The Condemned, page 1
part #2 of Victim of Fate Series
THE CONDEMNED
Victim of Fate II
BY J.G. Koratzanis
CONTENTS
Preface
Chapter 1: Calm Before the Storm
Chapter 2: Bright as the Darkness
Chapter 3: It Falls on Me
Chapter 4: Into the Mouth
Chapter 5: The Reaping Hour
Chapter 6: Disbelief
Chapter 7: The Devil You Know
Chapter 8: How the End Shall Be
A MOMENT OF YOUR TIME
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
OTHER BOOKS
Preface
“Abandon all hope who enter here, for this is where all things are left behind,
Every doubt and every cowardice must die, souls of rage and anger whipping in despair.”
—Jon Schaffer
“I’m the Jester with no tears, and I’m playing on your fears
I’m a trickster smiling underneath this mask of love and death.”
— Bruce Dickinson
“Sometimes there is absolutely no difference at all between salvation and damnation.”
— Stephen King
“If you’re going through hell, keep going.”
— Sir Winston Churchill
CHAPTER 1
CALM BEFORE THE STORM
1
Johnny raised the volume and hoped the chorus of Blind Leading the Blind would drown out the commotion emanating from the alley five-stories below. When his mother received a phone call from his teacher about Snapchatting lewd photos during class, she took away his iPhone, unplugged the computer and cable box.
“You’re grounded. If you’re bored, study, read your comics, listen to music, or think about what you did. That’s it,” she said.
He considered the poster thumbtacked to the ceiling; the anti-hero in the trench coat and full-face mask, perched within the frame of a shattered window. Every illustrated blade of glass directed the viewer’s eye to Rorschach. Every blade a representation of the messenger of death inches away from claiming yet another soul. Johnny wondered if Rorschach had to deal with the same kind of bullshit. Recalling issue six, twelve-year-old Johnny knew he had it really good compared to Rorschach (AKA Walter Kovacs). Johnny’s mother wasn’t a whore that hated his very existence. He wasn’t humiliated by neighborhood bullies, nor called a loser when push came to shove. Juvenile detention wasn’t in the cards either. Slightly less-than-average grades, Xhamster on his iPhone, sass talk here and there, the occasional stealing a dollar from his old man’s wallet, little Johnny was nothing more than a typical kid. Average.
Bobby, Johnny’s older brother, didn’t know what average meant. Extraordinary, on the other hand, defined him. Honor Role, MVP of the high school soccer team, a girlfriend under each arm, and the handsome, chiseled face and body of a young model, Bobby was everyone’s hero. Especially Johnny.
Johnny had been missing his brother over the last several weeks. Bobby came home for just a few short days after graduating from basic training at NSGL, the Naval Station Great Lakes. Right before graduation (top of his class, mind you), he mailed a letter to Johnny and told him that since he was on his way around the world to defend life and liberty, Johnny inherited Bobby’s comic books, memorabilia, CD collection, and leather jacket. Johnny chuckled at the flimsy, easily scratchable discs, and decided to download all the songs on his iPod to preserve the CDs integrity. No longer content with Warner Bros. and Disney cartoons, nor the Kid’s Bop and High School Musical childish nonsense, Johnny indulged in Bobby’s better tastes. From Slayer’s South of Heaven through Trivium’s Silence in the Snow, DC’s Watchmen through Marvel’s Civil War, reveling his big-brother’s magnificence was worth all the punishment in the world.
Bobby always wore the leather jacket, still too big for him, every day he came home from school. The packet of mints Bobby purchased just before he left for boot camp nestled comfortably in the breast pocket. The jacket groaned with every little movement Johnny made. On one too many an occasion, he was accused of farting at the dinner table when it was nothing more than the sleeve rubbing against the chair back. A thump at the bedroom door lurched Johnny up from the bed. The leather farted again as a whiff of mint greeted his nostrils.
“Lower that noise before I take away your music too,” his mother yelled down the hall. She was loud. Louder than the thundering double-bass drums or growling guitars. Hell, she was loud enough for the kids in Staten Island to consider lowering their own music.
