterday was fun at the shop,” Mike says, “but it’s nothing like the crowd out in front of it now. I called LaGuardia Security and had them send me two goons with CCWs. If they would carry shotguns, I’d hand those out as well. It’s kept everyone polite, at least inside the building.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, feeling horrible. I feel bad that I’ve been such a royal pain in the ass the past two days.

  “Don’t feel sorry, you did what a lot of the silent majority would have done,” Rasmussen says from behind me.

  Mike walked next to us, and he shot me a look that I couldn’t make out. Fear?

  “Will, do you want me to get one of the guys to take your Toyota back to your apartment?” he asks.

  “Yeah, if you don’t mind,” I say, digging for my keys in the big pockets of the sweat pants and handing them over.

  “I don’t know if the media knows what you drive or not, but if it looks like we’re going to get followed, I’ll do it later on tonight.”

  “How long do you think I’ll be at the police department?” I ask, kinda shocked.

  I mean, I’d need a ride home from the police department after making my statement, but surely it wouldn’t be something that would take all day or all night.

  “You have a good lawyer, don’t you?” Rasmussen asks.

  “No. Shit. You two think this is going to be that bad?”

  “An hour ago, while you were getting your x-rays, the Attorney General mentioned your case specifically. Said the DOJ is going to be investigating it, to see if it’s hate crime. President Obama of course, stuck his--”

  “What?” I all but shouted.

  “With the supposed terrorists shooting up the church, and you killing three Muslim protesters, they say it looks like a ‘right wing wacko’ decided to get a little revenge.”

  “They’re already trying me in the court of public opinion?” I ask, shocked.

  “Yes,” Rasmussen says.

  I feel sick again, like when the bang to my head had made me puke nonstop for hours. My simple anonymous life seemed to be over. Of all the things a prepper could ever want or need, publicity isn’t one of them. I’d been horrified when I saw the case mentioned by the national news media, coming so close to the terrorist attack… But the liberal media had written it off as another violent crime in a Detroit suburb. Now, it looks like the liberal media progressive agenda has locked me in its sights, and made me… well, it sounds like they're trying to make this a political rallying point. />
  “You know, I can call that Second Amendment lawyer that stops into the shop and range once a month. Maybe he’ll—“ Mike starts to say.

  “Yeah, call him. Shit man, what am I gonna do?” I ask as we step into the elevator.

  Rasmussen hits the B button, and we start down. I begin to sweat, because nobody has answered me. Maybe they’re just as clueless as me?

  “Maybe he’ll do it pro-bono,” Rasmussen says, “or you could take a mortgage out on your house, write him a promissory note?”

  “Oh God,” I say, feeling like sobbing, as a thousand angry and ugly thoughts go through my head.

  “Maybe it won’t be that bad. You saw the video clip a thousand times by now I bet?” Mike asks, as the door dings open.

  “Yeah, yeah I did.”

  It’d been surreal to see that clip. It was undoubtedly me on the screen, but it didn’t feel like me. I’d been blocked from leaving, and the camera followed me as the people closed ranks, forming a tight circle. Parts of the words were cut off, but the part they always played was me shouting, “fuck you and fuck Muhammad!”, bleeping out the curse words, of course. It turned out to be a good thing that I don’t have a Twitter or Facebook account, because according to the last news report I saw, things were ugly on there too. People calling for me to be lynched, calling me a racist and bigot.

  All I want to do is to go home, get my gear, and spend a quiet Sunday at the cabin, without having to deal with all of this in addition to having a half beaten-to-death body.

  “If the police or prosecution has any--”

  “Prosecution?” I interrupt.

  “Well, the DA is probably going to be there. This is big news, and if the President is putting pressure on them…” Mike’s words trail off, and then he continues: “I think the video clearly shows self-defense. You did everything exactly like I would have done. You said your piece when he spit in your face, and then tried to get out of the fight. The dickwad behind you is the one they should be prosecuting; he started the entire physical side of the altercation.”