Fight Fire With Fire_An Urban Fantasy Action Adventure Read online

  Yeah, Brownstone’s a badass, I’ll give him that, and he even lived in our neighborhood. But working for him isn’t gonna make us stronger. You can’t be a strong king by working for another king.

  Lachlan struggled to his feet, then hunched, vomiting again.

  I’m never fucking eating again.

  Kevin and Russell, the last two to break from the pack and arrive, exchanged glances. The two were solid muscle and not breathing hard at all. That only irritated Lachlan more.

  In fact, none of the people who stopped were breathing hard. They had all run miles, and other than the sweat on their faces no one would be able to tell.

  Lachlan forced himself to stand up straight. “Come on. None of you fuckers are winded at all?”

  Russell shrugged. “It’s called conditioning, bitch. You think it wasn’t hard the first few days for the rest of us? Most of the boys were puking a lot more than you, but Staff Sergeant has been pushing our asses. It’s just exercise. If you do it, you get stronger. Easiest fucking bang for your buck you’ll ever see.”

  Shorty grinned. “I was running before I even joined up with you bitches. I haven’t puked from running in a long time.”

  “Staff Sergeant says I have a natural frame for running,” Max explained with a shrug.

  Kevin pointed to the group disappearing in the distance. “Just start jogging, Lachlan. You’ve got to man the fuck up and do this shit. If you can’t handle a little run, how you ever gonna run down bounties?”

  Lachlan gritted his teeth and pushed his legs forward. His stomach twisted, but there was nothing left inside. The next couple miles were going to suck.

  “Fuck you all. I’m finishing this shit.”

  Lachlan sat on the beach, his knees pulled to his stomach and his head down. The men chatted amongst themselves, drinking Gatorade from the two massive coolers in the back of Staff Sergeant Royce’s truck.

  The angry trainee’s legs ached, and his abs hurt from all his retching. He’d never exercised so hard in his life. He would never admit it to the others, but a small hint of pride over his accomplishment had taken root.

  Fuck them all. I’ll show them. I’m tough as any of these fuckers. Running don’t make you tough. It’s about your balls.

  Kevin, Russell, Max, and Shorty all grabbed their drinks and dropped into the sand around Lachlan.

  Shorty slapped him on the back. “You did it, motherfucker. Congrats. You ain’t a complete pussy.”

  Lachlan took a small sip of Gatorade before speaking. “Why?”

  Shorty looked at him. “Why what? Why you ain’t a pussy?”

  “No. Why follow Brownstone? Why follow Trey? We were the kings of our neighborhood. We could have been more, but now we’re giving up our freedom to work for some asshole.”

  Shorty snorted but didn’t respond.

  Max stared at the clouds hovering over the ocean. “How many old gangbangers do you know, Lachlan?”

  “Huh?”

  “How many old gangbangers do you know? Like some dude who is still working the streets, but has a few decent wrinkles?”

  Lachlan shrugged. “None.”

  “That’s right. You almost never see old gangbangers or old junkies, because they die young. For a long time, I didn’t care if I died young. I figured our neighborhood was a shithole and the cops didn’t give a fuck, so I joined the gang because I wanted to make sure people didn’t beat my ass.” Max grabbed a rock and threw it into the ocean, where it landed with a big splash. “I didn’t join it so I could get my ass capped by some Demon General over bullshit, or because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Being a bounty hunter ain’t safe. All sorts of guys are gonna try and kill you.”

  “Yeah, but the difference is we’ll be the ones planning when to go after a guy. That’s hella different than some drive-by gang shit.”

  Lachlan snorted. “How many old bounty hunters you know, bitch?”

  Max shrugged. “I figure by the time I get old, I’ll have enough money saved that I can be the boss like Brownstone.”

  Shorty laughed. “Y’all making this way too complicated. Brownstone’s a fucking badass. If you want to be strong, you follow the strongest. Staff Sergeant’s badass, too. Even Trey’s a lot tougher than he looks. I thought I was Billy Big Balls, but Trey, Staff Sergeant Royce, and Brownstone proved to me I wasn’t shit.”

