The Last Hero E-Book

Craig Gaydas

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

In crime-ridden Crystal City, superhumans are being manufactured.

After Bryan Whittaker survives a personal tragedy, he decides to help save the city from the forces that killed his family. Signing up for the Hero Program, Bryan becomes Soulfire.

Years later, the products of the program are targeted by an assassin. Soulfire finds himself being accused; he's the only one strong enough to overpower the others. But is there someone else in the game?

With the corrupt Hero Factory shaken to its foundations and the future of the city hanging in the balance, Soulfire must find the real killer and bring him to justice.

One must find out why one is born, and Bryan Whittaker was born to be The Last Hero.

Best Action & Adventure - 2016 IAN Book of the Year Awards

Leseprobe

The Last Hero

Craig Gaydas

Copyright (C) 2015 Craig Gaydas

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by http://www.thecovercollection.com/

Edited by Bee Love (http://www.bee-edited.com/)

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Other Books by Craig Gaydas

The CartographerReborn: Book 2 of The CartographerTimeless: Book 3 of The CartographerThe Guardian ChroniclesVendetta

There are two days of importance in a person's life. The day we are born and the day we discover why. -Mark Twain

Freedom is never freely given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed. -Martin Luther King Jr.

They say a man never really knows himself until everything he ever loved has been taken away. -Bryan Whittaker, AKA Soulfire

May 1st, 2015

The dimly lit pub reeked of cigarette smoke and stale sweat. At one end of the bar an old man engaged in a heated debate with the bartender, something which had been going on for the better part of an hour. One minute he ranted about the city's undisciplined youth and the next he argued about the corporate elite repressing the working poor. It was enough to drive a sane person mad, but the bartender seemed to possess an iron constitution.

Opposite the bar, stuffed away in a dark corner of the room, a middle-aged couple sat in a booth with their heads bowed, more interested in their drinks than each other. She sipped a light beer while he stirred his martini with his finger. With the exception of these folks, there was just one other person in the bar. The secluded stranger sitting at the opposite end of the bar cradled his drink as if he were prepared to make love to it. He bowed his head and, with both hands, cupped the glass in a lover's embrace. The hood of his sweatshirt hung loosely around his face like a cowl. No one in the bar, except the bartender, paid any attention to him. The man preferred it that way. He embraced privacy and wrapped it around him like a shawl. The quiet solitude was the prime reason he frequented the place. It sure wasn't for the overpriced, watered-down piss they called liquor or the squealing crap they called music. The garbage coming from the jukebox was like nails on a chalkboard and enough to drive a person into an uncontrollable rage. The man heard better music coming from a dentist's chair.

The old man at the other end of the bar paused his arguing just long enough to run to the bathroom. The bartender used this welcomed break to wander over and check on the stranger.

“How ya doing, buddy?” He smiled and tapped the side of the glass with his index finger. “Do you need me to fill her up? The high octane stuff?”

The stranger nodded, swallowed the rest of his drink and slid it toward the bartender. Before the bartender could lift the glass, the man's hand shot out and grabbed his wrist.

“Don't bother putting any ice in it,” he growled. “I think you have watered down this piss enough.”

The barkeep's smile wavered, and he measured the stranger, studying him to see if the man would pose a threat. The bartender normally kept an aluminum baseball bat underneath the bar. Enough blood stained its surface to prove to people what happens to uncooperative assholes. The last thing he needed was a violent drunk tearing up his place, and he would not hesitate to let the metal fly.

The man let go of the bartender's wrist and gave him a thumb's up. “High octane is always good,” he muttered.

After studying him a little longer, he finally concluded the stranger would not cause a ruckus, at least for the moment, and departed to fill up his glass. When he returned, he slid the glass gingerly across the bar. The stranger looked up and pulled his hood back, revealing dark brown hair, greasy and matted from old sweat. The hair fell lifelessly across his forehead. He flicked it away from his dark, hollow eyes like someone would swat a fly. The man's look was one of someone who had just crawled from a ten year bender in a wine cellar, buried deep within the earth. Salt and pepper beard stubble landscaped the lower half of his face where crusted remains of his last meal could be observed.

