Time dragged on like a chain around my neck as we sped toward the bar. The rain had started—fat drops smacking the windshield like accusations. My grip on the wheel was white-knuckled, the Deagle heavy in my lap. Vinson sat shotgun, his face a mask of grim determination, the tear from earlier dried but not forgotten.
We pulled up to the dive—a squat, neon-lit hole in the wall, pulsing with bass from inside. Units swarmed the perimeter: SWAT in black tactical gear, cruisers blocking exits, choppers thumping overhead like vengeful angels. Vinson grabbed the radio.
"To all units: Surround the place. If a shootout erupts, aim for legs or arms. We want them alive. I repeat—we want them alive."
Alive. Sure. But alive didn't mean unbroken. Not for Jethro. Not after what he'd done to Emilia.
I stepped out into the downpour, water soaking through my jacket, mixing with the sweat of rage. SWAT took point, rifles trained. Vinson flanked me, his Glock drawn. A few uniforms covered our rear. My heart pounded like a war drum—this was revenge. Fuck the law, the judge, the court. I'd destroy his ugly face. Not kill him. No, death was mercy. I'd hunt him to the ends of the earth, make every shadow whisper my name, rob him of sleep, of peace. This was the price for turning my sister into a broken shell.
We breached. I kicked the door in with a splintering crack.
"HOMELAND SECURITY! GET ON THE GROUND! HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEADS!"
The bar was dim, reeking of stale beer and smoke. Patrons—Mexicans, Russians, a mix of hardened faces—froze. But no chaos. No heavy weapons drawn. They lowered their glasses, their hands, surrendering like lambs. It threw me off. These were notorious scum—killers, traffickers. Why the hell were they folding so easy? Like this wasn't their first rodeo with badges crashing the party.
We swept the place top to bottom. Tables flipped, bottles shattered. Nothing. Until the back room. A door to the basement, its frame crusted with dried blood—dark, flaking stains that screamed horror.
"Vinson, look," I whispered, pointing. My stomach twisted.
"I just hope there's nothing bad down there, man," he replied, his voice tight. "Sam, I don't feel good about this."
"Me neither."
I signaled the team. "All units, stay close. This place might be a deathtrap. We don't know what's waiting, but assume armed hostiles. If anything moves wrong, weapons free. Do what you have to."
I holstered the Glock and drew the Deagle—its chrome barrel gleaming under the flickering lights. Took a deep breath, chambered a round. The door was locked from inside. SWAT rammed it—boom—and we poured in.
"BREACH! BREACH!"
Stairs descended into shadow, the air thick with mildew and something metallic—blood. We hit the bottom, flashlights cutting through the gloom. What we found... Christ, none of us expected it.
A hidden casino. Dim red lights, poker tables scattered with chips, cigar smoke hanging like fog. A dozen goons—armed with pistols, knives—whirled as we stormed in. They drew.
But we were faster.
Gunfire erupted like thunder in the confined space. Bullets whined, bodies jerked. I squeezed the trigger—boom—the Deagle bucked like a mule, punching a hole through one thug's shoulder, spinning him into a wall. Vinson dropped another with a double-tap to the leg. SWAT mowed down the rest—knees, arms, screams echoing off concrete. Blood sprayed, mixing with the horror already staining the floor. It was a slaughterhouse symphony—sad, brutal, inevitable.
My eyes locked on him. Jethro. Cowering behind an overturned table, his face pale, eyes wide with terror.
The Deagle felt like lead in my hand, but as I leveled it at his face, it was light as vengeance. He started to plead, voice cracking—"Sam, wait, I didn't—" but the roar cut him short.
The .50 caliber round didn't just hit; it obliterated. It grazed the ridge of his brow at a jagged angle, detonating bone like shattered porcelain. No clean entry—just a flash of white-hot destruction, the orbital socket caving in with a wet crunch. He crumpled, not thrown back, but folded like a broken doll. Blood pooled, his screams gurgling into whimpers.
He survived. But the man who woke up wasn't Jethro anymore. He was a ruin—scar tissue twisting his face into a grotesque mask, one eye a hollow pit of darkness. Every mirror would scream back the cost of what he'd stolen from us.
We cuffed the survivors. Jethro went out on a stretcher, straight to a coma. I didn't care if he lived or died. We turned to his brother, Orenthal.
Interrogation room. They tried to bar me—too personal, too volatile. Vinson handled it, flashing badges, pulling strings. Orenthal sat chained, eyes dead like he'd seen a ghost when I entered. My appearance—blood-spattered, eyes wild—paralyzed him.