  Kevin gulped down the rest of his Gatorade. “I figure why piss off 5-0 if you don’t have to? They looking for excuses to bust heads, but now we’re gonna be on their side and get paid fat cash for it. I can’t wait to see the look on those bitches’ faces when I stroll into the police station with a bounty.”

  Russell grinned. “I bet you we get way more women saying we work for Brownstone than saying we are some street thugs. Working for the Brownstone Agency means we get to be badass, but still respectable. You know what I’m saying?”

  Lachlan snorted. “Who needs bitches?”

  “My dick.”

  The others laughed.

  Max took a sip of his drink. “You got a better plan, Lachlan? Even if you quit now, you’re not starting up a new gang in the neighborhood. Trey won’t allow it, and Brownstone won’t allow it.”

  “What if I don’t give a shit about their permission?”

  “You got some nuclear missile hidden somewhere we don’t know about?”

  “Huh? What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “That’s what you’re gonna need to beat Brownstone. Think about this, fool. He took out the Harriken. Not just some Harriken. The entire damned group. And think about King Pyro, that shit in the sewer from a while back. Hell, that crazy-ass freak in Vegas. You wouldn’t have lasted five seconds against them, but he won. There might be people out there who can beat Brownstone, but you’re sure as shit not one of them.”

  Lachlan frowned. He couldn’t challenge what Max was saying, but the man’s word did clarify something that’d been bothering him for a while.

  “Don’t you get it?” he asked. “The shit he can do, it’s not just being badass.” Everyone looked his way and waited for him to continue. “I’m saying he ain’t human. At first I just thought his mama dropped him as a baby or something with that weird-ass face of him, but it’s more than that. You know he’s some bitch from Oriceran, or he’s using some super-magic from them or something. It’s changed him into one of them.”

  Kevin arced his empty bottle into a nearby recycling bin. “So?”

  “What do you mean, ‘so?’ You want to work for some non-human freak? This is Earth and the United States, not Oriceran.”

  “He’s got two arms and two legs. Two ears. He pays us and shows us respect. I don’t give a rat’s ass if Brownstone’s a motherfucking dragon under that face. Oriceran’s part of the world now. Ain’t gonna do you no good to get upset about shit you can’t change. If you had been reading Marcus Aurelius, you’d know that shit.” He snorted. “You gonna run off to some other planet where you don’t have to deal with them magic folks? Good luck, bitch.”

  “I’m saying that humans can only trust humans.”

  Kevin chuckled.

  Max shook his head. “Brownstone has shown his respect for our neighborhood for a long time, and he’s lived there a long time. Fuck, man, the guy goes to church and gives money to orphans. He’s not some evil Oriceran dude waiting to drink the blood of puppies. He doesn’t even pick non-bounty fights. He only went after the Harriken because those bitches killed his dog.”

  Lachlan grunted and looked at Russell and Shorty. “You two okay with him? What if he gets pissed someday and turns into a monster?”

  “I respect strength,” Shorty declared. “Don’t care what he is, and, well, he ain’t the Devil because he goes to church. Whatever else he is don’t bother me none.”

  Russell laughed. “Monster? Bitch, please. Motherfuckers blew up his house. If he didn’t turn into Vengeance Dragon then, he ain’t never gonna.”

  Kevin slammed a
fist into the sand. “He did, in a way. He delivered the fucking pain to the Harriken bitches. He only takes down fuckers who have it coming. Shit, the Harriken kept going after him. They were asking to die.”

  Lachlan finished his Gatorade as he looked around at the other people. He didn’t understand how they could be so easy-going about working for a man so beyond their reach.

  He furrowed his brow and looked down. Maybe Brownstone’s superiority was what was really bothering him. When he was running under Trey he’d always figured he could take control of the gang someday when he got strong enough, but Brownstone was a mountain no one in the agency could ever hope to climb.

  “Doesn’t hurt to stick around,” he mumbled. “At least I’ll get paid to exercise and learn shit for a while.”

  Shorty clapped him on the shoulder. “Now you’re starting to know yourself, bitch.”

  Staff Sergeant Royce wandered over to the group, his face impassive. “You did good today, kid.”

  Lachlan bit down his first nasty response. “I fucking puked my guts out. How is that shit good?”

