Deadlined - Prologue
Deadlined - Prologue
Deadlined, now available
Jonathan Robert Scotts was going to die tonight. He settled into his comfortable camping spot beneath the eaves of the South Hayward BART station tracks for the last time, his impending death by gunshot coming within minutes. This wasn’t something Jonathan, JR to his friends, had anticipated, but he wasn’t one to live a calendared life. Having lived on the streets for the better part of two years, his social activities didn’t call for much planning.
Luckier than most of his peers, he got a modest disability pension from the VA. It wasn’t much, just enough each month to get drunk a few times before the money ran out. Outside of that, Scotts relied on handouts from the two churches on Tennyson Road. Sometimes, he could dumpster dive behind the markets, but there was often too much competition from his fellow street dwellers for whatever treasures they might contain.
He wanted to be around his family, but he’d burned those bridges. They still lived down the road in Fremont, but they’d grown tired of his bullshit. They’d grown tired of his lies, and they’d grown weary of him stealing from them when he needed some kind of fix. There were only so many times they wanted to retrieve JR from county lockup.
The day arrived when they no longer came, and he could only hitch a ride to Hayward. Then Hayward became home. JR tried downtown around the bus and BART station but found it crowded with too many hardcore drug users. The industrial areas lacked food or booze sources, and the prime foraging spots along Mission Boulevard were already occupied. After a few weeks of exploring and experimenting, he found his way to the Tennyson corridor and made it his home—for what that was worth. Sure, he had to break camp every night, but that didn’t take long, and it was easy to pack with him on the bike he had stolen. He’d never been robbed, the BART police never rousted him, and only the strongest of winds could bother him in the faux cave beneath the tracks.
Tucked away under his blue tarp, sipping on the last of his malt liquor bottle, he weighed the idea of whether to take a piss now or hold it in through the night. He wanted a better life, and he had a plan for it. He wanted to have his disabilities re-evaluated to see if he could get a better pension. He’d qualify for VA medical care if he could get a high enough rating. If he could do that, maybe he could get to rehab. With rehab, JR almost teared up at the thought he might get his family back.
He’d fucked up so much, so many times. He knew his family would never forgive him, but he’d wanted to try. He had no idea how to get sober and had every excuse and opportunity to keep drinking as things were now.
Sleep approached as he thought of his ex-wife, Debra. She hadn’t remarried, so maybe he had a chance. He recalled their first dates, how they met, how they kissed and made love. It made him sad. He turned in his blanket to face the concrete wall, took a heavy breath, and eventually slipped into slumber.
JR didn’t know how much time had passed, but he woke with a jolt when his tarp and blanket were jerked away. Was he being robbed? For a moment, he felt relieved, knowing he had nothing to steal.
That comfort ended with two quick spits of light from the gun barrel pointed at him. For the briefest of instances, images of Debra passed through his mind before the final shot entered his brain, and he slipped to the other side.
Oscar Braga looked forward to the killing on this night. It was an idea a long time coming, and that time was now.
While traversing this busy corridor commuting to and from work sites, he had seen the patterns of people in this area and kept mental notes on their activities. He’d seen where the homeless gathered, where they hid and nested. A few weeks back, he’d parked his truck and scouted this area to get a more intimate feel for which dark corners held his targets. He had found the alleys and corners that gave shelter to those he despised.
Tonight, he would clean the streets and make a better world for those remaining, he thought solemnly.
Tennyson Road ran east-west and crossed Hayward just south of downtown. Lower-middle-class neighborhoods saddled its length up and down with a few strip malls, churches, and schools thrown in. Once gentrification took hold, the area’s glory days were behind it and, if lucky, ahead of it. For now, though, it had more than its share of homeless souls seeking refuge from the world’s economic woes where and when and how they could.
The South Hayward Bay Area Rapid Transit station was the site of his first planned contact. Braga didn’t know if it was a male or female, only that this silhouetted figure would be in its usual spot, as it had been every time he’d checked in the past few weeks.
Braga had been keeping himself calm during the roundabout walk from his truck to this starting point, but knowing he was about to commence his wave of cleansing, he was both scared and excited beyond words. His breathing was quick, and his heart rate elevated like he was about to begin a trip on a roller coaster. But he was ready.
He walked westward along the north side of Tennyson, dipping low to avoid the BART tracks in a half-underpass. Braga shined his flashlight into the eaves of the underpass to check for anyone unaccounted for. Had there been occupants in that dry area, he’d have to skip this first kill, but he already knew from his weeks of prep work that no one had taken up shelter there. Braga wanted a clean start with no potential witnesses. At other spots, he’d easily be able to kill any witnesses, but not at the beginning. Too open, too busy with traffic, too well-lit.