Junkie. That was the bartender's first reaction. When the stranger lifted the glass to his lips, he narrowed his eyes as a sense of familiarity washed over him. It wasn't until the stranger put the glass down, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and smiled that the bartender recognized him.

“Holy cow, it can't be!” he exclaimed with eyes as wide as saucers. “It's you!”

The stranger's smile faded and his eyes closed. He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. The man reached into his pocket and produced a pack of cigarettes along with a plastic lighter molded in the shape of a firetruck. He shoved the cigarette in his mouth and pushed the button on top of the cab causing an orange flame, tinted with just a hint of blue, to erupt from the rear of the truck. The man lifted it to the end of the cigarette and lit it. After breathing in a couple long drags, he shoved both the pack and lighter into his pocket.

“And who might I be?” the man inquired.

The bartender nervously cleared his throat. “Hey listen, buddy, I meant no trouble by my outburst. I just thought…I mean…people thought you were dead.”

“Perhaps I am,” the stranger responded dryly. “You shouldn't believe everything you hear on the streets. The road leading from this city is paved with fallacy.”

The bartender relaxed slightly and chuckled. “Yeah sure, whatever.” He removed a rag from his back pocket and polished the countertop in a vain attempt to persuade the stranger his curiosity had abated. The stranger eyeballed him with a guarded look, seeing through the ruse.

The bartender stopped rubbing the bar top and returned the rag to its resting place. “Bryan? That's your name, right?”

Bryan took a long drag on the cigarette and let the smoke drift slowly between his teeth. “It used to be,” the man replied dryly.

“Sorry, man, I didn't mean to get excited like that,” the bartender explained. “It's just not often we get your kind around here.” He flipped a thumb over his shoulder, toward the old man who, after returning from the bathroom, continued chugging shots of Crown Royal and muttering to himself. “As you can see, we get the regular dregs.”

“My kind?” Bryan looked up slowly from his glass and placed the cigarette into a nearby ashtray. “What's that supposed to mean?”

The bartender offered a nervous smile in an effort to diffuse the situation. “Celebrities of course.”

Bryan's sarcastic chuckle echoed throughout the bar. The old man glanced at them with mild curiosity. The couple in the corner glanced up from their drinks and eyeballed the man. Within the confines of the nearly empty tavern, the laugh echoed off the walls, however there was no hint of humor contained within.

“Celebrities?” Bryan rasped. “Sure, man, whatever floats your boat. Just keep the drinks coming and don't get all gushy on me. I don't sign autographs, unless you're a woman with big boobs, of course.”

The bartender shook his head vigorously. “No, no, nothing like that! Sorry to bother you. How about this? Your drink is on the house and we'll call it even, okay?”

Bryan pointed his finger and cocked his thumb like a gun. “Now you're talking!” He offered the bartender a broad smile. With the reflection of the low lighting overhead, the smile appeared more demonic than merry.

The bartender practically tripped over himself to return to the old man. It seemed arguing about the city was better than dealing with a washed up, alcoholic has-been. Bryan didn't blame the guy; he would have done the same if roles had been reversed. He lifted the glass to his lips but stopped when a news report popped up on the television mounted over the “Town Tap” sign behind the bar. A masked figure, adorned from head to toe in black body armor, with various gadgets attached to a belt around his waist, dragged two handcuffed teenagers across the ground toward waiting police cars. The police trained their guns on the two teens while the masked figure adjusted a nylon tube attached to his wrist. The tube ran from the bracelet to a pack on his back. The scene cut away to a reporter who stood about a block from the action.

“As you can see the hostage situation could have taken a deadly turn had it not been for the heroic intervention of Oracle. According to one eyewitness, the police failed to open a dialogue with the hostage takers who threatened to murder a woman and her unborn baby. Our sources have told us the two men who took her hostage were former members of the street gang 'The Raging 86's' and the woman was an ex-girlfriend of one of the leaders. Stay tuned for further details.”

Oracle stood over the squirming gang bangers while onlookers, crowded behind bright yellow police tape with adoration in their eyes, screamed his name. Their faces, flush with excitement, gazed upon the hero through bulging eyes as if he were the second coming of Jesus Christ.