  “When I joined the Corps, I was so fat they sent me to pre-basic training to work out and lose weight. I puked more in those weeks than I probably would for most of the rest of my life.” Royce shrugged. “Being weak to begin with doesn’t make you a pussy. Any able-bodied man can get stronger if he puts in the time. The military’s been doing it since the dawn of civilization. You just need the will to want to get stronger.”

  Lachlan hung his head. “I want to get stronger, Staff Sergeant.”

  “Good.” The drill instructor narrowed his eyes. “Remember, strength also comes from discipline.”

  “I’m not sure I believe that, Staff Sergeant.”

  Royce chuckled. “I saw a lot of action in my time in the Corps. Terrorists, insurgents, all that shit. You know the one thing I realized about why a Marine platoon usually won against some AK-wielding-fucking insurgents?”

  “Bigger guns? Better grenades?”

  “Nah. When you’re going house to house or through some mountain pass, fancy toys don’t help much.” He shook his head. “Let me give you an example. I remember one time we were clearing out some insurgents from a village. Assholes actually got the drop on us, but in the end they were all dead or wounded. Only one of our guys was hit, and he survived.”

  Lachlan looked the Marine up and down. “You had better body armor or some shit?”

  Royce shook his head. “Nope. Better discipline. The insurgent fuckers kept just spraying and praying. They weren’t picking targets and calmly aiming. Our guys didn’t yell and scream and throw lead in the air hoping to hit something. We broke off into our fireteams and took our shots when the enemy presented themselves.” He gestured toward the men who were talking and drinking. “You know one of the big things that studying military history impresses into a man? I’m talking universal crap that applies whether you’re using a spear or a railgun.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t read much.”

  “Discipline always triumphs. In most pre-modern battles, you didn’t even see a lot of casualties until one side broke and ran. That was when they got cut down. They lost discipline.” Royce loomed over Lachlan. “The Brownstone Agency isn’t the Marine Corps. If it were, we’d be more inclined to give a shit about keeping you. For now, it’s up to you to continue proving yourself to me, the rest of the men, Trey, and Mr. Brownstone himself. Today was a good start. Keep it up, and I’ll make you into a man yet.”

  The drill instructor spun on his heel and marched toward another group of men.

  “Bitch thinks he’s so special,” Lachlan muttered under his breath.

  Shorty laughed. “He’s a Marine. Bitch is special.”

  “He’s not a Marine anymore.”

  “Nah. My uncle was in the Corps. Once a Marine, always a Marine.”

  8

  Trey cracked his knuckles over his head. Even though he wasn’t being subjected to the full force of Royce’s training, he needed to participate today, and there weren’t any bounties he was feeling for the next few days anyway.

  Got to set an example for the boys, and it’s not like Royce couldn’t teach me shit.

  He’d already been briefed on Royce’s training plans, but he’d kept them to himself. The more surprised the men were, the more effective the training was proving to be. The boys had gotten too used to their old gangbanger lifestyle, and all the training was opening their minds as much as it was training their bodies.

  The men stood in rows. Staff Sergeant Royce was in front, and Trey was off to the side.

  Royce put his arms behind his back. “Yesterday we went over a live-fire exercise, and I learned firsthand why gangbangers can’t hit shit. It’s calling aiming, dumbasses. The point of a fight is to kill the other guy, not look cool.”

  Everyone laughed.

  “Today’s focus is different. Weapons handling is important, and we’ll keep that up with daily sessions going forward. Being able to fire your weapon at a large unmoving target is one thing. Hitting your target when it’s moving or you’re under fire is a different thing entirely.” Royce marched over to a table covered in large black angular rifles. Several large boxes lay underneath. “James has seen fit to invest a lot of money into your training.” He picked up one of the rifles. “This isn’t a real gun, because shooting your asses would just mean I have to train a new batch of losers. That said, it feels and handles weight-wise like a real gun, complete with recoil and a loud ass simulated report, but it throws out a laser, not a bullet. We’ll be using electronics to register the hits.”

  “So it’s like Laser Tag?” Max asked.

