DEATH (The Justice Cycle Book 1) Read online

  JWKIEFER.COM

  Copyright © 2021 Jason W Kiefer

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, contact JW Kiefer at [email protected].

  Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.

  Front cover image by Jamie Glover.

  Ceruleanfuture.com

  Edited by Lauren Moore

  Laurenmoorebooks.com

  This book is dedicated to the people who have had the most impact on its creation, My Armor Bearers. Steve Caponey (Flatline), Jon-Mark Menta (Hollow Point), Sean Nemi (Sgt. Edge), Jeremy Wagner (Flash), Josh Strunk (Fortress) and David Devigili (Sidewinder). The time we spent running around upstate NY creating worlds, characters and stories will always be some of my fondest memories.

  Foreword

  Like most things worth doing in life, this book took me a long time to write. Even though it is my first, it rises off of the backs of many failed manuscripts that have since been lost to crashing computers, the beguiling of new ideas or simply to the ever-moving sands of time and neglect.

  J R R Tolkien once replied when asked why it took him so long to write the Lord of the Rings, "Life happens." I have found this to be the case. Like all humans my time is extremely limited, and the pressures of work, family, church, and much needed personal time seem to always be vying for its attention. This is still the case for me, but I decided once my kids grew up and started their own adult lives, that it was time for me to seriously pursue the one thing I had always wanted to do since childhood, become a writer.

  This novel is the result of that decision. My life is still filled with many distractions and I would like to say that I have mastered the discipline of writing every day, but that would be a lie. I have, however, found that continual small steps forward produce bigger results in the end then great leaps on occasions. For those of you who read this book I hope you are inspired to keep moving forward in your journey no matter how small the steps may be; and you will find as I have, that in time, you too will accomplish your dreams.

  J W Kiefer

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Foreword

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgement

  Author's Note

  About The Author

  Books By This Author

  One

  Binghamton New York

  October 19th

  It was an unusually chilly October evening, even for upstate New York. A cold front from northern Canada had blown through, bringing with it rain, a bitter wind, and temperatures that dropped into the forties. According to the radio meteorologist, this night would be the worst of it. Dismal and forbidding, the stormy evening fit the mood of the lone figure making his way down the empty streets.

  The man was hunched and weather-beaten, his long black trench coat flapping wildly in the wind. He made no attempt to draw the coat around himself, but let the wind have its way. Drenched as he was, any normal man would’ve been shivering, but he was no ordinary man. Ever since he had been chosen, his body had become impervious to the elements of the mortal world.

  He was short and lithe of build, with jet-black hair pulled tight into a long ponytail. He appeared to be of Asian descent, and most people would not have given him a second glance, except for his haunting eyes. He’d once had beautiful dark brown eyes that had charmed many a young lady with a glance. Now those eyes were gone, replaced by shadowy black holes of darkness that seemed to writhe and twist with a life of their own.

  He missed his old eyes, that used to see the joys of life and love. Eyes that looked on the world with such innocence. Nothing escaped his gaze now, nothing at all. It saw everything, even the hearts of men. No action escaped his notice. He saw every sin, no matter how big or small. He saw the hidden and the veiled, those things which men thought they had concealed and would never be held accountable for.

  It was a dreadful power that his heart had grown weary of. He understood what that meant, and he welcomed it. The end was near; he could sense it. He would soon be free of his burden. It would pass to another.

  The man turned down a narrow alleyway, leaving behind the brightly lit streets for the shelter of the shadows. He shied away from the light, preferring to travel in the darkness away from prying eyes. He missed the sun and its warmth. This nocturnal existence was poetic, he supposed, as most evil deeds did take place in the dark of night. But it grew old.

  He passed a few scattered silhouettes lying on the cold, wet ground and felt a twinge of pity. It had been years since he’d felt anything at all, so the feeling came as a shock. It was nothing more than a small stirring in his heart, but to someone who had felt nothing for so long, it struck like a bolt of lightning.

  A single tear tracked down his cheek. He reached up and touched it, wondering at the wetness on his fingers. He’d been incapable of crying for so long that he’d forgotten what it felt like.

  The homeless man closest to him stirred and mumbled something in his sleep. He was filthy, dressed in tattered rags, his white hair gnarled and a tangled beard long. He shivered and tossed, trying in vain to shake off the chill.

  The dark figure stooped and fixed his shadowy gaze upon the sleeping person. In a moment, the person’s life flashed before his eyes like a sped-up movie, and he saw everything.

  Alcohol and drug abuse had brought this man to this place. Addiction had taken everything from him including his wife and children, but addiction had only been a symptom of a greater pain.