Oracle had just started his term as the current hero. Normally, a hero served a four year term before passing on to the next. That safety protocol had been put into place when the Hero Factory was created in 1981. Brady Simmonelli, the Chairman of the Hero Factory, considered it the prime safety protocol. “Power corrupts and our goal is to prevent corruption,” he said when the organization was founded. Bryan would never forget those words.

“Power corrupts indeed,” Bryan muttered to himself as he watched the action unfold on the television screen.

Since 1981, the Hero Program had been extremely successful every year in existence. Crime had fallen seventy-five percent. In 1990 (during the term of Twilight Shadow) a police force had been established within city limits for the first time since 1976. The gangs had been decimated. The Hero Factory's reputation, considered an unparalleled success during its tenure, changed in 2014. Between 1980 and 2014, no city official nor their families had come under harm. The Hero Program's prime directive was to keep the people of the city safe but also maintain the city's government infrastructure in order to prevent the city from descending into chaos. Until 2014, when all that had changed. 2014 was the year someone bombed City Hall. Thirty-Five people had been killed including the mayor, the police chief and seven out of ten city council members. That year was a blemish in an otherwise spotless record of the Hero Factory.

Bryan drained the glass and placed it on the bar. With a scowl he replayed the event over in his mind until his anger reached the boiling point. The hero on duty at the time failed in his prime directive and was subsequently kicked out of the Hero Program. The event resulted in the biggest embarrassment suffered by the organization since its inception. Confidence in the leadership team of the Hero Factory had reached an all-time low, and the Hero Factory nearly shut its doors that year.

Bryan threw a wad of cash on the bar and chuckled. A false tip. That's all it took to throw the hero off the trail of the real perpetrators that day. The tip regarding criminal gang activity positioned the hero on the other side of town, about as far away from City Hall as one could get.

“Gang activity!” Bryan barked. “What a hoot that was!”

The bartender whispered to the old man and gestured toward Bryan. In unison they glanced at him nervously, as if he were about to lose it and shoot up the place at any minute. He didn't give a shit what they thought. Frankly, he didn't give a shit what anyone thought.

The gangs hadn't had any organized activity in years before that phony tip came in. If the hero on duty had his head screwed on straight, he should have caught on immediately. After the bombing was when the rumors started circulating. Some said the hero was drunk or on drugs at the time. Other rumors spread stating the hero was shagging a blonde stripper working down at the Double Deuce, located near that side of town. Bryan knew better. The reason was much worse. The hero on duty, haunted by his past, harbored a private vendetta against the gangs. Ghosts from the past betrayed the hero. Like a poltergeist, the ghosts tossed the hero's good judgement aside like a piece of furniture, and the city had suffered because of it.

Bryan stepped outside and inhaled the crisp evening air. It provided a welcome relief from the smoke-filled environment inside the tavern. In the distance, police sirens echoed off of nearby skyscrapers and vanished into the night. Across the street, a hooker and her john huddled together in the shadows as money changed hands. Despite the many strengths of the Hero Factory, this side of town remained its weakness. This side of town was a cesspool of junkies, whores and the con artists. Corruption on this side of town was rarely noticed by hero or cop alike. As he watched the hooker and her customer hop into a beat up blue pickup truck and speed off, his thoughts returned to that day in 2014.

“Heroes,” he scoffed and reached for another cigarette. He shoved it into his mouth and retrieved the lighter. The red of the fire engine absorbed the yellowish color radiating from the sodium vapor street lights overhead. “Fuck them all.”

Bryan turned his attention toward the next city block and shoved the lighter into his pocket. Stumbling a bit from his whiskey high, he shambled down the street before disappearing among the shadows.

The bartender and the old man emerged from the tavern and looked both ways, hoping Bryan was out of earshot. Convinced Bryan was gone, the old man turned to the bartender.

“What the hell was that guy going on about?” he asked.

The bartender looked down at his hand, clutching the bat he retrieved from underneath the bar. He was never one to take chances and wouldn't start tonight, with such a loose cannon running around.

