Javier

Prologue

Wednesday Night - Early December - Putnam, New York

One stupid move and it was over. Obviously, one of the gunmen didn't understand this, because he just stood there on the asphalt like an incapacitated dimwit. His mind reeled at the probable outcome of the situation. No way was he going to make it out this thing alive. The weapon in his hand was too heavy to begin with – too heavy to maintain a steady grip. What was he going to do with it? He'd never shot anyone before. He'd never even seen anything as deadly in the entire nineteen years of his boring existence. At that instant, his brain warned him that he was about to come down with a horrible case of neurosis.

Move, punk, move! What the hell you stalling for?

The inflection in the voice caused him to bounce into action. It was Viper, original gangsta from Putnam. He had a rep that shook hands with insanity. A brute that once shot a sleeping baby because he felt he'd been disrespected by its mother. He hated hesitant males; weak-looking males who acted like flamboyant females.

Don't make me light you up, Viper spat. You ready?

The gunman nodded violently. Another stupid move and he would be jumped; professionally tail-whipped by a coterie of cutthroat-looking gangstas – well trained to inflict serious damage. He had better redeem himself tonight. He had better show Viper and his boys that he was worthy of becoming one of them, ready to die for the cause. This was thug time, a banger in action. An opportunity to establish rank. No time to mess around and get his rep insulted. Disguise on; he took off like a jet behind Viper.

There were four of them, clad from head to feet in criminal paraphernalia. With street intelligence, they converged upon their target. They had done this too many times to keep track, which in a sense, thoroughly equipped them to handle the worst possible situation. In fact, this was their fourth bust since the week rolled in. Money was tight, and infiltrating, broke hustlers were illegally working their turf. They had to reestablish ownership.

Putnam belonged to them. The mere name itself was associated with combat. Israel Putnam had been a hero and a general in the American Revolutionary War, who’d fought with distinction at the battle of Bunker Hill in 1775. Likewise, they would fight to make their name legendary – right here in the town of Carmel, the historic jewel of Putnam.

The red and blue neon lights illuminated the sign above their heads: RÁCER SERVICE STATION.

For a minute, they watched.

Two people were behind the cash register – an old, but astute-looking chap, enjoying the moment with a young girl. Their heads were down, probably looking at long forgotten photos. Christmas decorations adorned the decrepit walls, which in some way, brought a feeling of warmth to the chilly season. Sadly, none of this would hinder Viper and his boys from accomplishing their mission.

Sneaky was sent into the store first. An OG efficiently trained in diverting attention, he walked with an easy gait, quite deceiving to the gullible eye. He looked innocuous, as if he considered a fly too precious to kill. The only thing that messed up that image was the black ski mask he'd pulled over his angular face. The bass in his voice indicated that he was a gangsta with strong authority, but no one knew this until he opened his mouth.

I’m only gonna say this once. So pay close attention to what I want. Sneaky pressed a semi-automatic against the old man’s head, into his thinning hair. Bend down slowly and open the safe.

 The old man thought he was hallucinating. At his age, anything was possible. He raised his head cautiously, not certain what to expect. The young girl, however, was two blinks away from a hysterical convulsion. It took her several seconds to realize her breath had caught in her throat.

Take your position! Viper’s voice boomed, as he and the remainder of his boys crashed through the store in a ruckus. In no time, one of them had pushed a weapon up the girl's nose.

What you lookin’ at? he yelled at her. Get your face to the floor!

The old man hesitated, watching the other gunmen violently attack the ceiling cameras with stolen baseball bats.

Get down and open the safe, you old cluck! Viper slapped him across his wrinkled face. That sent the girl into a state of hysteria, bawling like a crying ambulance, so loud that it slammed against Viper's nerves.

Viper threw the adhesive tape at Sneaky. Gag that female before I blow her head off!

The old man kept a SW1911 pistol under the countertop. He looked for a way to retrieve it, but it was useless. He knew if he reached for it, his death would be swift. 

The ‘camera-smashers’ turned their attention to the cash register, as Sneaky and Viper held the old man at gunpoint.

Do you understand English? Unlock the safe! 

The old man shook his head defiantly. This was his hard-earned money and he refused to give it up.