  His gaze saw all. Saw the homeless man as a child watching as his father, who was unable to deal with his own failures at life, brutally beat his mother until she eventually fled. That was when his father turned his wrath upon him.

  The boy eventually escaped his seemingly unending torment when his father had finally succumbed to liver failure. He watched as the boy, now a young man, dumped a full bottle of whiskey on his father’s grave before getting wasted. He watched as the young man tried to move forward from the demons that haunted him. Watched as he fell in love and built a family of his own, vowing not to follow the same path his father had. But the American dream comes at a cost
. Two layoffs and no work eventually took their toll, and he heard the call of the same demons his father had. Demons that eventually changed a loving man into a monster who, in a fit of alcohol-induced rage, murdered his ten-year-old son.

  The man removed his trench coat and settled it over the sleeping man. His shivering subsided.

  “Sleep tight, David,” he said, in a hollow voice. He watched the man a moment before continuing on into the shadows.

  He moved quickly and stealthily, more shadow than man. Without his coat, the man appeared out of place here. “Out of time” might be a better description. A sheathed katana hung from his hip, and a black Japanese kimono dangled loosely on his wiry frame. Even though he did not wear the trademark armor of a samurai, he carried himself as a warrior.

  Before the man reached the end of the alleyway, he crouched and sprung upward, then scaled the brick wall of the building on his right. When he reached the crest of the wall, he stood on the rooftop like a bat, peering down into the darkness below him. His black eyes pierced the thick gloom, searching for anything out of the ordinary. Not a minute went by before a slight movement caught his attention. A shadow darker than the night moved silently below him.

  The figure in the alleyway snapped his head upward toward the movement just in time to catch a blur of black before the man was gone. The person chuckled to himself and stepped out of the shadows and into the center of the alley. Dressed in what looked like a black French musketeer uniform, the man wore a rapier at his side and a large brimmed black hat on his head. But where the musketeers of old wore a cross, this man wore a skull.

  His long, slender mustache twitched with a smile. “Shogun, why must we continue to play this cat-and-mouse game? It is becoming very tiresome. Still, protocol requires it, so I will not begrudge you your whims. Ready or not, here I come.” He leapt up onto the rooftop in a single bound.

  The Musketeer’s blade slid out with a ring as he flipped through the air and landed on the roof. He scanned the empty rooftop, then lowered his sword.

  The Musketeer had the same nightmare black eyes as the Shogun and his gaze was just as keen. He saw every raindrop as it fell to the earth. Nothing escaped his penetrating eyes.

  “I know you are here, mon ami. I can sense your presence. Why make this difficult? The outcome is inevitable.”

  “Why must you always talk so much?” came the whispered reply from everywhere and yet nowhere at all.

  “I suppose it is my nature,” the Musketeer said. “Much like your nature is to be depressed and gloomy.”

  “It was not always so,” said the voice again, reverberating like an echo.

  “Ah, do you find yourself longing for the past?” The Musketeer continued to search for anything that would give away his opponent’s position.

  “What do you care?” came the reply. This time it seemed to be coming from directly behind him as if someone was whispering in his ear.

  The Musketeer chuckled. “You hurt my feelings, Shogun! I have enjoyed our little game more than you could ever know. We are brothers, you and I!”

  With lightning speed, the Musketeer dropped into a crouch and pivoted, slashing backward with his rapier at shin level. The blade sliced harmlessly through the night air, hitting nothing more than raindrops.

  “It will not be so easy.”

  The Musketeer’s grin faded, and his eyes glinted. “Your tricks will only prolong the inevitable. You can sense the end is near for you. Why resist it?”

  “What you say may be true, and it may not. You have been known to lie.”

  The Musketeer let loose a laugh. “So, you still have a sense of humor left in you after all these years? It is a pity that it only revealed itself now.”

  He held his sword in front of his face with both hands. As he did, the blade glowed with an eerie violet-black light, illuminating his angular face. “I must admit this banter is quite entertaining, but like all good things, it must come to an end.”

  He slashed downward and a flash of dark energy surged forward, arching right then left, as if searching for something. It finally struck an object about twenty feet off in a torrent of violet sparks.

  The air around the impact shifted until the illusion the Shogun had created dissipated entirely. He stood there with his blade held up in a defensive position, his katana arcing with similar mystical energy.

  The Musketeer launched forward and was upon the disoriented Shogun in a single bound. He struck with ferocity, forcing the Shogun into a corner. Again and again the Musketeer attacked, not allowing the Shogun to gain any advantage.

