Stones of Fire

12

‘ “… blessed be God Most High, who has delivered your enemies into your hand!” Praise be, praise be,’ Boyd Braxton whispered as he finished reciting his favourite Bible passage. Buttoning up the cleaner’s dark blue shirt, he unzipped the cheap polyester trousers and tucked in the shirt-tails. Then, not willing to mess with his juju, he cupped his balls. ‘You’re the man, BB. You are the man.’

He’d been out of boot camp only a few weeks when his mess buddies had taken to calling him BB. As in Big Bang. As in the fact that he could outdrink, outfight, outfuck any man in the unit. The fighting part landed him in the brig more times than he could recall, Boyd damned with his father’s murderous temper. The colonel said his temper was a cross he had to bear. Like Jesus lugging a hundred and ten pounds of lumber all the way to Calvary. It was a daily struggle. Sometimes he took the day. Sometimes the day took him.

A quick glance at the name badge sewn onto the front of the matching blue jacket indicated that the black man sprawled at his feet was named Walter Jefferson. Blood seeped from his head and dribbled from his snot box, the cleaner having broken his nose when he hit the deck.

‘Sorry ’bout that,’ Boyd snickered, figuring it’d be a couple of hours before the man came to. Since the colonel had been adamant that everything be by numbers, he’d taken the extra precaution of stuffing a dirty rag into the man’s mouth. Then, trussing him up like a big turkey, he’d secured his hands and feet with a belt. He’d fucked up at the Hopkins Museum, but this time there would be no more dumb-ass mistakes.

Boyd popped the mag on his pistol. Fifteen rounds. He only needed one to kill the Miller broad, but it was always a good idea to have extra ammo. Just in case. His movements quick and steady, he screwed a silencer onto the end of the barrel. He shoved the Mark 23 into the small of his back, the jacket hiding the telltale bulge. He jammed a leather scabbard next to the pistol, the Ka-Bar knife his backup weapon of choice. A Ka-Bar could slice and dice a man in less time that it took to say ‘Howdy do.’ Or a woman, Boyd having killed more than one bitch in his time.

Suited up, he grabbed the mop handle and steered the yellow bucket towards the closed door of the cleaners’ storeroom. Grey water sloshed over the sides and Boyd slowed his pace. Opening the door, he rolled the mop and bucket across the threshold. Then, covering his tracks, he reached for the keys dangling from his belt. It took a few tries, but he found the right one, locking Walter Jefferson safely inside. That done, he hid his own clothes, rolled into a ball inside his leather jacket, under a nearby bench. Approaching the crowded concourse, he surveyed the jabbering hordes of tourists. Again he thought they’d make good cover, his plan to kill the Miller bitch, chuck the untraceable gun into the bucket of water and get his hairy ass out of the building before anyone realized what was happening.

Pushing his bucket, Boyd could see that no one paid him any attention. Like he’d figured, he was just a big blue ghost.

Perfect. He loved it when everything came together.

’Cause, God help him, he knew what it was like when the fucking floor gave way. When you were sinking in shit without a buoy in sight. That’s how it was back in ’04 when he returned from his first deployment in Iraq.

Fallujah. What a fucking shit hole.

Every night he woke up in a cold sweat. One night he actually pissed the bed. If his wife Tammy so much as brushed her bare leg against his, he’d sit bolt upright in the bed, reaching for his M16. Except he didn’t have his rifle. Didn’t even have a damned sidearm, Tammy refusing to let him bring a loaded anything into the house on account of Baby Ashley. Six months old, Baby Ashley cried all night long. Just like those fucking raghead babies in Fallujah. One night he couldn’t take it any longer, Ashley bawling for a milk titty. Couldn’t the brat just shut the fuck up?! With each ear-piercing scream, the pounding inside his skull got louder. And louder still.

And then everything went eerily quiet, Ashley’s screams muffled with a pillow.

Just like that baby in Fallujah.

That’s about the time his wife ran into the room, jumped on his back and actually sank her teeth into the side of his neck, the bitch going for his jugular. He’d had no choice but to fling the rabid cunt off his back. She hit her head on a nearby rocking chair, the blow pretty much killing her on the spot. Not knowing what to do, he telephoned Colonel MacFarlane. Like he was his own flesh and blood, the colonel took care of everything, giving him an airtight alibi, making it look like a robbery gone bad. The local police bought the story. Even the dickheads at the Daily News bought it, the local paper speculating that it was one of a series of local robberies committed by strung-out junkies looking to make some quick cash: TRAGEDY BEFALLS WAR HERO.

The colonel said the same thing. Except he went one step further. He said God understood what it was like to be a warrior, to come home from a hard-fought battle only to have to fend off the evil. Colonel Stan MacFarlane was a great and good man, and Boyd owed him. Big time. Not just for saving his ass, but for showing him the Way. For leading him into God’s fold. And when the little dick bastards at the Pentagon drummed that great and good man out of the Corps, Boyd went with him.

Pushing his yellow bucket, Boyd scanned the crowd, his nose twitching at the faint smell of stir-fried Chink food.

The Miller bitch is here. Somewhere in the crowd.

Soon enough he’d find her. And when he did, it’d be like shooting ragheads in a rain barrel.