Road Trip: BBQ Delivered with Attitude (The Unbelievable Mr. Brownstone Book 20)
Road Trip: BBQ Delivered with Attitude
The Unbelievable Mr. Brownstone™ Book Twenty
Michael Anderle
This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Sometimes both.
Copyright © 2019 Michael Anderle
Cover by Andrew Dobell, www.creativeedgestudios.co.uk
Cover copyright © LMBPN Publishing
A Michael Anderle Production
LMBPN Publishing supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.
The distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact support@lmbpn.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
LMBPN Publishing
PMB 196, 2540 South Maryland Pkwy
Las Vegas, NV 89109
First US edition, September 2019
ebook ISBN: 978-1-64202-448-7
Print ISBN: 978-1-64202-449-4
The Oriceran Universe (and what happens within / characters / situations / worlds) are Copyright (c) 2017-19 by Martha Carr and LMBPN Publishing.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Author Notes
Other series in the Oriceran Universe:
Books by Michael Anderle
Connect with Michael Anderle
Road Trip: BBQ Delivered With Attitude Team
Special Thanks
to Mike Ross
for BBQ Consulting
Jessie Rae’s BBQ - Las Vegas, NV
Thanks to the JIT Readers
Jeff Eaton
Dave Hicks
Jeff Goode
Nicole Emens
Micky Cocker
Shari Regan
Peter Manis
John Ashmore
Larry Omans
Deb Mader
Diane L. Smith
James Caplan
Dorothy Lloyd
Paul Westman
Kelly O’Donnell
If I’ve missed anyone, please let me know!
Editor
Lynne Stiegler
To Family, Friends and
Those Who Love
to Read.
May We All Enjoy Grace
to Live the Life We Are
Called.
Chapter One
The F-350 barreled down the highway. Traffic was light for late afternoon. Chatter filled the truck’s cabin from two barbeque podcast hosts discussing different spice and meat pairings. It was another normal day for James Brownstone.
“I’m telling you, Jill,” one of the hosts began, “you’d be surprised how well cardamom works in the recipe. I was shocked and stunned by the deliciousness.”
Jill laughed. “Okay, Henry. You’ve convinced me. I’ll try cardamom the next time I make that brisket.”
James’ experiences in Colorado the previous fall had convinced him that he needed to push a little harder to explore the fundamental nature of barbeque. He’d never been against testing the boundaries, but since opening his own place, he had let himself fall into an easy pattern of obsessing over the same preferred recipes. They were damned good recipes, but the same ones, nonetheless. While he was going to respect the basics of his craft and not go too crazy, he wanted to expand his scope of barbeque appreciation.
He chuckled. Some days, his old life felt like it belonged to a different man who just happened to have his name and look exactly like him. While he had always enjoyed barbeque, he had spent too much time beating down scummy bounties to worry about mastering his core styles, let alone exploring fringe techniques and proteins. Now, he had plenty of time to work in the restaurant and appreciate his family. Semi-retirement wasn’t such a bad thing.
The Lord had provided. This was what his life was always meant to be. He ran a good restaurant that contributed a solid effort to the LA barbeque scene. His beautiful, ass-kicking wife was about to give birth, and his daughter was doing well for herself, even if the occasional mysterious and dangerous organization went after her.
The constant concern over Alison’s safety that had plagued James for years was now a mere background murmur in his thoughts. Alison had long since proven she could handle herself, and she’d done it again with the Tapestry. If anything, the range of her magical abilities meant she could deal with a lot of problems he’d have more difficulty handling. Kicking ass by slicing a guy’s head off or stomping through a window was straightforward, but not every problem in life could be resolved by the extreme application of force.
She’d even found a good man. James would never fully be comfortable with her getting married, but Mason was a solid pick. He would always have Alison’s back both professionally and personally.
Shit. They’re not gonna be engaged forever, which means I could end up a grandfather in a few years.
James didn’t know what to make of that idea. It’d probably bother Shay more than him. He’d never felt young even when he was a kid.
Worrying less about Alison meant James had fully enshrined KISS as the top priority in his life again, at least until the baby was born. All the child-rearing podcasts he’d been listening to since Shay had told him the news had made it very clear that the baby would dictate the new terms of his daily existence, and it’d be at least a couple of years before he could start anything approaching proper training.
Shay insisted it’d be far longer than a couple of years before she wanted their kid running around preparing to be a Brownstone, but James didn’t see anything wrong with a toddler-scale tactical obstacle course. Wasn’t that just promoting physical play and well-being?