“Zeke, you drank so much your brain is mush,” the bartender grumbled. “Don't you know who that was?”

The old man shook his head. “You mentioned the name Bryan Whittaker before but it don't ring no bell.”

“Do you remember when Soulfire was the hero on duty?” the bartender asked.

Zeke cocked his head but still looked confused, which only served to fuel the bartender's irritation further. He tapped the end of the bat impatiently against the pavement.

“Damn your worthless hide, Zeke. You don't remember shit!” The bartender lowered his voice, despite the emptiness of the streets. As stated, he was never one to take chances. His eyes turned glassy as he recalled the memories of those days. He pointed the bat in the direction Bryan had walked. “Are you telling me you don't remember him?”

The old man concentrated for a moment. The act twisted his face as if he were sitting on a toilet, suffering from constipation. Suddenly, Zeke's eyes lit up and the bartender dropped a hand on his shoulder.

“Exactly!” the bartender exclaimed. “Soulfire was the hero on duty when City Hall exploded.”

April 3rd, 1979

The heavily armed men behind Pete “Shorty” Williams had itchy trigger fingers and prepared to shoot at the slightest provocation. As leader of the Street Kings, Pete realized these meetings, as short as they were, might result in bodies hitting the floor. His entourage understood the stakes of this meeting were high, so they came prepared to kill if necessary. Tensions had been at an all-time high since the police were forced from the city last year. Across the table sat the leader of Raging 86's, Brian “Buzzsaw” Kelly. Buzzsaw, the only Caucasian gang leader in Crystal City, stood at 5'8” with a slim build and black, slicked-back hair, giving him a boyish, 1950s mobster look. Pete underestimated no one and Buzzsaw would be no exception. The man didn't get his name from his charming good looks or his well-manicured nails. Many years ago he caught someone flirting with his wife and, in a fit of rage, grabbed a kitchen knife and sliced the man's balls off. Since that point, most people chose the safe route and avoided eye contact with his wife or any girlfriends he may have accompanying him. Pete never understood the man's uncanny ability to switch from calm to furious faster than one could flip a light switch. Buzzsaw was drumming his fingers on the table impatiently, which didn't bode well for the pace of this meeting.

“You called this meeting so let's get this show on the road already,” Buzzsaw grumbled. He ceased drumming and leaned forward, a demonic smile spreading across his face. “I have this hot piece of ass waiting for me in the car, and I don't intend to leave her waiting for long, if ya know what I mean.”

Pete forced a smile. He never let his disgust of the man show. “Of course.”

A piece of paper sat on the table in front of Pete. He placed his hand over it and hesitated for a moment before sliding it across the table toward Buzzsaw.

Buzzsaw glanced down but made no move toward the paper. For a moment, Pete worried the outcome of this meeting would fall apart before it began. After staring at the paper for a minute, Brian dropped a finger on it and slid it closer. He picked it up and scanned the paper. As he read it his eyes narrowed.

“This is it?” Buzzsaw scoffed.

“I wanted to keep it simple,” remarked Pete. “Ever since the cops left and the politicians fell under our thumb, we've been too busy killing each other to attend to more important matters. Our businesses have suffered. Too many good people lost their lives over a pointless war. Our real enemies are gone and its time we stop fighting each other.” Pete leaned back and pounded his chest with a closed fist. “We own this city now. It's time we stop destroying it from within and turn it into the cash cow it can be.”

Buzzsaw dropped his gaze to the paper. Pete folded his hands and waited for his response calmly. He realized a treaty between the gangs meant each leader would be required to relinquish a portion of their turf if this plan were to work. Pete understood this would be a difficult decision for all involved, but he needed to make everyone realize there would be a pot of gold at the end of this rainbow.

“It seems you put a lot of work into this.” His eyes drifted from the paper and locked on Pete's. “I can respect that.”

Buzzsaw dropped the piece of paper and reached into his sport coat. The action caused Pete's men to tighten their grips on their weapons. After briefly rummaging around inside his jacket, he pulled out a pen and held it up for all to see.

