BREAKING POINT (Anonymous Justice Book 1) Read online

  “Unless you have it unlisted, your address will be in the phone book.”

  “Oh geeze,” I say, feeling dumb. “I never… I mean…” I pull out my cell phone and set it on the table. “With these things, I forget all about phone books. I’m sorry.”

  “So, they came to your house. I’m guessing you also got a ton of phone calls?” Detective Miller asks.

  “Yeah, one psycho lady, several death threats, and I figured it was time to bug out. I mean, I didn’t want a repeat of the gun shop. Somebody might try to provoke something, and then I’m right back where I was yesterday. So, I headed out to someplace ninety minutes away from home.”

  “Do you have somebody who can provide an alibi for you?” Miller asks.

  I nod, and then think about it, and smile. I can give him the farmer’s cell phone number. He rarely uses it, but I’d tooted my horn as I drove past, and I’m sure he saw the lights on at the cabin. He barely gets signal there; I am even further down the road, and can’t at all. If I’m lucky, and he has good signal today, I can have him alibi me, without getting Mike dragged through my mess again. There is already a pen and a pad of paper on the table, so I write down his number.

  “Mr. Averil?” he asks me, an eyebrow raised.

  “Yeah, I don’t know his first name. He’s a bit older, so don’t be surprised if he asks you to speak up. Also, if he doesn’t pick up right away, call right back. He doesn’t use his phone much, if at all. I just hope it’s on,” I tell him, knowing it most likely isn’t.

  I wait, and Detective Miller pulls out his cell phone, and dials.

  “Mr. Averil? Yes, Detective Miller of the Hamtramck Police Department. Yes, yes, Police. Listen, do you know a William David? You do. Do you know where he was last night? Uh huh,” Miller says, writing notes furiously. “Uh, and where is that exactly? The ‘ass-crack-of-the-thumb’ does not exactly qualify as an address, sir. What do you mean you have Alzheimer’s? Oh, ok. Funny. Mr. David was at the cabin? Yes? Thank you sir.”

  He flips the phone closed and gives me a look.

  “What?” I ask him, grinning.

  Mr. Averil hates dealing with any sort of law enforcement, and probably played difficult the entire conversation. I can’t wait to tell Mike about his description of his hometown…

  “Your neighbor is very colorful. He says there is no address where you live, more like a plot number, in the Sanilac county records.”

  “Yup,” I say.

  “Can you show me on a map?” he asks.

  “I’m sure I could,” I tell him.

  “Would you?” Miller asks.

  “Probably not. I do have another person who ended up staying at the cabin as well, because it was too dark to drive out…”

  “Listen,” he says softly, pulling his chair up close, and leaning towards me. “The only reason you are a person of interest in this, is because the ADA is getting pressure to do something. Loretta Lynch the FED is now breathing down our necks because of the church shooting, and how civilians figured it out, and then took them out. I don’t know if you’ve seen the TV or listened to the radio, but the evidence is airtight. It was them and, with what we found on the scene, we have leads to investigate for more terror suspects. What we don’t have is who did the takedown. I think it’s stupid to drag you through this, because there’s no way you did that, after having your head treated like a soccer ball.”

  “Thank you,” I say, suddenly feeling grateful.

  “Listen, it’s up to you. We can wait for the lawyer and the ADA, but I swear I’m not going to leak your cabin’s location. I’d look like a fool if I told the media that you were in the ‘ass-crack-of-the-thumb’, right?”

  I snicker. “Yeah, that does sound pretty bad. I really don’t have a mailbox, and I’d really like to keep things quiet.”

  “Ok, let’s write out your statement, and you include Mr. Averil’s name and number, and your friend…”

  “It was Mike Thor,” I admit. “I just don’t want him to go through any more shit because of me. If I hadn’t yelled ‘Fuck Muhammad’, things might be different.”

  “Listen, words alone don’t make you deserve to have been beaten nearly to death. If it were up to me, I never would have pressed, but I’m just a cog in a bigger machine.”

  Detective Miller’s words put me at ease quite a bit.

