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 Category:  Mystery and Crime Fiction
  Posted: February 11, 2018      Views: 145
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I live in Cincinnati, Ohio and write part time. My writing includes all genres in short fiction, and poetry.

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Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
This work has reached the exceptional level

Chapter 2 of the book The Last Nerve
Granite is on a stakeout (sort of)
"Little Willy" by mbroyles2

Chapter 2

They say that deep in the heart of every man lies a sliver of goodness.  No matter the evil that taints the soul, no matter how black and sadistic, a small spark of light is trying to break through the darkness. Maybe it’s the way they respect their mothers or spoil their children.  It’s possible that they donate to a homeless shelter, or pass out turkeys on Thanksgiving. 

Matthew Granite believed that to be a fantasy, grasped from the hopes of desperate parents who couldn’t come to terms with the maliciousness that dwells in their offspring.  He was convinced that not all men have a virtuous side. William Dawson, a. k. a. “Little Willy”, was one such man.

If there had ever been a kindred spirit in Little Willy it faded twenty-five years ago when at the tender age of sixteen he slit the throats of his parents.  Not because they were abusive or overbearing.  Not because he would inherit a windfall and suddenly become rich.  No, Little Willy butchered his parents because they wouldn’t let him borrow the car.

There was no evidence to prove the point, but a young and zealous defense attorney convinced the judge to go easy on young William due to an unstable home environment.  A pricey child psychologist corroborated the story and suggested that what the youngster needed was therapy and nurturing, not bars and the harshness that goes with it.

He'd been confined to the local ward for treatment and released at twenty-one.  Rumor had it he murdered three people in his first six months out, took over the crack cocaine ring, and hadn't stopped since.

Murder and drugs are part of the everyday happenings that go along with a big city like Cincinnati.  Although, not up to par with such havens like St. Louis, Baltimore, or Detroit, the Queen City’s violent crime rate was in the top twenty in the United States.

It wasn’t murder and drugs that put William Dawson on Granite’s radar, however.  Seems Little Willy had a taste for young children, both girls and boys.  His only requirement:  They had to be under the age of thirteen.

Evidence was hard to collect.  The children were too traumatized or frightened to bear witness, and Little Willy always had an alibi.

Granite wasn’t concerned about evidence that would hold up in court.  He was only interested in the truth.  To find it, he had his gut, the word of a few street snitches, the parent’s determination for vengeance, and their money.

At $750 a day, it afforded them the best surveillance he could offer, personal surveillance with no distractions or hindrances, unless, you considered a partner, the size of a mountain who had a thing for running late, a distraction or hindrance.  Granite glanced at his phone and sighed.  “Marko probably stopped at Jungle Jim’s for some beef jerky and Mountain Dew.”  He dropped the phone onto the passenger seat.  “He’d better not get the spicy nacho kind.  He can sit in his own car if he does.”

William Dawson’s estate sat on a thirty-acre lot between Fairfield and Oxford.  Parking on the road in a black, fully loaded Lexus 570x, made Granite stand out like a wart on a beauty queen's face.  He wasn’t trying to be inconspicuous.  He wanted the man inside to notice, to slip up, or best case scenario, do something stupid.

At that moment, something stupid pulled up behind him in an old, light blue, Lincoln Town Car that might have been older than the driver that stepped out.  Young enough to sport pimples and oily skin, the kid straightened his navy blue blazer and wiped his hands on his matching slacks.  He packed a pistol in a shoulder holster and a smirk on his football-shaped face, with a head full of slicked-back brown hair.

Granite frowned.  “So much for no distractions.”

Pimple-Face tapped his knuckles on the driver’s side window.  Granite acknowledged by lowering it.  “What’s up?” Granite asked.

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“Why’s that, this is a public road isn’t it?”

“You are disturbing Mr. Dawson and I think it would be in your best interest if you moved along.”

“And you are who exactly?”

“I’m security for Mr. Dawson.”

“Are you now?”

“Sir, I don’t want any trouble.”

“Too late for that, sonny.”

Gravel crunched, and the sun disappeared behind Pimple-Face.  He turned to see Marko, all six-foot-seven inches of him, carrying three hundred and fifty pounds of pure muscle, a bag of beef jerky, and a two-liter of Mountain Dew.

“Afternoon,” Marko said.

“I knew it,” Granite said.  “You just couldn’t resist could you?”

Marko looked first at the beef jerky then the Mountain Dew.  “What?”

Eyes widened, mouth agape, Pimple-Face took a step back. “Who are you?”  Sweat formed on the top of his lip and above his brow. 

“I’m security,” Marko said.

“Real security,” Granite offered.

“Get back in your car,” Pimple-Face ordered.  His voice displayed less conviction than before and he compensated by edging his hand closer to the shoulder holster.

“Now hold on there, son,” Marko said.  “There’s no need for you to get hurt.”

“Me to get hurt?  You’re mistaken, friend.  You don’t even have a gun.”

“I need a gun?”  Marko asked.

Pimple-Faced pulled his pistol.  He was quick, but Granite and Marko were quicker.  Granite opened the car door and slammed it into the side of Pimple-Face, while Marko dropped the soda and grabbed the assailant’s hand holding the weapon.  The Mountain applied pressure, Pimple-Face quickly relinquished the pistol, a Springfield 9mm, and dropped to the ground.

“Now, go to sleep,” Marko said as he sent a thunderous fist, still holding the beef jerky, crashing down upon the young man’s head.  He crumpled and fell forward, face hitting the road with a resounding thud.

Granite lifted Pimple-Face and dragged him to the side of the road. He patted him down, checking for other weapons.  Satisfied there were none, he left him unconscious among the uncut grass.

Marko bent over to pick up his Mountain Dew.  “Seriously,” he said. “You don’t even have a gun.  Did he really say that?”

“C’mon,” Granite said.  “Get in the car.”

Marko sat in the passenger seat and admired the luxurious interior.  “Nice, but I miss the Escalade.”

“Well, it sort of died in Louisiana.”

“It was only a flesh wound.”

“It had bullet holes.”

Marko slumped and said under his breath, “It was still alive though.”

Fifteen pouting minutes later, Granite tapped Marko’s arm.  “There he goes.”

A bright yellow Hummer pulled out of the long, curvy driveway and headed towards Oxford.

“Not really trying to keep a low profile is he?”  Marko said.

“Not his style.”

“Maybe he’s going to the college.”

“The kids at Miami are too old for his taste, but let’s follow him, nonetheless.”

Granite started the engine and put the Lexus in gear.  A low rumble, like thunder in a cave, resounded deep within Marko’s stomach, followed by a slight lifting of his left leg.

“What kind of beef jerky is that?”  Granite asked.

“Spicy nacho, want some?”  Marko offered.

Granite’s eyes began to tear up, and his jaw tightened.

“Aw, man,” he said.  “Lower the window.”



The book continues with Off Course. We will provide a link to it when you review this below.

Author Notes
This novel will take different turns and twists along the way.
Buckle your seatbelt.
Up next:
Granite makes a gruesome discovery.
Pays one point and 2 member cents.

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