“I'll be honest with you, Shorty. I'm tired of all the bullshit too. Let's make us some money, shall we?” With a flick of the pen he signed the bottom of the paper.

Pete took the paper, folded it and shoved it into his pocket. He stood slowly because he didn't want to agitate the already frayed nerves of the armed men surrounding them. He extended his hand across the table.

Buzzsaw smiled at it. “Nice doing business with ya.” He stood and accepted the outstretched hand, giving it a brisk shake before pulling away. “I'll see you soon to discuss the specifics, but now it's time for me to address more urgent matters.” He winked and left the room with his foot soldiers in tow.

Pete looked down at his hand. For a second he was overcome with the overwhelming urge to douse it in soap and hot water and scrub until his skin was raw. Despite his revulsion he couldn't help but be filled with hope and excitement for the future of this city.

Nothing could stop them.

August 11th, 1980

When the door opened, two men dressed in black flak jackets and fatigues marched inside. M-16 assault rifles hung across their shoulders and belts filled with ammo clips showed they meant business. Their faces, obscured by tinted sunglasses, remained expressionless. Between the soldiers stood a stocky man with receding black hair and matching mutton chops. Clutching a black, leather-bound suitcase, he slid into one of the oversized leather seats parked in front of the desk. The guards hung back, flanking the doorway.

The man laid the briefcase gingerly on his lap and fidgeted with his silver cufflinks. He studied the armed men from the corner of his eye while shuffling uncomfortably in the chair.

“My associates informed me the police department had been disbanded. Even as I was about to board the plane, they remained steadfast in their opposition to this meeting for safety reasons.” He flicked a thumb over his shoulder. “Perhaps my associates were incorrect. If there are no police, what would you call those two?”

The man seated behind the desk slid his glasses down the bridge of his nose and looked up. “They are my insurance policy, Mr. Simmonelli, and I assure you your associates' fears are not entirely misplaced. Safety is my primary concern since Crystal City has not had a police force in quite some time.”

“Mercenaries?” Brady Simmonelli asked.

Mayor Randall Cogsburn shrugged. “Call them whatever you want. I assume, based on your expression, you disapprove of the protection provided to City Hall?” The mayor waved his hand in a shooing motion to the guards and they stepped outside. “Perhaps your associates didn't tell you the history why there are no police here?”

Brady Simmonelli folded his hands on top of the briefcase. “I'm a businessman, Mayor. Do not presume I would not do the due diligence required before attempting to undertake this endeavor. I'm well aware of this city's history, otherwise we wouldn't even be having this conversation.”

Brady placed the briefcase on the desk, fumbled with the combo lock and popped it open. He retrieved a large manila envelope and placed it next to the briefcase. On the cover of the envelope was an emblem of a roaring head of a lion pointed skyward. He tapped the envelope with his index finger.

“Inside this folder are the costs and schematics for the factory as well as a detailed set of work instructions.” He turned the envelope around and slid it toward the mayor. “You will see the first page contains a non-disclosure agreement and, as soon as that is signed, we can get down to business.”

The mayor raised an eyebrow but did not move. “Do you really believe your idea will work for this city?”

Brady's face split into a wide grin. “I conceived my idea specifically for this city.” He petted the envelope like a puppy. “Believe me, Mayor, when I say the details have been gone over a thousand times by myself and my associates. I guarantee an eighty percent drop in crime within the first four years of service or I will pay back every nickel this city invests in the operation.”

The mayor opened the envelope and removed the packet of paperwork. He scanned the front page, tapping every word with the tip of his finger. As he read each word in the proposal, his grin widened like a kid who had just won a free shopping spree in a candy store. Once finished he grabbed a pen from a nearby jar and signed the bottom of the page.

“My God!” he exclaimed breathlessly. “This is ingenious. You never told me the level of detail contained within the concept model. If you explained this to me over the phone, I would have given you a verbal approval immediately.”

Brady chuckled. “Sorry, Mayor, I don't work on verbal approvals.

The mayor stood and extended his hand across the desk. “Brady, you have a deal! When can you start breaking ground?”

Brady matched the mayor's smile, stood and accepted the handshake. “I can have my people begin the preliminaries tomorrow, if you'd like.”