Viper tripped out at that point. Wrong move, Methuselah!

They reached for him and threw him into the glass shelves; picked him up and raked him across the countertop like a whiskbroom. Mugs and tumblers went flying over to the other side of the store. The girl was about to pass out from terror. She couldn't endure seeing her grandfather beaten with such violence. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she recalled her earlier warnings to him. She'd repeatedly urged him to upgrade their security system, but he’d brushed her off, calling her paranoid. His stubbornness had always gotten in the way of good sense.

Hoping this would break the old man’s determined spirit, Viper pointed the gun at the young girl. The safe, or her! Your choice!

Bloody, and in excruciating pain, the old man shook his head, obviously not moved by Viper’s threat.

Viper couldn't believe it. He honestly couldn’t believe it. The old geezer was going to make him shoot the girl. He loved money more than he loved his granddaughter. I guess she doesn't mean a thing to you.

Without a second thought, Viper pumped two shots into the girl's chest. One of the gunmen pitched in disbelief. He had not expected this to happen. The rumors were true about Viper – he was a crazy and heartless beast from Putnam.

Now look what you made me do.

 The old man was unresponsive at that point, his stare fixed in silent angst. Lola was not only his granddaughter, but also his only reason to live. You will never get me to open that safe for you. His voice was a pitch above a whisper.

Viper shot a stern look at one of his boys. How much did you get from the register?

The gunman started to search the bag.

Estimate, fool, estimate!

About four hundred dollars...

Viper turned back toward the old man. That will do for now.

Viper knew he and his boys had better hit the road.

If you were five decades younger, I would have used you. Stubborn bastard!

The first shot slammed into the old man's head, killing him on the spot. An uncomfortable silence followed. Then, the bells on the door jingled, signaling the entrance of unsuspecting customers.

Let's go! Viper spat, prancing into escape mode.

They hauled tail, grazing two young college students who'd come in for some cigarettes.

Santa Claus is Coming to Town began chanting away in the background, as if trying to regain the earlier joviality of the atmosphere. But there was nothing to be jolly about. On the cold floor, the old man and his granddaughter lolled. When the college students saw the scene, they backed up and raced for the exit.

Chapter One

Remmington Gardens - Thursday 11:00 p.m.

"This is your local news network. I'm Debra Ruse reporting for Steve Konocus. Making the headlines tonight–four masked gunmen were seen exiting the Rácer Service Station at 10:35 last evening. They are considered responsible for the shooting deaths of storeowner, sixty-six-year-old Saul Montgomery, and seventeen-year-old Lola Webb. An undetermined amount of cash was stolen and, according to eyewitnesses, the men escaped in a dark blue Toyota Camry. More on this in our next segment. 

"In other news tonight, today, police officers arrested three young males suspected of burning down four homes, all of which belonged to gay men. James Rudl, FBI profiler, said this is a bias crime that is geared to promote intimidation in the homosexual circle. Thousands of anti-gay crimes have already been reported and many more are swept under the rug for fear of further victimization. These unmerciful acts of violence must be stopped in their tracks..."

The newscaster’s voice continued softly in the background, but Rachael’s attention had been ripped in two. Javier had promised her, practically sworn on his grave – which she didn’t take too seriously anyway – that he would try to stay in line. No more violence, no more pain, no more disappearing acts, but he, somehow, had found ways to circumvent the system. Again. Really, who was she kidding? That boy was the epitome of rebellion, possessing a will so strong she swore it’d been cut from steel. She knew she was getting in over her head when she accepted the arduous responsibility of protecting his backside. Obviously, she was wasting her God-given time.

The tears she’d shared and the sleepless nights she’d endured were wake-up calls to common sense. The boy didn’t have any desire to change. None whatsoever. She didn't need to ask herself why she put up with him, because the reason was not the cause of her befuddlement. She just couldn’t figure out why it took her three months to brand him as a compulsive liar. The police had taken three arsonists into custody, who’d supposedly, torched the homes of several gay men. No names had been disclosed, but Rachael knew Javier was capable of doing something like that. 

Her phone chirped next to her, so she picked it up.

Yes?

What time is it, girlfriend?

