Raw Vengeance (The Rich Fordham Series)
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Authors: Josh Handrich
RAW VENGEANCE
By Josh Handrich
Raw Vengeance
Copyright
©
2011 by Josh Handrich
The Rich Fordham Series
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Adult Reading Material
All rights reserved
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A special thanks goes out to my wife Nikki who gave me the initial confidence to pursue writing this story and for putting up with me. Mike, thank you for keeping it real and offering insight. And thanks to my mother, Nancy, for your eye to detail and words of encouragement. And a thanks goes to all the other friends, family members, and co-workers who have listened and given their opinion.
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Table of Contents
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Raw Vengeance
A Novella
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“
And I believe that good journalism, good television, can make our world a better place.”
~ Christiane Amanpour
CHAPTER 1
Sweltering, sticky, Guam-like heat and humidity—just another September heat wave in Chicago—made it impossible to get comfortable. During the bitter cold winter months of snow, ice, and wind, people tended to behave and tough it out. People helped each other. But when the heat rose, so did their tempers. During the summer of 2001, the violent crime rate had grown exponentially in the south side and showed no signs of abating. To Patrol Officer Wes Kines, that meant nothing good ever happened.
In the Chicago Police Department’s Sixty-Fourth Precinct, it wasn’t even Monday at noon, but the drab four-level building had filled with its usual offenders: A bleached-blond woman in her forties, dressed in a pink tube top and fish net stockings, put up a fuss over being charged with reckless driving and resisting arrest. A twenty-something white male sporting a Bulls jersey and an assortment of religious tattoos was led off in cuffs for beating his girlfriend unconscious. Most were repeat offenders.
A mix of detective and patrol officers tended to arrest warrants and jail bookings. Two officers were in a heated discussion about rumors circulating over the mayor’s proposed budget cuts.
Wes kept himself busy by filling out paperwork on a DUI arrest of a heavy-set sixty-year-old blonde with coffee-stained teeth and nappy hair who kept making coffee and donut jokes thinking they were clever and original. It was difficult to focus on work when his mind was preoccupied with the rumors.
After eighteen years on the force, Wes doubted the long-term sustainability of his career. His annual pay had already been slashed twenty-five percent. His 401K was almost worthless. His alimony and child support drained what little he had left after drinking. Every week he had to pull doubles and work weekends with no days off, and he was still unable to make ends meet.
A month prior, Wes had been caught on camera roughing up a drunken congressman. After being pulled over for swerving in and out of lanes, the congressman tried to talk his way out of a failed sobriety test. When he grabbed Wes by the arm and threatened to ruin his career if he was arrested and charged, Wes forced the man to the ground and handcuffed him. The following day he was assigned to desk duty pending an investigation.
“
Officer Kines, may I have a word with you?” asked Captain Roy Tomke. Nearing retirement, Roy was a bull of a man who could beat a person to a bloody pulp with one arm tied behind his back. Even at the ripe old age of sixty-two, he was still pulling doubles and worked just as many hours as he had twenty years before. He did it out of necessity and for his sanity; his wife of forty years would have thrown a fit if he were home all the time. Work was his life and his escape.
Wes looked up from his paperwork. “Yeah, what’s up?” The captain had always referred to him by his first name, so he knew something was wrong.
“
In my office,” Roy said sternly.
“
Probably best not to get too wound up yet,” Wes mumbled low enough so no one could hear. He scratched his head nervously and followed the captain into his office.
Roy was sitting with his arms crossed and a permanent scowl on his pockmarked face. His refusal to make eye contact was a bad sign. Everything about his body language told Wes that he had majorly messed up.
“
Sit,” Roy commanded. Wes sat and did his best not to look nervous. Without any prelude, the captain took out a letter addressed to Wes and told him to open it. Wes rubbed his sweaty hands on his shaven head before he opened the letter and read aloud:
To Mr. Wes Kines:
We regret to inform you that as of September 3, 2001, you are terminated from the Chicago Police Department due to budget cuts put in place by the Chicago City Council. Your service to our community will not be forgotten.
With regret,
Mayor Shantell Cogan
Wes read it to himself again to make sure he hadn’t read it wrong. “Are you serious? Are you fucking serious?” he asked the captain.
Roy ignored the derogatory remarks. “You have one hour to clean out your desk and locker. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do. This was handed down from the mayor’s office. I have to hand out another ten of these before I’m done, so don’t think that you’re alone on this,” he said without empathy.
“
I’ve got a mortgage and child support to pay for. How am I supposed to do that?” Wes asked in disbelief. “Come on, Captain, can’t I stay on for at least another month? A week? That’s all I’m asking.”
The captain ignored his pleas. “I need your badge and department-issued firearm.” Reluctantly, Wes did as he was told. “Please go now, and the best of luck to you.”
“
Best of luck, my ass. It’s easy for you to say. I’ve been here eighteen years, and what do I get for it?”
Roy knew better than to provoke him, answering with a distant, silent glare.
“
A fucking termination letter.” Wes held it up in the air and crumpled it into a wad. “Thanks, Captain, I really appreciate it.” He turned and slammed the door hard enough on the way out that the entire roomful of people stopped what they were doing to watch.
Twenty minutes later, he had all of his things packed into a large duffel bag and was cruising down the freeway at eighty miles per hour in his red, late-model Ford Mustang Cobra.
Wes pulled the car into the garage of his small ranch-style home, closed the garage door, turned the car off, and sat silently in the dark. A few seconds turned into minutes, minutes became an hour as he mentally replayed the final moments of his career. Wes had promised himself he’d never become a victim; it made him madder than hell that his career hadn’t ended on his terms. He punched the steering with enough force to make his knuckles raw, and then he screamed until his ears rang.
Feeling better, he got out, grabbed his duffel bag, and headed upstairs into the cramped kitchen. Dirty dishes were in the sink, empty beer bottles overflowed the garbage, and the remains of yesterday’s dinner were still on the counter. Slivers of sunshine shone through the closed blinds. After flicking on a light, he grabbed a twenty-four case of beer from the fridge and downed the first beer in five seconds. He went on to the second and downed it. Then a third. And a fourth. During his fifth, his emotions got the better of him, and his bottom lip began quivering uncontrollably.
“
How could they do this to
me
?” he yelled aloud as gobs of spit gushed in all directions. In a flurry of rage, he flung a full can of beer at the porch’s sliding glass door, breaking it into thousands of pieces. Wes forced himself to regain his composure and seek a solution. Seeing the broken glass on the floor wasn’t enough to snap him back to reality. He walked into the bathroom and splashed water over his face and graying hair, then stared at his reflection in the mirror. The wrinkles and scars made him look ten years older. The curl of his lips formed a natural frown.
“
Someone’s going down for this,” he slurred as he plotted revenge. With a vicious right hook, he shattered the mirror into small fragments. The pain and blood on his knuckles further enraged him. He gripped the free-standing sink on both sides and twisted it in an attempt to break it from its foundation. “M…m…mother fucker!” he said as he grunted. The emotional toll added up, and anger shifted to acceptance; lines of drool hung from the middle of his mouth. The last time he had cried was back in tenth grade when his father died in the line of duty. Wes gazed into the mirror’s shattered remnants and became enraged by his own face. Anger had turned his skin a deep crimson, and tears cascaded down his cheeks. The image was a metaphor for his existence. “Why me? This isn’t happening!”
Wes Kines had no close connections. He was in an on-again, off-again relationship, and he only saw his two kids every other weekend. His parents were dead. His one purpose in life had been taken from him in an instant, and for that he vowed revenge, even if it killed him.