Where to begin? Right. The name's Sam William Johnson. I've been a police officer, a special forces ghost, and a detective who can smell a lie from a mile away. Born in the U.S. of A., land of the free, home of the brave, and a real son of a bitch if you're on the wrong side of the tracks. I'm pushing thirty, but I've still got more than enough in the tank to introduce a criminal's ass to the pavement.
One more thing. I run a secret organization. We're the guys who step in when the law gets bought, when some rich bastard with a good lawyer tries to walk. We bring justice. And when I say justice, I mean it for everyone. Had some dumbass tell me once, "You can't hit a woman." Asked him why. "Because she's a woman! That's misogynistic."
I just looked at him, real calm. "No, you're being misogynistic. You're the one making it about gender. I couldn't care less. The scales of justice are unisex." I paused. "And I'm an equal opportunity ass-whooper."
He didn't listen. A few weeks later, he got himself into a situation. When I paid him a visit in the hospital, he was a mess of bandages and regret. I just stood there, staring. He looked up at me, his one good eye twitching. "Don't you dare," he rasped, "spit out a single fucking word."
For the next six months, I'd send him little reminders. Postcards. An occasional fruit basket with a note. Just making sure we're not being misogynistic. Drove him insane. Fucking hilarious.
Anyway. The organization.
We've got men inside prisons all over the country, delivering our own brand of punishment. The FBI, the CIA—they're still chasing ghosts, trying to figure out who's pulling the strings. They don't know I've got power at the top. A friend. Grew up with him back when the color of my skin was still a reason for some folks to hate me. He's white. We became brothers anyway. It was his idea, this whole damn thing. He's got the President's ear now. I thought I'd lost him for good, and then one day, the phone rings.
What started in one state went national, then global. We're still growing. But every man, no matter how tough, has a weak spot. A pressure point.
Mine is my little sister, Emilia.
She's the only reason I'm still standing. The only motivation I have left after the two people who gave us life did everything they could to take it away.
My childhood wasn't good. That's putting it mildly. I grew up in a house where I was more slave than son. My father was a drunk, my mother a junkie. The years between four and six are a blur of fists and pain. I'm amazed I don't have permanent memory loss. Then Emilia came along, and all the weight of the world landed on my shoulders. I fed her, I took care of her, I worked ten, twelve hours a day just to keep us afloat.
The word "mother."
...
Not every woman deserves it. I'll be straight with you. I fucking hate the bitch who gave birth to me. Calling her that makes me want to puke. The day Emilia was born, she was gone. Just… left. And the punk I had to call a father? He got worse. The drinking doubled. I had to take double shifts so he wouldn't threaten to hit my sister.
She was maybe three or four. I came home one night, dead tired. She was in the living room, playing with some cheap toys I'd bought her. He stumbled in, drunk off his ass, and smashed the bottle he was holding against the wall. I rushed in. He was staring at Emilia, his face twisted with hate. She had her little arms up, trying to shield herself.
"Your face," he slurred, pointing a shaking finger. "YOUR FACE REMINDS ME OF THAT FUCKING BITCH!"
He lunged. I moved faster. I threw myself in front of her, my back taking the full force of his punch. A crack echoed in the small room. My vision swam with stars. She was crying behind me, a choked, terrified sound. I can still feel it. The sting of his knuckles through my shirt, the terror in her sobs. He collapsed in a drunken heap. My sister grabbed my arm, her tiny fingers digging into my skin, and pulled me toward the basement.
I struggled for breath, but the first thing I did was check her over. No marks. No bruises. She wasn't hurt. She started crying for real then, not loud—she knew better—but her whole body shook. She hugged me so tight I thought my ribs would break. I hugged her back, stroking her hair, kissing her forehead.
"Shhh, shhh," I whispered, my own voice ragged. "It's okay now. Big brother is here. I'm here. You're safe now."
Safe.
...
That was the day I was reborn. I made a promise to myself. I would get so strong that anyone who ever dared to harm my sister would end up six feet in the ground.
For weeks, I kept her away from him. He took it out on me every night, but that was fine. I could take it. Until the night I saw him watching her. She was sleeping. The way he was looking at her… it was freaky. Wrong. I knew in my gut this wouldn't end well. The moment he left the room, I scooped Emilia up and carried her down to the basement, hiding her under a pile of old blankets.
The next day, I went to work. Construction, delivery, whatever paid. Before I left, I made sure Emilia had food and water, telling her to stay hidden until I got back. The work was hard, my body ached, but during breaks, my mind was racing. I started collecting cigarette ashes from the ashtrays outside the restaurant where I washed dishes. A guy there once told me something. Alcohol and cigarette ash. A lethal cocktail. A small amount could make your organs fail, make you go blind. Few survived. I couldn't stand it anymore. The image of that punk… doing… no. I wouldn't let it happen.
The time had come. I asked my manager to leave early. He said I'd have to work a double the next day. I agreed.
I went home. I put Emilia in the basement. "Whatever you hear," I told her, my voice low, "cover your ears. Don't listen. Not until I come back for you." She nodded, her eyes wide. I kissed her forehead. "I'll be back safe. I promise."
He came home at the usual time. Drunk. He collapsed onto a chair, the bottle slipping from his hand and rolling across the floor. This was it. I grabbed it. My hands didn't shake. I uncapped a small paper bag and poured the entire contents—a week's worth of collected ash—into the bottle. The dark liquor hid it perfectly.
He stirred, his eyes struggling to focus on me. "The fuck are you?" he grunted. "Gimme my drink back, you asshole."
My blood boiled, but my face was a mask of calm. I handed it to him. He took a long gulp. Then another. He stopped, frowning, and looked at the bottle. He saw it then. The gray sludge at the bottom. His eyes widened with rage. He threw the bottle at me, but I was already moving. I dodged, but he was on me in a second, his hands closing around my throat.
"You… YOU TRIED TO KILL ME, HUH?!" he roared, his face inches from mine.
His grip tightened. My lungs burned. Black spots danced in my vision. My body was going numb.
Then, suddenly, his grip slackened.
He stumbled back, coughing, a horrible, wet, hacking sound. He clawed at his own neck, his eyes bulging. He tried to reach for me again, but his legs gave out. He hit the floor, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Then his body went still.
He stopped breathing.
I went to the basement. I opened the door. Emilia was huddled in the corner, terrified. When she saw me, she ran and threw her arms around my waist. She saw the bruises already forming on my neck. I told her it was nothing. She knew I was lying.
The sirens started in the distance. We had to run. We were Black kids with a dead white father in a town where that was all the jury would need to hear.
We made it to the edge of the city, hiding in alleys, avoiding the flashing lights. We found a transport truck parked for the night and climbed into the back, burying ourselves under a tarp. The engine rumbled to life, and the truck started moving, carrying us into the countryside, away from the only place I'd ever called home.
I looked at Emilia. Silent tears were rolling down her cheeks. I pulled her close, and for the first time, I felt my own eyes get wet. I made another promise that night. No one would ever hurt my family again. Not even death itself. I would fight for her.
To the end of the world, and beyond.
To Be continue...
author here.
forgive me for late release. these few weeks, i didn't felt good, just, wanted to rest a bit, and just wanted to stop using social media for few weeks and just that.
hope y'all enjoy it everyone. <3333