It wasn’t like he was planning to give the kid a weapon. If Alison could begin training while she was still blind, her new sibling could start once he or she learned to walk and jump. Every pediatrician said exercise was good for kids. Parents who were not sending their kids through tactical obstacle courses were the ones who should be defending themselves.
Six weeks remained until the baby would be born, and James intended to live the simple life as much as possible until then. The incident last fall with Nadina aside, he hadn’t had to worry about much other than Shay or barbeque in months. An occasional quick trip with the agency to beat down bounties helped keep Whispy from complaining too much, and only the dimmest of idiots dared to even shoot an angry look his way. The idea of someone blowing up his house again was ludicrous. Even the Vax understood they needed to stay the hell away, and half the galaxy was terrified of them. They had just accepted who the bigger badass was.
James smiled.
My new kid will grow up with a loving family who can kick anyone’s ass if they screw with them, but I’
ll make sure the kid knows how to kick butt, too, just in case. When they’re old enough, they’re going to start doing summers either at the agency or Alison’s company.
How early? Is ten too early? Twelve? I’ll have to talk to Shay about it, but she’s already complaining about the obstacle course. Maybe if I mention tomb raids, she’ll see it my way.
It wasn’t as if he intended to pressure his new child into any particular career path. Bounty hunter, security consultant, or tomb raider were all fine. The only thing he refused to budge on was a proper food education. The child would learn intricacies of barbeque from the second they had teeth. They didn’t have to love his preferred styles, but they would know barbeque.
About the only thing I won’t allow is a vegetarian.
Farther up the road, a large truck jerked and swerved before falling onto its side. James slammed his foot on his brake pedal, his hands tightening on the wheel. The F-350’s tires squealed and the vehicle shook.
Damn.
The crashing truck ahead sparked as it scraped along the concrete. Metal, plastic, and glass chunks shot into the air and rained down on the nearby lanes. A closely-trailing SUV slammed on its brakes and veered hard to the left, desperate to avoid the fallen truck, but clipped its side. The blow launched the SUV onto its side, and it skidded along the road, smashing through a guard rail and dropping into the narrow plant-covered median. The SUV smacked into a palm tree, and the impact halted the vehicle but uprooted the tree. It fell onto its side, blocking another lane. The quick and careful response of the drivers in that lane avoided another accident. Maybe it was a convoy of Gray Elves.
Several other vehicles on James’ side of the median had better luck than the SUV. Their brake lights lit almost in unison, the tires of the cars and trucks leaving black streaks on the concrete. A sedan that had been right behind the SUV came to a stop a few yards away from the initial overturned truck. The other cars formed an uneven glob around it as they stopped, James’ F-350 at the outer edge of the main highway clot. The vehicles behind slowed to a stop in the halted lanes, not an abnormal sight in greater Los Angeles, even without traffic accidents.
The passenger-side door of the overturned truck opened and the driver crawled out, grimacing. His face was bloodied, and one of his feet bent at an unnatural angle. A few people emerged from their cars and rushed over to the truck to help him down. They carried him toward a nearby parked car.
A moment later, two men jogged toward the SUV but hesitated as flames and sparks from the front of the vehicle lit the shrubs, grass, and trees in the surrounding area on fire.
It’s always something in LA. All this magic in the world, and we still have to deal with traffic accidents.
James shrugged off his coat and reached under his shirt to yank off the spacer separating his amulet from his chest. He hissed as the tendrils shot into his flesh, the pain familiar but still intense after all these years. He took a few deep breaths, now fully bonded with his symbiont.
Initiation, Whispy sent. What is the nature of the enemy?
No enemy, James thought. Just didn’t want to get burned while I save someone trapped in a car.
Little tactical value will be gained in non-combat scenarios with existing adaptations. Whispy huffed, his irritation pricking at James’ mind.
Yeah, whatever. Someday you’ll need to accept that I don’t kick ass twenty-four/seven anymore.
Alternative suggestion: Recommend recovery of wounded from more extreme environments.
James threw open his door and sprinted toward the burning vehicle. The fire grew in those precious seconds, and the earlier would-be rescuers stumbled back, panicked looks on their faces. One man shouted into his cell phone. A few other people had gathered in the area, murmuring amongst themselves, everyone looking at the fire with concern.
The earlier Good Samaritans propped the injured truck driver against the side of a car. “My tire blew,” he complained. “It’s not my fault.”
James ignored the crowd and the driver as he continued toward the burning SUV. He entered the outer ring of fire. The hungry flames licked at him, burning away patches of his clothes, but he barely registered a sting.