Head on a swivel, he reminded himself while keeping one of the massive concrete support pillars between him and his target. One flickering light cast his shadow intermittently upon the stone. It was a short path and worth the risk. Traffic was clear.
Once on the other side, he steeled himself, pulling the suppressed 9mm pistol out from the front pouch of his black hoodie. It was an old military surplus Beretta 9mm and probably had a few thousand rounds sent through its barrel—maybe even a few in anger. It would work for tonight’s mission.
With one final glance over his shoulder to the street behind, Braga turned and hustled up the concrete incline toward the eave, where it met the underside of the BART track overpass. There it was, in the same spot it had been every time. Tonight was its last night of being a drain on society. Reaching his target, Braga seized the edge of the tarp and blanket the person used as protection from the world and whipped it away, rousing him in a start. It was a man, after all. Before the man could make a sound and while staring into his rheumy eyes, Braga overcame the rapid rise of the man’s stench and placed three quick rounds into him: two in the chest and one in his face. No time to enjoy the victory. He had more to do.
Three blocks west, someone had made a home of tarps against the tall noise abatement wall, partially protecting the adjacent neighborhood from the sounds of passing trains. The wall kept him safe from the elements but not from predators.
Braga grabbed the tarp that served as the man’s home and ripped it away. Held in place by ropes and bungee cords, it didn’t get torn down altogether, but it did expose the alarmed occupant to the cool Hayward night.
The man’s panic didn’t last long. Two quick shots to his chest, with another well-aimed shot to his forehead, ended any possible emotion or commotion.
Braga crossed over Tennyson again to a small camp in the shadow of overgrown oleanders near the corner of the recently refurbished strip mall two blocks west. There were the usual businesses, all closed: a laundromat, bar, liquor store, taqueria, check cashing store, and a doughnut shop—minimal illumination at this hour.
As soon as the lights from a passing van faded, Braga used the noise to cover his movements as he headed toward the far side of the lot and oleanders. Walking a slow arc to avoid making a straight line to the bushes, he noticed movement to his far right while focusing on his target area. A man shuffled toward him. No, not toward him, but in the direction of the shade and shadow and safety of the overgrown plants. The approaching man carried a bundle, probably sleeping gear he’d stolen.
Braga took a chance to see if anyone inside was sleeping. He looked around in the gloom while adjusting his eyes to the darkness. Two, no, three people were sleeping in their blanket cocoons. The suppressed 9mm had nine rounds remaining, ready to go in Braga’s grip.
The homeless man with his belongings stepped between two overgrown oleanders. As the shadows of the heavy branches embraced him, blocking the light, Braga greeted him with two quick shots to the chest. Only one of the three vagrants inside the impromptu camping spot stirred from the muffled gunshots. Though they were in the shadows, Braga could see his dark Central American features and greeted the man’s shocked appearance by placing two rounds into his forehead. Neither other camper stirred.
Five rounds left. He put one into each man’s heart and followed it with another into where their heads would be. He gave the second man an extra round in his skull just for fun.
Motionless and silent, he absorbed all the sights, scents, or sensations he could from the scene: spent propellant from the multiple rounds, the metallic tinge of blood, human filth of the routinely homeless, the wash of noise from the rare passing car, a distant train. Nothing close that would present a threat.
Start at the beginning with The Stone Harvest.
He reloaded his pistol and surveyed his latest kills for signs of life, satisfied they were all ex-homeless and would no longer be a burden on society. As at the other scenes, he left his spent shell casings behind. He had stolen all the ammo, making it untraceable back to him, and wiped down each round when loading them into the magazine. No chance of leaving a print behind.
The next kill site was two blocks west on the other side of the street. An auto repair shop sat on the opposite corner from a brightly lit 7/11, its lights a blanket of hope and a sense of security to those ensconced in it for the time it took to buy a late-night pack of cigarettes or a Slurpee.
Braga walked to the kill site, the shadowed side lot of the shop, and played this stop differently, knowing he had a full magazine. He quickly placed two rounds in the chest of each of the three sleeping victims he knew frequented the place, short Latino men who appeared to be in their forties. Then, taking a bit more time, put a final round in each skull.