  Royce shook his head. “Half of training is developing muscle memory and instincts. The last thing I want is a group of men who aren’t afraid of getting shot. You think just because you’ve scrapped with some other gangs you know combat, but you don’t know shit. Real battle isn’t a fucking video game. There’s no respawn if your brains get blown out.”

  Trey crossed his arms and waited for Royce to explain the best part about the rifle simulators.

  “You’ll be wearing expensive suits in our new tactical room.”

  “What?” asked Kevin. “You want us to all look like Trey? I’m not down with wearing suits, yo.”

  The room filled with laughter.

  Royce shook his head. “Nope, these aren’t business suits. They are jumpsuits lined with specialty electronics that interact with the rifle simulators. If a shot skims you, they’ll vibrate. If you get shot, it’ll shock you, and it’ll hurt like a bitch. That way you learn to fear getting shot and don’t treat training like a video game. If you don’t drop within a few seconds, it’ll hurt a hell of a lot more. Also note that once you’re dead, you can’t shoot anymore.” He held up the rifle. “For now we’re treating this shit as one shot, one kill. The problem in a lot of gun battles is that once you get shot, you can bleed out because you don’t realize how injured you are thanks to adrenaline. I’m training you to not get shot at all, so you don’t die in a stupid-ass way.”

  Concerned murmurs erupted throughout the room.

  “This ain’t gonna shrink my dick, is it?” asked one man. “All that electricity and shit?”

  Shorty laughed. “What’s left to shrink?”

  “Fuck you, Shorty. I’m gonna shoot your ass first.”

  “Save it for the tactical room,” Royce shouted. The room fell silent. “Today we’re going to have two teams—a friendly team and an opposing force. The teams will be randomly selected by the program controlling the suits. Friendly team’s suits will be lined with blue lights, and the OPFOR will be red. Today’s exercise is easy. Team death-match. Eliminate all members of the other team.” He pointed to the boxes. “Everyone, suit up. We’ve got a battle to conduct.”

  Trey grinned. “Let’s see what all you bitches can do.”

  Two teams in blue- and red-lined jumpsuits marched toward the tactical room. Royce stepped up and tapped t
he code into the keypad on the side. The lock in the door clicked, and he pulled the door open.

  “Everyone in,” the Marine ordered.

  Trey filed in first, followed by the rest of the red team and then the blue team, their rifle simulators held with both hands and treated as if they were regular loaded weapons. Gun safety, even of empty or simulated weapons, was something Royce treated as a zero-tolerance matter.

  The tactical room was a darkened gym-sized two-level maze filled with blocks, dead ends, ramps, and stairs. Even though no one except Trey and Royce knew about it, smoke machines had been installed in the roof, along with massive speakers and misters in case they wanted to simulate different weather conditions. The jumpsuits weren’t waterproof, but they were water-resistant.

  Surprised James agreed to pay for all this shit. Royce is training our boys to be Marines more than he is bounty hunters. They are gonna be some scary-ass motherfuckers when all this shit is done. Fuck, most of them may even be better trained than I am.

  Trey chuckled and pointed to a nearby black wooden block. It was more than sufficient to provide cover for a grown man. “You all know I’ve been working the job already. Guess I’m just a fucking prodigy, bitches.”

  The men all laughed.

  “But that don’t change the fact that I’ve made mistakes. A lot of times when you go after these level ones or twos they will just surrender, but then again, a lot of them don’t.” Trey slapped his chest. “I’ll be real with you. I ain’t told any of you this shit yet, but I took rounds in my chest already.”

  “What the fuck?” Lachlan yelled. “How you still walking? Brownstone do some voodoo on you?”

  Trey snorted. “Bitch, please! Bulletproof vest. But let me tell you, it still hurts like a motherfucker when you get hit wearing a bulletproof vest. It bruised my rib, and I was lucky it didn’t break.”

  Royce nodded. “Not only that, depending on what type of bullet or rifle enemy is using, the bullets might go straight through. Vests are useful, but you can’t depend on them to save your life. Your typical anti-firearm bulletproof vest doesn’t do well against shit like knives. Cover will save your life in a firefight. All that movie bullshit where someone stands out in the open and sprays without getting hit—it’ll get you killed. Do I make myself fucking clear?”