I wonder if I could march into hell with you and kick the Devil’s ass, Saint Michael style?
Tactical abilities of the Devil entity are unknown at this time and irrelevant to immediate situation, Whispy replied. Maximum adaptation already achieved against damage type, he complained. Restating: minimal tactical value of engagement.
They’d been full partners for years, and even though the symbiont had become less robotic in many ways, Whispy had never embraced anything approaching James’ fundamental morals and beliefs. He would have worried more, but the symbiont always did what he needed when he needed it to, and it wasn’t like some other Vax was going to show up and take him. As far as the symbiont was concerned, the best way to continue becoming stronger was to serve James Brownstone. He just would never make the mistake of forgetting that Whispy Doom was fundamentally a weapon and always would be.
“That guy’s going right into the fire!” someone shouted. “It’s too hot, pal. I know what you’re thinking, but you’re just going to get yourself killed. It won’t do you any good. Come back.”
“That’s not just some guy,” a woman replied. She pointed. “That’s James Brownstone.”
Visible hope radiated from the faces of gathered people, and several clapped. A couple of people had had their phones out before, but now almost everyone pulled theirs out to start filming. No one could risk missing out on their piece of local history.
James groaned. It’d taken forever for all the media attention to die down after the incident with Nadina. For a while, every stupid day, some idiot reporter would call him or show up at the restaurant for “just a few questions about Colorado.” It was hard to keep his life simple when reporters were constantly bothering him about shit that happened to incidentally involve him.
He shook his head and continued through the flames. This wasn’t the time to bitch or worry. This was time to save a man’s life. Whispy might not understand the value, but James didn’t want to go to church and tell a priest that he had sat there and let a man die when he had a chance to save him. Kicking ass and barbeque were his normal contributions to society, but they weren’t the only ones.
James arrived at the crumpled SUV. He grabbed the handle of the half-crushed door and pulled, but it didn’t budge. He jammed his fingers into the cracks in the side and grunted as he yanked again. The metal buckled, but the door stayed in place. Being stronger than a normal man didn’t mean being strong enough for every task.
The driver was the sole occupant of the smoke-filled vehicle. Blood covered his face, but his chest rose and fell. Smashing the window and pulling him out through the front might kill him. The flames might barely sting James, but the unconscious man inside didn’t have that protection, and James didn’t have a good way to extend it to him.
The fires had burned away half of James’ pant legs, turning them into questionable jeans shorts, but he still had his pockets. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a small golden twig, a Shay treat. He placed it against the amulet.
Drain it, James ordered.
Alternate power source drained, Whispy sent. Sufficient power for advanced transformation.
I don’t need most of that shit. Just need some armor on my legs and enough for the blade.
Silver-green tendrils spread over James’ right arm and the bottom of his body; his pants were now mostly a collection of singed threads. He extended a blade and punched through the metal as if it were a thin sheet of paper and carved along the door until it fell off the SUV. Acrid smoke billowed out. He coughed.
Initiate alternate oxygen exchange or breathing modifications? Whispy asked
No. It’s fine. We’re done here.
A quick slice freed the man from the seatbelt, and James retracted the weapon. He pulled the man out, hefting him over his shoulder as h
e rushed out of the flames and smoke. He headed toward the gathered crowd, his armor preserving the modesty of his lower half. Most of his shirt remained, but a charred hole in the center revealed the bonded amulet and the tendrils extending into his chest. He’d long since stopped caring about people seeing the amulet. Everyone believed it was a magic artifact, and the few who knew the truth, even those who didn’t fully trust him, had their own reasons to keep that secret. The Earth, they presumed, wasn’t ready to know about the rest of the galaxy.
The crowd greeted James with cheers as he set the man down and examined him. James gritted his teeth. The man was no longer breathing. Besides the huge and deep laceration in his head, burns covered his body, and his legs were obviously broken. Had he taken too long?
“Shit,” James muttered and checked the highway. Red-blue lights shone in the far distance, with only the faintest hint of sirens. Help was coming, but that didn’t guarantee there were any ambulances with the first wave of responders. “This guy needs help,” he bellowed. “Right now!”
“Is there a doctor around?” a woman called. “Or anyone who knows healing magic? Please!”
Everyone exchanged looks, desperation on their faces. A few people hung their heads in shame over their inability to help.
“Can’t you do anything?” a man asked James, his expression pleading. He gestured toward the amulet. “Can you make it do a healing spell?”