He had no more attacks planned out. His truck waited a few blocks away, and if the night’s killing ended here, he’d be OK with the body count. Nine. About as he expected. Naturally, he wanted more, but prudence demanded he take precautions. If he really wanted, more targets could be found in the dark alleyways behind nearby businesses or tucked under bushes at parks. He’d learned in his many trips up and down Tennyson that no matter the hour, there were always stragglers lurking about in the landscaped areas he could add to the count. The fat one without shoes who often stopped traffic by walking right into the middle of the street, regardless of how busy it was. There was also the gal who slept in front of the Mexican market and changed her clothes on the sidewalk. He also knew of an old man who pushed his two shopping carts up and down Tennyson and made his home wherever he felt.
There was always more.
Between here and his truck, the most likely spots to find safe prey were behind the Life Church community center, outside the 24-hour Jack in the Box, or near the park library. They all looked busy. Busy with animals camping out and stealing both space and air. Braga knew already, but he triple-checked his ammo count. Loaded with a new magazine and two more ready, he had one other quiet spot to check.
Ruus River was the local name for the cement creek that ran perpendicular to Tennyson. It was part of the city’s rainfall-runoff abatement that gathered all the rainwater from the Tennyson Basin. It brought the water to the shoreline during the rare storms that dumped so much rain and runoff into the area that the regular drains and gutters couldn’t handle. During the drier seasons, like now, the river served as a pathway for those trying to stay out of the streetlights. The county fenced off the area where Tennyson and the river met, but the chain link fencing wasn’t enough to stop the natural flow of humans on this primate game trail. Braga found a place someone had cut their way through to make a path. There’d been no rain, so the concrete river was dry except for a bare trickle down the center of the channel. The tunnels under the road proved too dark to see anything, but the stench of human filth was thick. He gave his eyes a moment to adapt, then noticed a motionless human silhouette at the far side of the street leaning against a pillar.
Braga made an arc around and behind the man, walking past the target with about ten feet between them, making side glances in his peripheral vision. He couldn’t tell if the homeless man was asleep or unconscious. Odd. He was more than asleep.
He’d seen this man several times shuffling up and down the street, wrapped in his old blanket, looking as bad as he smelled. Whatever alcohol or drugs he had gotten hold of had incapacitated him enough that no matter what noise Braga made, he wouldn’t have roused. This wouldn’t be a killing. It would be euthanization. This pathetic piece of shit needs to be put out of its misery, out of OUR misery.
He changed his mind about how he wanted this kill to play out and slipped his Beretta away. He pulled out the five-inch lock blade from the rear pocket of his pants and used his thumb to bring the blade into position. Smooth is fast, and fast is smooth.
Taking a quick step toward the target, he dropped to one knee, clasped a gloved hand over the homeless man’s mouth, and slid the blade with ease directly into his eye, dead center of the socket. The man’s body convulsed violently, his upper torso lurching toward Braga before flopping into stillness. He kept the pressure on the knife until the man’s body relaxed completely and then pulled it free, not bothering to check for a pulse, but he didn’t get up immediately.
Braga wiped the bulk of the gore from the blade onto the homeless man’s blanket and stood. Concerned there may be blood on his face or hoodie, he couldn’t do anything except for a quick, cursory wipe with his sleeve. He retraced his steps back to the cut in the fence to see if anything was different, any new people, or maybe someone not there who was before. No. All looked smooth and clear.
Passing back through the fence, he noticed a slight uptick in traffic, which could mean more eyeballs to see him, but mostly, it meant more noise and movement in which to remain concealed. Several parking spaces were empty on the side street where he parked. A few locals headed out to work, he assumed.
On his walk, he pulled out his cell phone and turned on the camera to check for any splatters on his face. There were none, but there was some blood near the right cuff of his hoodie. He’d have to get rid of it, but that’s why he bought cheap ones.
Approaching his truck, he unlocked the passenger side with the fob he had secreted inside the wheel well and got to work. He removed his hoodie, placing it along with his pistol, gloves, shoes, and knife inside a plastic bag. He put his regular sneakers back on. Next, he pulled a package of baby wipes from the glove box before cleaning his face and hands. Those dirty wipes went into the plastic bag, too. He brought out a small bottle of hand sanitizer, the kind with a substantial alcohol percentage. If he missed any blood, the sanitizer would destroy any DNA value it held. Lastly, he switched out of his “work” shoes, stuffing them in the bag, too.
Braga gave himself a final visual inspection before climbing into the driver’s seat, feeling good about his appearance. He pulled from his spot, headed northward along smaller streets, and reviewed his after-action checklist. Moreso, he thought about the drain on society caused by his ten victims and the incalculable gain to the community because of their deaths. He knew no one gave out medals for this sort of thing—but he felt they ought to.