"State your name," I growled.
He stared, silent.
"STATE! YOUR! NAME!" I barked louder.
"O-Orenthal Bonhomme," he stammered.
"Place of birth?"
"N-North side of Alabama."
"Crime?"
"R-Raping a pregnant woman."
"Did you know her?"
"She... she was my brother's fiancée—or sorry, girlfriend."
"Do you know the girl you raped is actually my sister?"
His eyes widened. I glanced at the two-way mirror, the camera's red light off. No recording. Good.
"Please, I didn't mean—"
I grabbed the chair, swung it like a battering ram. It cracked against his side—thud—his scream echoing through the room, bleeding into the hall. I didn't stop. Rage poured out: punches, lefts, rights, grabbing his collar, slamming his head until my knuckles split, blood mingling—his, mine. Too angry to feel the pain. Too furious to care about laws, badges, anything. This scum had shattered Emilia.
Finally, I stopped. Hauled him up, shoved him back into the chair.
"Your brother's in a coma."
"What?"
"Don't act surprised. You saw me shoot him."
He went speechless, face a pulped mess.
"You should be glad I didn't shoot you. And I don't care if you live or die."
I slammed the table, making him flinch. "Enjoy your time in jail, asshole."
Years blurred by. I couldn't bring myself to harm the kids in Emilia's belly. She begged me—tears in her eyes—not to. When she divorced Jethro, the twins took my name: Bert and Carl Johnson.
As they grew, Bert was a mirror of his father—trouble magnet, always stirring shit. Carl? He was Emilia's light: kind, helpful, the one who'd jump in to save a stranger.
When they turned nine, Emilia opened an orphanage. A haven for the abandoned, the broken. A place for family, home, love.
For three years, alongside my detective work, I helped. Taught the boys strength, kindness, discipline—despite their young age.
And there... I met Peter.
Rainy night. Driving home, visibility zero, wipers slashing futilely. Passing a bridge, I spotted a kid in the downpour—playing? No, staggering. I slammed the brakes, jumped out. He was out cold, but breathing, heart steady. Scars riddled his body—old, twisted, like someone had carved him for sport. I bundled him into the car, drove home.
Midway, he stirred. "Who are you?" Voice weak, beaten.
I glanced—scars everywhere. "Don't worry, kid. You're in good hands."
"What's your name?"
"Peter... Peter D. Rasel."
"How old?"
"Twelve."
We took him in. Treated him like family. He bonded with Bert and Carl—Carl was kind, Bert an asshole. I didn't like it.
Two months later, a girl—abused, abandoned by her father (now rotting in jail). Scars on her back haunted me. I brought her home too: Chloe, same age as Peter.
She trembled, scared. But Peter helped—quiet as he was, he talked to her. First time here, he'd been shell-shocked. Told me he didn't remember his parents. Sad shit. Chloe warmed up, smiling. Peter shared treats—candy, chocolate—with Carl and Chloe, even skipping his share. Made me smile. Bert? Punished for stealing them.
The trio played: Carl, Peter, Chloe. Cute moments—Chloe hugging Peter after he sacrificed a treat, his cheeks flushing red. I laughed, but quietly.
But joy's fragile.
Six months in, gas leak near the orphanage. House exploded—flames roaring like hell's mouth. A family trapped. Carl and Peter inside.
I ran toward the inferno. Another blast hurled me back.
Carl didn't make it. The kind one, Emilia's echo—gone in ash.
Firefighters doused it. Ambulance treated survivors. Peter... shock-frozen, tears streaming. "It was... my fault. It should have been me..."
Emilia shattered, hugging him, whispering it wasn't. But Peter vanished soon after.
Chloe broke worst—Carl and Peter, her anchors, gone. Trapped in grief.
Funeral's end, she approached. "Uncle," tearful, shaky. "Help me find him."
Years of searching. Found him in Japan—a criminal now.
"Uncle?"
"Chloe?"
"Yes?"
"If he's changed—not the Peter we knew—I won't hesitate to arrest him."
"But—"
"It's your choice. But I won't change my mind."
She nodded, rain starting outside.
...
...
...
"Hiroki, you sure you wanna do this?"
Hiroki—once Peter—stood before his old house, a tomb of shattered memories. Rain hammered down, lightning flashing like judgment.
"This will be the last time. After this, it'll be over. I'll begin a new life."
Peter placed a hand on his shoulder. Hiroki nodded.
They turned the knob, stepping in.
"Forgive me, father..."
To Be Continued...