Johnny hopped off the bed and plodded over to the dresser. The Harmon/Kardon speaker wobbled as he swiped at the iPod before it. In his periphery, a flash of red light flickered. He powered off the iPod and stepped away. Listening to the growing voices, his neck craned sideways as he inched towards the window. Breath held, eyes squeezed nearly closed as the window squealed open.
Red and blue lights danced across the brick walls of the alley as the rancid malodors of garbage and stale urine reminded Johnny as to why he never liked to open the window. Especially on warmer days. The fire escape groaned in ancient denial as he stepped out. Rusted slats surrendered under each discreetly placed footfall as Johnny crept towards the edge. Seven policemen, he counted, stood shoulder to shoulder in a sweeping arc. One stood a step or two ahead of the rest, offered delicate, deliberate gestures as he continued to ease forward. There was a man, in a leather biker jacket—not too dissimilar from Bobby’s, now his—and a black hoodie sitting atop one of the three dumpsters. Beside him, a dark object twirled around a gyrating finger glinted from the light fixture above. Chin pressed into his chest, the night, and the drawn hood, obscured the man’s countenance.
“What the hell are you doing out there?”
Johnny’s head spun around as he watched his mother stomp through the bedroom, brows furrowed, arms folded, and foot tapping.
“Get the hell back in here. Now! Whatever’s out there is none of your Goddamned business!”
One of the police officers peered at Johnny. Through the dark, their gazes met. Fingers trembled, and a cold sweat beaded on the nape of his neck. He scrambled around and flopped through the open window.
“I’m sorry, mom, but you got to see—”
“I don’t have to see anything,” she snapped. “Unless your room is on fire, you do not go out there!”
“But, mom!” Johnny retorted. She brushed her salt and pepper tresses over the top of her head as she stepped around him. She leaned on the windowsill and eased her head out. She darted back in, spun on her heels and rushed over to her son.
“That’s nothing for you to be concerned about, sweetie. Let me fix you something to—”
She choked before the final word made its way past her lips. The undeniable crack of a gunshot echoed in the alley. Unintelligible shouting and shuffling wrenched Johnny’s gut and threatened to purge the meatloaf, string beans, and fruit cup he ate for dinner. His mother darted back to the window and threw a hand over her mouth before her gasp spewed forth.
“Go! Living room, kitchen, you’re not punished anymore. Watch TV. Loudly!” she said. Uncertainty and fear squeezed the reluctant tears from Johnny’s eyes.
2
Saline and Larodopa bags swung wildly on the IV pole as the gurney raced through the emergency room corridor. An imposing African-American police officer led the fast-moving procession and cleared the way as they thundered through. A Hispanic police officer trailed behind the male paramedic pushing the trolley. Atop the patient, the female paramedic refused to relent in her chest compressions. A male and female nurse darted out from behind their station and ahead of the gurney.
“It’s about time you got here. What happened on Fourth Avenue?” the woman asked while the other unpackaged a syringe.
“Asshole ran a red light. Collision with a dump truck and semi,” the female paramedic said. “Who’s attending?”
The nurse pierced the victim’s hand and drew a sample as they reached the elevator.
“I’ll get this to lab three now. Melody made you guys priority. She said to give her ten minutes,” the male nurse said and trotted away. The female nurse repeatedly depressed the up arrow as she considered the patient. She opened one of his eyes and flashed her penlight.
“Patel and Levy. What’s the situation?”
“Single gunshot wound frontal lobe, one-milligram Aprotinin. Vitals dropped, administered one and a half Epinephrine. Sudden cardiac arrest, unresponsive.”
“I’d say. We’ll run a tox-screen too,” the nurse said as the elevator doors slid open. “Catch the guy who did this?”
“Don’t worry about who did it,” the African-American cop said. “Just keep him alive.”
The second-floor surgical lobby thrummed thick with unease as they exited the elevator. A man paced to and fro as he gnawed on his fingernails. A teenage girl sprawled across the armrest of her chair stirred in her loss to slumber.