  * * *

  In less than an hour, I’m done. The ADA promises to put out a press release that I was not involved, and have been cleared in the shooting. Her boss, the DA, hadn’t been aware that I am still injured (dumbass!) or that her actions have caused me actual stress, anxiety, etc. If anything, the city is in a mess, and the city’s bigwigs are worried about a lawsuit all the way around. Now, they’re worried that if somebody shoots their mouth off, it could cause larger issues for them.

  I had kind of shot my mouth off, and it almost cost me my life. It did cost the lives of three others I’d had to kill to save myself. I find the world to be a very strange place lately. With my boss Mike’s blessing, I plan to take a bunch of time off, to spend at the cabin. Just to rest and relax, and not have to worry about the whole mess. Hell, I think I’ll take a ton of books up with me, and just kill the radio, so no outside interference or worries would bug me.

  For once, the bitterly cold December air doesn’t bug me as I open the doors and head towards my car. I breathe in deeply. The cops aren’t worried about my involvement, and the media and protestor frenzy will stop just as soon as they do that press release.

  “What the…” I say aloud, as squealing tires interrupt my thoughts, while I wait for the crosswalk signal.

  I look up as the side door of a plain white van opens, and somebody leans out, holding an AK-47. I start to leap to the side, but before I can, it feels like a hammer hits me three times in the stomach and chest. Curious about the burning itching sensation, I try to look down, but my head hits the pavement. It doesn’t hurt much. They must have shot me. Right in front of the police station, they--

  19

  Doom and Boom, Inc.

  Detroit, MI

  12:15 p.m. Wednesday, Dec 23rd, 2015

  “Diesel, man you gotta come take a look at this!” Tank bellowed.

  “What is…? Mother-fucker!” he screamed at the TV.

  Thor’s Gun Shop was up in flames and there were bodies on the ground. Playboy pushed Tank out of the way and turned up the volume.

  “…a protest at a controversial gun shop where, just days ago, an employee gunned down three Muslim-Americans, has turned deadly once again. Protestors showed up about thirty minutes ago, and were met by a counter-protest group who started screaming racial slurs, and displayed their form of bigoted hatred. It appears from a YouTube video that’s gone up, that several Molotov cocktails were thrown through the glass doors, and gunfire has once again rocked our city.

  “Owner Mike Thor was last seen driving out of here in a cube van, before things turned deadly. Firefighters on the scene are leery of getting too close, because of fears of ammunition cooking off and the building literally blowing up like a bomb. A curious thing is how long it took police to respond. Our news crew was onsite long before the HPD was. According to the newly famous blog, Anonymous Justice, the police were alerted in advance that protestors planned to firebomb the shop. This will, I’m sure, be investigated.

  “This is Marie Krantz, and we’ll continue to bring you live coverage as more information becomes available.”

  The team watched as the screen switched to repeats of YouTube videos, captured moments ago by various civilians with cell phones. As the two groups came together, gunfire could be heard, and people could be seen running. Flames licked the edges of the gun shop in one video, which seemed to be taken from some height. Another showed a woman with a Hajib pulling a long knife from her robes, and an angry opposing protestor pulling a pistol from his hip, shooting her, and then walking on.

  It was worse than any live-leak video they had ever seen, and they had seen a
lot. Open warfare, right there in the city of Hamtramck, and Mike’s shop being left to burn itself out.

  “This is No Bueno,” Playboy said.

  “I gotta call Mike,” Diesel said.

  He pulled his phone out of his pocket and speed dialed Mike’s number. He knew he probably should have used a burner, but he was worried, and pissed, and….

  “Hello?” Mike answered, his voice thick.

  “Yo Mike, this is Diesel. How you doing?”

  “They killed William and they burned down my shop. How do you think I’m doing?” Mike half sobbed, half screamed in reply.

  “You know who did this?” Diesel asked.

  “Yeah, and it’s exactly who you think,” he said.

  “I’m sorry bro, are you alright? How’d you get out of there?”

  “I’m not hurt. I’m just fucking pissed, and scared, and they fucking killed Will!”