The unique timbre of Vianna’s voice, a mix between a soprano and a contralto, always caught Rachael off guard. Good night to you, too…she replied.

Good night? You need to get your butt down here! Vianna said.

Rachael’s gaze flew to her alarm clock, instantly slapped by the realization of Vianna’s call. She pitched to her feet, staggering. Oh my word!

That's right, girl, it is five minutes to midnight. Your shift started an hour ago.

I'll be right there. I didn't notice the time.

"You better make it quick, girl. These rascals are killin’ me with the noise. Hold the line a sec, Raych...Pedro! Caleb!"

Vianna's scream pealed through the receiver, sending Rachael’s heartbeats scrambling for cover. She was certain if she’d been near Vianna, she would have been rushed to the hospital for cardiac arrest.  

"...stop it, Pedro, before you break his neck! Oh my God! Get away from Deborah’s lamp! What the devil has gotten into you two..."

Vianna came back to her conversation, yelling into the phone. Rachael, get down here! These boys are gonna break up Deborah’s place!

I'm on my way…

Make it quick, girl!

I said I’m on my way! 

Kissing her teeth madly, Rachael dropped the cordless phone to the carpet, hating the feeling of being flustered. Her thoughts had a tendency to stray to the unthinkable, concocting scenarios that edged near insanity. She did not like being faced with the unknown. It was like being chased in the dark by an unseen force. She mumbled a quick prayer. Dear Lord, please Father, let everything turn out well. We don't need this right now.

 Six years and counting – a group counselor’s work was never done. One extreme situation after the other. Rachael  often wondered how she'd survived this long, but had  realized a long time ago that everyone trusted in something; something they hoped would mitigate their fears in the face of trouble. For Rachael, the source of her strength could only be attributed to the One she believed created everything – the Potentate of her destiny. He was the catalyst that fueled the essence of her purpose, which had much to do with those who were deemed unworthy by the hierarchical structures of society. She embraced her calling wholeheartedly; convinced her life would be incomplete if she did not fulfill her destiny.

Rachael’s  thoughts shifted when she noticed the time again, thinking how sensible she had been to rent a place within walking distance of the Safe House, where she worked – the only real advantage  for emergencies like this. Rachael knew that Vianna was a firm woman, but she, alone, couldn't control the fiery tempers of some of the boys who'd been brought to the group home for behavioral modification. Rachael laughed at the irony of the situation. Those boys had grown up in violence, were psychologically impaired by hate. The behavioral modification they needed could only come from the One who had created them.

My dear girl, how are you doing tonight?

Rachael jumped at the sound of the raspy voice. She hadn’t noticed her neighbor, Tyrone Williams, when she’d stepped outside her apartment.

Oh gosh, Mr. Williams, she paused, trying to pick up her racing heart from the floor for the second time that night. I didn't see you standing there...

I didn't mean to frighten you, dear...

No, it’s okay. I'm just in a rush. Duty calls at the Safe House. She shoved her arms into her knee length trench coat, and then adjusted the scarf around her neck.

Putnam was smack between the Hudson River on the west and the New York-Connecticut border on the east, and it seemed as if those who lived nearest to the Hudson River experienced a cooler blast of air. Rachael’s teeth chattered as the freezing winds ruffled strands of her hair over her face.

Tyrone Williams watched Rachael with lusty eyes. It's mighty cold out here. You shouldn't be traveling in this type of weather, he said.

I've been telling myself the same thing since last month, Rachael said. But when I think about those boys, my heart melts. A whole lot of people don't care about them.

There aren't many left in the world like you.

Rachael flashed a smile at those words, a smile that she knew, gave her brown eyes a pinch of irresistibility.

Although a pile of clothes fashionably hid the frame of her body, Tyrone imagined her being powerfully fit. Nice and firm–not like Marge, his fat wife. If he ever got his hands on Rachael, the only thing he wouldn't do was let her go.

See you later, Mr. Williams. Rachael rushed toward the stairs.

Yes, dear... Rachael hadn't even reached the last step when Tyrone anxiously leaned over the railing, showing teeth that needed professional cleaning. And remember, girly, you promised to have dinner with me next Sunday.