“Mommy, look,” a young boy said as he noticed a dark obscurity trail behind the gurney.
“Honey, don’t look at that. It’ll give you the creepies,” she said as she ignored the goosebumps crawl across her child’s flesh. He continued to stare as the nurse, police officers, paramedics, and trailing vapor disappeared through the operating room doors.
“One, two, three!” the paramedics grunted as they heaved the man from the stretcher onto the operating table.
“What do we have,” Patel said as he examined the patient. Sweat had already dotted his brow.
“Romano, Chase. Twenty-eight-years-old. O Pos, gunshot wound right frontal lobe, no exit, unresponsive,” the female paramedic said.
“Levy, this is your bag. I’ll assist,” Patel said. Doctor Levy stepped past the paramedics and officers. “Anyone who is not on my team; out. You’re in the way,” he said. Arms outstretched, the nurse guided the first-responders towards the door.
“Doc! You better save him,” the African-American cop said.
“Davis, out. Jennifer, show the officer the way,” Doctor Patel said. He nor Levy considered the cop.
“I’ll be right outside these doors. You make sure that piece of shit makes it,” the cop pointed as Jennifer nudged. Patel shot a glance.
“Are you threatening me? Get the hell out of my emergency room! Someone get security here! We don’t have time for this nonsense,” he said and resumed his assistance.
“Vamanos, primo. Let them do their jobs,” the Hispanic officer said. Davis spun around and blasted through the doors.
Nurses connected Chase to monitoring equipment and swabbed his hands before they pierced him with IVs. A doctor yanked his black leather jacket open and pulled his t-shirt up to his neck. A nurse struggled with EKG pads which reluctantly adhered to his clammy chest and bloodied face. Falling numbers and stats called across to Levy’s team.
“Where are my labs? He’s barely bleeding out and almost at zero GCS,” Levy said. “How much Aprotinin was he given?”
“One milligram.”
“Someone’s lying. He shouldn’t be clotting this much,” Levy said. “Get me two milligrams Epinephrine and twenty-five CCs of Ethylenediamine Diaceturate, stat.”
“Numbers dropping. His systolic won’t rise over fifty. Four minutes until the lab brings up results,” Jennifer said.
“Brainstem neurological numbers are down too,” another nurse said.
Jennifer wiped the sweat from Levy’s forehead with a cloth.
“Step aside, Patty. Number six forceps and suction. I’m digging that bullet out. I’d be able to figure this out a little faster if I had those Goddamned labs,” Levy said.
“He’s crashing.”
“Cart,” Patel ordered.
Another nurse shoved the defibrillator forward, flicked two switches and thumbed the touchscreen. He smeared the center of the paddles with gel.
“Charge. Three-sixty,” Patel spun around and adhered the floppy paddles below Chase’s collarbone and under his nipple.
“Clear.”
Chase arched upwards as the burst of electricity awoken his ebbing pulse. The monitors beeped once, twice. Another rang out in a long steady hum.
“Atrial flutter,” Levy said. The ECG line flattened.
“Charge. Three-sixty,” Patel said.
Again, Chase arched with the surge of attempted resurrection. Jennifer looked away and shook her head.
“Begin compressions. I’m going back in,” Levy said and picked up the forceps. They slipped easily onto his blood-slicked fingers. Jennifer steadied Chase’s head as the forceps slowly entered the wound. The other nurse blotted Levy’s forehead with a dry cloth.
“Scope me,” he said. “It’s too deep.”
Patel reached across the crash cart with one hand and grabbed the otoscope from the tray. The rattle of scalpels and forceps pinged over the flat-lined monitors. Levy took the scope and delicately slide into the wound. Jennifer held Chase’s head tight, refusing to allow Patel’s chest compressions to sway them.
“There you are, you son of a bitch,” Levy said. His hand shook slightly as he withdrew the stem of the scope. He dropped the squashed lead bead into the stainless-steel receptacle. Jennifer winced as it clanged about.
Levy’s gaze went wide as a rush of blood poured from the hole. It cascaded in meandering paths about his nose and pallid, stubbly cheek. Alarms rang out and monitors screamed the destiny Levy and Patel fought to deny.