  Diesel paused a moment, “You got away clean?”

  “I got tipped off in advance, so I had Sisco meet me there and we packed up most of the ammo and a ton of the assault weapons before the protestors showed up. Sisco was going to lock up and drive my truck out of there,” Mike said.

  “Uh, your truck is still there,” Diesel said quietly, then held the phone away from his ear, as Mike started shouting.

  “We don’t know for sure he’s still in there, maybe the cops are talking to him and he hadn’t had time…”

  “Man, this is so fucked,” Mike interrupted.

  “Was it our mutual friend who tipped you off?” Diesel asked.

  “Yeah, but the mob came earlier than he thought they would. It wasn’t supposed to happen until tonight.”

  “Somehow, the word got out, because there was a big mob fight. People shot, stabbed. It’s bad,” Diesel said.

  “Listen, I’m out of here for a while,” Mike said, and went on after a deep breath that made the phone sound like a whistle. “I won’t have cell reception. The police and the fire department can get fucked if they want to talk to me. I need…”

  “Go to ground,” Diesel said. “Don’t pop your head up for a while.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Listen, I got a new burner here, never used. I’ll text you the number to it and you text me back with a new burner of your own. I’ll let you know when it’s safe, man.”

  “Good, because where I’m going, there’s no TV, no internet…”

  “Good deal man, and if ya need us…”

  “I’ll call. Listen, I need the biggest favor. I have no right to ask this of you, but I need you to have Will’s body taken care of. He’s got no family.”

  “I can do that,” Diesel said.

  “Good, I know it’s another link in the chain, but…”

  “There’s ways to do it, man. I’ll have him cremated, and we’ll hold a service for him when it’s safe. It won’t come back to either of us.”

  “Thanks Diesel. Shit, really man. Thank you.”

  “Be safe, and lay low. Turn your cell phone off, and only turn it on when you’re away from your hiding spot,” Diesel told him.

  “Ok man. Bye,” Mike said, breaking the connection.

  “Diesel?!” Tank shouted, “Somebody gunned down Mike’s employee Will, right in front of the police station!”

  Diesel cursed. When Mike had said Will was dead, he hadn’t asked how. The police must have called Mike to tell him just as the protestors showed up, and he bugged out.

  “Look man, they’re still going at it,” Playboy said pointing at the TV now showing live coverage of the fighting that had started spilling into the streets.

  “No, it ain’t over, not by a long shot,” Diesel said, the double meaning clear to the team.

  Diesel knew that soon, one of his burner phones would ring and, even though it wouldn’t be a paying job, it would be one they’d handle. The money over in the sandbox was good, but when your own backyard is on fire… Best thing for them to do was to stay home and deal with things.

  “Not even close to being over.” Diesel repeated.

  The End

  If you enjoyed this story, you can find out about new releases by signing up to the mailing list: http://eepurl.com/bghQb1

  You can find Book 2 here: Silent Majority, Anonymous Justice Book 2

  About the Author

  Boyd Craven Jr was born in Flint, Michigan, USA on December 7, 1957. He grew up in a close, country, family environment in Grand Blanc, MI. He went to school there, and at 18, he followed his father's footsteps into a career with General Motors there where he worked for 30 years and 2 days.

  Upon retiring at 48 years old, he rediscovered the love for gardening his parents had taught him, raises his own food as much as is practical and enjoys teaching others to do the same. He founded The Urban Rabbit Project to teach others how to add a meat section to their garden, no matter where they live. He published his first book in Kindle Direct Publishing in November 2012 titled "Backyard Meat Rabbits" and discovered that he loves writing too.

  You can find the rest of Boyd Jr.’s books on Amazon here.

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  [email protected]

  About the Author

  Boyd Craven III was born and raised in Michigan, an avid outdoorsman who’s always loved to read and write from a young age. When he isn’t working outside on the farm, or chasing a household of kids, he’s sitting in his Lazy Boy, typing away.

  You can find the rest of Boyd’s books on Amazon here.

  @boydc3

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  [email protected]