The Hero Factory had been born.

September 13th, 2013

Bryan stared at the mangled door jamb of the front door and sighed. Shattered glass and splintered wood littered the front porch. The barrel-chested man standing next to him had his arms folded across his chest, shaking his head in disbelief.

“It looks like your buddy H-Bar struck again,” the man grumbled.

“H-Bar” was the name bestowed upon Bryan's friend and fellow firefighter, Terry Lincoln. Terry's overuse of the Halligan bar was the stuff of legend among most of the firehouses in the area. Many people believed he went to bed at night with the tool by his side. One time, Bryan overheard a fellow firefighter joke he once saw Terry caressing the thing in his bedroom one night. After the joke circulated throughout the ranks, the man standing next to him, Fire Chief Mackenzie “Mac” Shawnessy, gave him the nickname and it had stuck ever since.

“I think your pal has deep psychological issues,” Mac continued. “This was a goddamn gas leak. Jesus, I swear to all that's holy, one day I will beat him to death with that thing!”

Bryan stifled a smile. If Mac saw it, he would probably beat him in Terry's place. Mac was a “by the book” commander and, although he occasionally found Terry's overuse of the H-Bar amusing, this was not one of those times. The homeowner would surely sue the department for damages.

When they stepped into the foyer, Terry emerged from the kitchen with the H-bar dangling by his side and a large scowl on his face. “Gas stove.”

Mac flicked a thumb over his shoulder, toward the shattered door. “What about that?”

Terry shrugged. “Better safe than sorry.”

Bryan could feel the heat of the Chief's rage radiating from Mac's body. If Terry kept pushing his buttons, Bryan was afraid this would escalate from a gas leak call to a homicide. Luckily Mac stormed out of the house before any bloodshed. Bryan whirled on Terry.

“One day he is going to shove that thing right up your ass.”

“Well, I guess it will cure my hemorrhoid problem,” he chuckled.

Bryan rolled his eyes and followed Terry out of the house. A crowd of neighbors gathered on the front lawn gawking at them, as if expecting the fire department to drag out a human body. It never mattered whether it was a four-alarm fire or pulling a cat from a tree, onlookers flocked to the flashing red lights like moths to a street light. Bryan noticed the Crystal City police cruiser parked behind their pump truck and frowned when he saw the cop talking with Mac. Mac turned to them with a grim expression and a sympathetic gleam in his eye when he noticed them approaching.

Mac's demeanor concerned Bryan. Although he was a usual grump most of the time, the somber manner in which he addressed them disturbed him. Mac usually kept his emotions in check.

“What's wrong, Chief?” asked Terry.

Mac ignored Terry and addressed Bryan. “I'm sorry, Bryan, but it's your wife and son.”

Bryan removed his fire helmet and cradled it under his arm. “Alicia? Jackson? What's wrong?”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Whittaker,” the cop answered with a look of sadness. “Your wife and son were the victims of a carjacking at the corner of Crescent and 8th. The perp was armed and shot your family before the responding units could get to them. They're at Mercy General in critical condition. I can drive you there if you need me to.”

Bryan stood in stunned silence. That intersection was located near the Ironbound section of the city where no one but the dregs of society hung out. What the hell was she doing in that area?

“Was she lost?” Bryan asked the cop.

“I'm sorry?” the cop responded, looking confused.

Bryan felt his anger rising. “Was she lost? What the hell was she doing there?”

The cop shook his head. “I don't know, sir. We haven't been able to interview her in ICU.”

“Take me to them,” he demanded.

“Here, let me take that.” Terry grabbed the helmet from Bryan. “Get out of here.”

Bryan followed the cop to the car and slid into the passenger seat. They took off out of the neighborhood with lights flashing and siren blaring.

“By the way, my name is Hector Rodriguez,” the officer said, keeping his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

Bryan remained silent. His thoughts focused on his family. The ride was a little more than eleven miles but it seemed like an eternity before they arrived at the hospital. When Officer Rodriguez finally pulled up to the hospital, Bryan stumbled from the vehicle before it came to a complete stop and rushed toward the emergency room doors.