  But the Shogun parried every deadly strike. He deflected a cut to his head and then whipped his blade back and forth, fending off two quick jabs to his midsection. Two more swift thrusts to his head forced his blade upward, and he had to shift his footing in order to keep his balance. He had to do something fast and he knew it.

  “Soon I will have you, Shogun,” said the Musketeer between strikes, his free hand edging toward his belt.

  Noticing the movement, the Shogun lunged forward and struck the Musketeer with his shoulder. The maneuver caught him off guard and sent him stumbling backward. Never losing his momentum, the Shogun followed through with a quick uppercut, slamming his fist into the Musketeer’s chin. The blow sent the man flying, and he flipped twice in midair before slamming into the roof with a thud. His hand slipped out of his shirt, a dirk in his fist.

  Kicking himself up, the Musketeer landed on his feet like a cat, his weapons at the ready. This time, however, it was the Shogun’s turn to go on the offensive, and he attacked his opponent with savage ferocity. The dance began again, and the night was alive with the deadly song of the clashing blades.

  The Shogun parried a hasty jab to his midsection and slashed down at his opponent’s head. The Musketeer blocked the strike with both weapons, and the two fighters slid their swords down, their blades locked and arms straining with exertion.

  “So, mon ami, where do we go from here?” the Musketeer panted.

  “We finish it,” replied the Shogun, and pivoted to the side. The Musketeer stumbled forward at the sudden release of pressure, leaving him wide open. The Shogun slashed upward, cutting deeply into his stomach, doubling him over.

  The rain halted in place and the clamor of the universe ceased as time itself came to a standstill. The Musketeer hung limply from the Shogun’s katana. He chuckled and his dirk dropped to the ground with a clang. Strangely, no blood flowed from the gaping wound.

  “Get on with it already!” he growled through gritted teeth.

  The Shogun nodded and slid his blade forward and yanked up, finishing his cut. The Musketeer fell to his knees, his hands dangling at his sides.

  “Goodbye,” whispered the Shogun.

  “Go to hell!” the Musketeer spat.

  “Never.” The Shogun swung his blade to decapitate the injured man.

  Before the blade could hit its mark, the Musketeer threw himself forward and the katana missed his head by inches. With a renewed and supernatural vigor, the Musketeer rolled to the side, away from the crouching Shogun. Holding his insides in with one arm and using his sword as a crutch, he managed to get to his feet, stumble toward the roof’s edge, and throw himself over.

  The Shogun charged after the fleeing Musketeer but was not quick enough. He peered over the edge, hoping to find a broken corpse lying shattered on the street below, but his heart knew better. There was no sign of the injured Musketeer.

  The universe snapped back into motion and he was buffeted by the sudden clamor of the storm. A ghostly chuckle echoed on the wind but was lost in the downpour.

  Two

  Not far from the supernatural conflict, a young woman jogged down the relatively quiet streets of Binghamton, New York. The storm had driven most of the city’s nocturnal inhabitants indoors for the night, so the streets were empty.

  Amanda Pratt was a twenty-seven-year-old fit and attractive blonde. She had debated with herself on whether or not the
exercise was worth getting wet over, but the heaping bowl of ice cream she had eaten after dinner made the decision a no-brainer. In today’s society, the cardinal sin was not murder but being fat. It didn’t matter what you did, as long as you looked good doing it.

  She turned onto the street that led to Otsenango Park and picked up her pace as she crossed the bridge. Amanda was mildly afraid of heights, and her heartbeat quickened as she sprinted across the hated bridge. She slowed when she reached the other side and quickly checked her Fitbit. The rain was steadily increasing, and the wind was blowing hard, making the run uncomfortable and difficult.

  Should she turn back? She sucked in deep gasps of air and shook off the rain that drenched her from head to toe.

  What was I thinking coming out here this late at night and in a horrible storm no less? she thought. It’s not like anybody’s gonna notice, anyway.

  Somebody had noticed her, though, and had followed her since she’d left her house. The fact was, he had come out here in this miserable weather just for her. She had been on his mind for quite some time.

  Amanda noticed the man slowly approaching her as she turned to start the long run back home. He was a tall handsome man, whose long wet black hair clung to his face. The man was dressed all in black and wore a leather coat that came to his waist.

  Her hand slipped up to her hair—she knew it was a matted mess after jogging—and she blushed as the handsome man approached. But as the man drew closer, a feeling of dread washed over her. The feeling was so overwhelming that it took all her willpower to keep herself from bolting in the opposite direction. She took a step back, her heartbeat quickening as she looked for a possible way of escape.

  A few paces away, the man stopped to pull out a cigarette. He lit it with a Zippo lighter and took a long drag. “Hello, Amanda,” he said, blowing smoke out his nostrils as he spoke.