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Chapter 1 Wednesday, July fourth, 2012, 10:50 p.m. Earlier that night, the twenty-year veteran cop had eased the SUV to a slow crawl, twenty-five yards from Shipley’s Parts and Appliance Warehouse. Closing in on the shadowy, run-down structure, Kane felt like a hovering spirit chauffeuring himself to death’s door. The abandoned establishment was an old, forsaken warehouse with reddened brick overlaid by a rusted tin roof. It seemed to have been randomly flung there on the outskirts of Glen Rock by a vindictive, F5 twister. Kane stopped. Killed the lights. Heaved a breath. Glimpsing upwards, he traced the power lines which snaked across the building plugging into neighboring poles. Pessimistically, he listened for a hum or buzz; anything to chase away the raw semblance of death; anything to reassure him that salvaging his daughter's life was yet possible. Exiting the vehicle, slow and easy, he surveilled the surroundings, before making his way to the other side. Sliding the flashlight beam up the side of the building, he noticed a dead baby Raven under the roof’s peak. Laying limp and bendy, it practically dangled from its nest. There was a gash to the right side of its head; a ring of blood pooling around its neck. The seasoned cop seemed shaken by the death of such a minuscule lifeform. He had seen far worst in his time on the force; disfigured bodies, castrated limbs, blown-off heads. But never once pictured those kills foreshadowing things to come, as this conquered game, did now. Across the way, a streetlight was on, a bit diffused by the intermingling of light drizzle and grey fog misting downward in front. It hummed a droning tune, flickered, went out, then snapped back on. He made his way back to his ride and awaited what seemed like the inevitable. Seconds later, the double doors to the warehouse pushed open with a swooshing sound. Through it emerged a giant-sized, scruffy-looking, dark-skin figure, in a long, black trench coat, skullcap, and combat boots. In front of him, a terrified Jada staggered, restrained by the weighted arm of the ruthless force across her chest. The crass sound of his baritone voice reverberated, rolling like thunder across the stormiest of nights. “Muthafucka, you got my products!” The booming voice matched the one he had heard two days earlier on the telephone. “It’s in the vehicle!” Kane responded in a hoarse voice that could easily replicate the war-ravaged intonation of army generals. “Hell naw, dawg, I gotta see. Know what I’m sayin’?” “First, you let her go!” Kane yelled a bit mortified at how his demand, though forcefully released, sounded trite to his own ears. “Nah fool, it ‘don work like dat. Let me see my shit!” In hesitant compliance, Kane jerked open the SUV’s door, nearly tearing it off its hinges. He retrieved two blocks of white powder and turned back toward the abductor. Lifting the packages above his head, he yelled, “Okay, now, release her!” “Fool, who you think yo’ ass talkin’ to? “I’ll do dis’ bitch!” In a jerking movement, he pinned Jada closer, fortifying his grip; his brawny arms an anaconda that could squeeze every bit of life out of her soul. Her hair, wet and tangled below his grasp, made Kane wonder about all the tight spots he was not there to get her out of. The bruised knee from baseball; the busted lip from soccer; the bout with pneumonia that almost ended it all for her at age ten. For all the good he could do here tonight, he might as well have absented himself from this more pitiable scene as well. *** At that point, the situation went off kilter. Witnessing the fear hovering in his little girl’s eyes created in Kane a demented spirit. Worst more, was his sensing beyond Jada’s desolation, the assurance that her dad would get her out of harm’s way. Gripped with trepidation that he might fail to rescue her from yet another disparaging moment; may again falter in awakening her from another nightmare, Kane snapped. The blocks of cocaine fell to the ground causing a rippling splash in the water accumulating around his boots. He bent down simulating his retrieval of the dope, only to disguise his next move. Jerking the Glock .22 from his side, he bolted upright. He took aim at the transgressor, who now had repositioned the sawed-off shotgun to Jada’s temple. “Let her go! Right now!” He yelled, sounding increasingly militant and less pedestrian in his tone. Not one to fool himself, the twenty-year veteran recognized, resolutely, that it was the gun doing the talking. “Fool, you must ‘of fo’got who in charge! Thro’ me dat piece or Ah’ll off this bitch, sho’ as shit!” Everything went still. At that moment there were no sounds. No movement. No onlookers. None other than the three--Kane, Jada, and the outlaw--existed in that un-redemptive version of hell. Even the rain had drifted into an ominous state of quietness. Then, unpredictably, the perp pushed Jada toward the wet asphalt like she was a useless, worthless, rag doll. Miraculously, she regained some semblance of balance. Staying upright, Jada Kane ran toward her savior; her white light. By now, the sawed-off was aimed straight at her back. Its trigger cocked; its safety off; its handler, resolute. Without warning, a backfiring car in the distance reverberated eerily into their eardrums; too powerful; too untimely; too deadly, to go unnoticed. In cadence the two startled men fired their weapons; the cop in desperation; the monster in deadly defiance. A red shell ejected from the sawed-off; the Glock recoiled, expelling a round of its own. “Ja-da!” Kane called out in distress; the melodious wind echoing his howling cry. Jada’s eyes went wide in shock as she stumbled. Her pace slowed to a frail limp. Her white cardigan sweater, saturated with blood; the hole in her chest; a blast to her back. For a split second longer, she dragged forward toward her white light, and then collapsed, face down. Sprinting toward her, Kane cried out to the assailant, “You killed my baby!” The shriek of his voice was out of control; his obliviousness to his probable hand in his daughter’s death, palpable. Plopping down beside her, in her watered-down pool of blood, he rolled the dead girl over. Meticulously, he cradled her head in his hands, like he would have done the dead Raven, were he given the chance. The terror in his eyes spelled revenge; the hatred in his scream, retribution; both pledges stridently echoing in the night’s air. The surviving avenger was unconscious of his inaudibility to the two dead corpses. In the distance, his daughter’s captive lay sprawled on the ground; the slug having exited Jada’s chest straight into his head. Still, vengeance was not sufficiently exacted in his mind, nor palatable in his mouth. His thirst had not been quenched; his ravenous appetite, was unappeased. In that instant Kane realized, it would be that way until all who bore his fellow assassins’ likeness, met their violent end. Clipping the strands from her sweater, Kane whispered, "Baby Girl, I beg your forgiveness. Because I already know, keeping your last wishes is not a vow I can make, or even abide by."