“Suction. We need to cauterize, now!”
“Doctor,” Jennifer said as she put her hand on Levy’s shoulder. He shrugged her off.
“No. I got this,” he said. “Come on, you son of a bitch! Don’t die on me!”
Patel tugged Levy by the shoulder as the flatline wouldn’t cease. Jennifer silenced the monitors.
“He didn’t have a chance. It’s not your fault. Call it,” Patel said as he leaned away from Chase. Levy punched the operating table. His glare wouldn’t relent from Chase’s dilated eye as he drew the sheet over. He raised his head and breathed deep.
“Time of death, twenty-three hundred fifty-eight hours.”
3
Night blanketed Downtown Manhattan many hours ago in a thickened hush. The empty sidewalks along East Fourteenth Street at Union Square Park felt awkward still as the cobblestone streets were devoid of shoppers and the usual Farmer’s Market vendors. The flicker of office lights and the twinkle of stars in the black sky added an allusion of expectation throughout her otherwise condensed calm.
Grace Whitmore looked up at the signage above the doors of the Akuji Japanese Gastropub. Well versed in multiple languages, she knew the owner’s reason for such a foreboding name. Like Grace, his heart, his desires, his spirit was nearly as malevolent as hers. But unlike Grace desire to serve others, he exercised his talents for his own benefit. From large sums of money, to women, to rising in the ranks in the Gokudō, Grace never faulted Shuten-dōji Kiichiro for indulging his guilty pleasures.
The Geisha hostess, assuredly forced into extracurricular services by her employer, bowed upon Grace’s entrance. The rubescent eyeshadow and lipstick blared in stark contrast to the virgin purity of her face and black satin kimono. The bintsuke-abura and white powder were authentic. The hostess lifted a menu from the podium and led Grace into the dining room. She admired the Geisha from behind as the kimono shifted over her petite bottom with silent motion. Stepping between the rows of tables, Grace’s magnetizing presence brought nearly all eyes to her.
She hesitated, smiled, brushed her auburn tresses from her cheek and scanned the room. All but one averted their attention. She knew he, of all people, wouldn’t. Her eyes locked onto his as she advanced towards the bar. His countenance didn’t weaken as she skated her fingers over the rim of his glass. Cerise lips parted as she raised her delicate fingertips to them. Her tongue snaked out and she tasted the trepidation that opposed the man’s inscrutability.
Desire seeped from his pores as his pheromones washed away any trace of cologne. Grace had what he needed, what he wanted. When Raguzzio’s men arrived at the gallery a few days earlier, Raguzzio’s invitation was an order, not a suggestion. She thought it was adorable.
She knew why the summons was issued. Grace hadn’t heard from Leonard Bazzi in the last two weeks. Bazzi was Raguzzio’s man first, hers second. At least, that’s what she allowed Raguzzio to think.
Suspicion needled its way into her consciousness over the last few days. It was imperative that Bazzi would take care of what he was supposed to. Regrettably, he had a knack for improvising at the last minute. and wouldn’t check in. He normally didn’t have to, but a nod would have been appreciated. And until an hour earlier, she wondered if things went awry. For her, they didn’t.
Bazzi hadn’t checked in with Raguzzio either. Good boy, she thought. There was a job that was ordered. A man that needed to be silenced. Immediately. It was ordered. Grace insisted Romano be invited. It didn’t matter if he went along or not. One way or another, her influence would ensure culmination of all that she had worked for.
“Where is he?” Raguzzio asked. The raspy peal of mucus in his throat rattled his inquisition. Grace wondered how someone as repulsive as Carmine Raguzzio could rise through the ranks of the premier Italian crime syndicate of New York and become Godfather of the Brachetti Crime Family. And the balls on him to change the name to his own in a Mussolini style of rewriting Cosa Nostra history.
Godfather. God had nothing to do with what these men did to earn that title. And in today’s day and age, she understood the mentality behind the Mob-movie aficionados, and why they believed each frame of film was based on real-life events. Life, it seemed, imitated art.