Mercy General, smaller than most of the other city hospitals, never kept a full staff. Since the Hero Factory had been established, doctors trickled into the city but most set up shop in the larger hospitals where the cash flow was heavy. Mercy General, due to its size, was not the most appealing hospital for doctors.

Bryan burst through the doors and hurried toward the intake desk where a nurse sat, filing her nails and humming to herself.

“I'm here to see Alicia and Jackson Whittaker!” he barked breathlessly.

The nurse dropped the file on the desk and turned toward her computer. After a few keystrokes, she squinted as the data came up on the computer screen. “Gunshot wounds.” She hesitated and looked up at Bryan. “Are you related to the patients?”

His heart beat so rapidly he thought it would explode from his chest. “I'm her husband and his father.” His tongue felt twenty times bigger than normal and his throat felt as if he had swallowed a cocktail of sandpaper and broken glass. The way the nurse studied him offered little comfort.

The nurse turned to a phone next to the computer and picked up the handset. “Um, yes…Dr. Anderson? I have the husband and father of the patients in room 223 here in the reception area. You will be right down? Yes, thank you.” She hung up the phone and motioned toward the waiting area. “If you can have a seat, the doctor will be right down.”

When Bryan turned to the reception area, he observed Officer Rodriguez hovering near the entrance. The cop winced when he noticed Bryan studying him.

“It is pretty much the end of my shift so I figured I'd hang around to make sure everything was alright,” he explained. “If that's a problem, I guess I can take off.”

Bryan shook his head and fell into a nearby seat. Five minutes later a doctor, dressed in a white overcoat with a stethoscope hanging around his neck, ran across the hall toward them. When he reached the reception area, Bryan stood and watched as the doctor tried to catch his breath.

“Are they okay?” Bryan asked, panicked.

“You may want to sit down, Mr. Whittaker,” the doctor gasped as he worked on catching his breath.

“I don't want to sit down! I want to make sure my family is okay!” Bryan shouted. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Officer Rodriguez inching closer, ready to intervene if things got out of hand.

Dr. Anderson's mouth tightened into a thin pink line of consternation. He chewed on his bottom lip for a minute before speaking again. “I'm afraid I have some bad news. Your wife is in critical condition in our ICU but your son…” he trailed off.

Bryan grabbed the doctor's shoulder and squeezed. Officer Rodriguez's hand fell to the butt of his Taser. “What is it?”

Dr. Anderson sighed and diverted his gaze to the floor. “I'm sorry…your son passed away thirty minutes ago.”

The news hit Bryan like a sledgehammer. His gut clenched and the room spun, becoming a kaleidoscope of colors. He reached out and grabbed the doctor's shoulder before falling to one knee. His breathing became ragged, like trying to suck a milkshake through a coffee stirrer. Everything around him disappeared into a fog and the only thing he could see was the innocent, gap-toothed smile and curly blond locks of his son bouncing in the breeze as he played with his soccer ball. That was the last time he saw him. Bryan never bothered to say goodbye when he left for his shift. Jackson looked like he was having so much fun that Bryan didn't want to bother him. Some downtown scumbag stole his son from him and Bryan felt the blood drain from his face.

Officer Rodriquez grabbed his arm and helped him into a nearby chair. “Hey, do you need me to get you a bottle of water or something? Whatever you need, buddy, I'll go get it.”

Bryan looked at the officer fiercely. “What I need from you is to find the bastard who did this.”

A look of resignation fell across the officer's face, which was all Bryan needed to know about the situation. Crystal City only recently budgeted for a police force. Filling the ranks took time and they didn't exactly have the pick of the litter. Some of the officers were seasoned veterans of other departments but most were rookies or unwanted cast offs from other departments who had to accept the job or risk having to find a new career. In the end, the city only had a budget for a police force of fifty officers. The city required triple the amount. They didn't have the manpower dedicated to give Bryan's case the attention it deserved.

“Let me go get you a bottle of water,” the cop said before hurrying down the hall.

Bryan hadn't cried since he lost his mother twenty years ago. That streak ended on September 13th, 2013.