I'm looking forward to it, Mr. Williams. She certainly wasn’t.

Chapter Two

Safe House - 12:28 a.m.

Rachael Raymonds sat between the boys, trying to understand what had triggered the fight that almost gave Vianna a nervous breakdown. Her vivid description of what took place left Rachael thinking Vianna had made some of it up. But because she had experienced similar scenarios, Rachael knew Vianna’s account couldn’t be that far from the truth, and she could certainly identify with Vianna’s fears. The last thing they needed was the threat of the court breathing down their backs.

Quietly, as she scanned the boys’ hardened faces, Rachael wondered if their probation officer, Johnathan Myers, had made the right decision when he’d faced the judge to ‘bargain’ on their behalf. Pedro, whose situation was similar to that of Javier’s, had been transferred to the group home via a sentence recommendation made by Mr. Myers. His career as a probation officer suited him well, and what he did for the boys was spectacular, but at times Rachael found his enthusiasm a bit intimidating. She did admit that his fervor was rather unusual – a ‘zealous advocate’ she would say if she had to find two words to describe him – but somehow, his enthusiasm helped the group home score points against their growing list of haters. 

Caleb, on the other hand, had been camping out on the streets, picking over scraps that had been pitched out as rations for the rats when Rachael found him. He had been mercilessly tail-whipped by a mob of unidentified men, who had left him to nurse his wounds near a grocery store in SoHo. Charged up with the spirit of compassion, Rachael had helped Caleb climb into the back seat of her rental car, and then whisked him off to the nearest hospital. Then on a whim, as she watched him slowly hobble through the exit in freshly wrapped bandages, obviously alone and homeless, she’d swung her car in front of him and told him to limp in.

Caleb, make me understand. What was this about? Rachael now demanded.

 He sat in silence with his eyes locked on Pedro, which pretty much told Pedro he was not through with him.

Talk up! Vianna said. A few minutes ago you were all up in my face, threatenin’ to take me out. You would never do that to Raych...

Caleb, is this true? Rachael touched his shoulder, as a concerned grandmother would do. You threatened Vianna? After all she's done for you boys?

Their silence was starting to get on her nerves, but she kept her cool–at least for the moment. Giving them another minute to compose themselves, she decided, gave her the opportunity to size up Caleb. The boy was only fourteen, but the weight of life had him looking like a grown man. He was certainly a product of his environment. Aggression ruled him in a dramatic display of his Jamaican heritage. Despite the scar running across his right brow, Rachael thought he’d still turned out to be a good-looking kid.

What about you, Pedro? she said, turning to the other boy. You care to explain this? You know we don't tolerate fighting at the Safe House.

 You better keep this faggot away from me! Pedro shouted.

Faggot? Caleb sprang up, ready for round two. You put your hands on me again and I'll break ‘em and shove ‘em down your throat!

Pedro jumped up too, reaching for Caleb. Keep talkin’ like that, punk, and I'll bust a cap so far up your...

You two, cut it out! Enough! Rachael threw herself between them, just as Frankie, the security guard, moved in behind her, in case the boys needed manhandling. "Now sit your butts down! ‘Cause ain't a soul breaking or busting anything else in here! You two have done enough damage for one night!"

But I didn’t start it, Ms. Raymonds...

I don’t care to hear it, Caleb! You had your chance to speak! This nonsense has to stop. Keep this up and you boys won’t make it beyond twenty. She turned on Caleb again, without missing a beat. And what did I tell you about your temper?

Ms. Raymonds, this half-baked Negro called me a faggot...

Are you a faggot, Caleb?

Hell no!

Then what's the big deal?

Ms. Raymonds, I don't look like no faggot.

Caleb, just because people call you a name doesn’t mean you fit the profile.

Still, my rep is more important.

And I guess your life means nothing.

Caleb clenched his teeth, as if Rachael did not grasp the reality of his world. Ms. Raymonds, you don't understand. My rep is my life.

 I don’t get why you boys resort to such derogatory name-calling–there’s enough of that going ‘round on the outside. She turned her attention back to Pedro. Boy, I feel sorry for those poor muscles in your forehead. Relax and give your face a rest!

Pedro rudely looked away.

"Uh-uh! You need