Broken

By Cedric Johnson

The city of Charlton is a city divided: Upper Charlton, where the rich and powerful work and play, and Charlton Terrace, where the poor are kept from crossing the ever-widening economic gap by corporate dynasties controlling the flow of capital, their security firms controlling the city police, and numerous gangs controlling the streets.
Miranda Garren has a chance of escaping the Terrace's oppression and making a new life for herself with the help of an old family friend and his plans for advanced medical technology. Criofan Byrne is the city's favorite son, champion of the local boxing circuit and heir to a corporate empire. Their separate worlds are brought together and destroyed around them in a single night by the leader of the Cabezas de Muerte gang, who will stop at nothing in order to make a name for himself in Upper Charlton.
Forced into using the experimental prosthetic technology Miranda had been working on, Criofan must put aside everything he knew of his privileged existence and work with Miranda. Together, they must find a way to escape the machinations of the cruel, vindictive gang leader, the life he's thrust them into, each other and themselves—and reclaim control of what remains of their lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Veronica Giguere
• Release date: Sep 3, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301274963

Cedric Johnson

Stacey Johnson was born and raised in Lincoln, NE, where she began writing short stories and poetry at an early age. While attending Lincoln Southeast High School, Stacey was a top-placing contributor, layout editor and senior year editor-in-chief of its multiple award-winning annual literary publication From the Depths. Stacey's other works appear in Mercedes Lackey anthologies (under the name Cedric Johnson). Stacey currently resides in Thornton, CO, where she continues to write while working with other forms of digital media, including 3D modeling and virtual world communications.

Book preview

BROKEN

Cedric Johnson & Veronica Giguere

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Cedric Johnson and Veronica Giguere

Cover Art by Ben Hummel

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.

Chapter 1

The lights came up in Charlton Terrace earlier than in any other part of the city. Street lights flickered and faded once the sun rose, but apartment windows winked soft yellow well before dawn. In the working class neighborhood that fueled the larger city of Charlton, people had to get up earlier and work harder just to get by. Sleep was a privilege for the upper class, not for the day laborers and shift workers who lived in the Terrace.

The streetlamp on the corner dimmed, its light lost in the welcoming glow of a family diner. The neon sign hummed ‘Open’ at Maxine’s and the presence of the morning regulars confirmed as much. They lined up at the counter for fresh coffee, eggs, and toast, and the ever-present gossip from the night before. The establishment’s namesake held court over the rowdy bunch with a ready smile and the promise of a full cup.

Maxine Garren topped off the nearest mug and pushed a bowl of creamer cups to the center of the counter. She had known most of the regulars since coming to the Terrace as a teenager, fresh from Kingston and complaining about the cold Delaware winters. Her family had found a home among the pockets of other immigrants from the Caribbean who gravitated to the west side of Charlton. Every other block had its own collection of stores, flags draped with pride in the windows and delicacies that spoke of someplace warm and bright; Maxine kept her kitchen and counters decorated in bright yellows and greens. The handful of young women who worked the day shift wore pale yellow smocks, many of them from other Jamaican families in the Terrace. They would arrive later; the early morning was for family, and Maxine considered the group of men at the counter as close as family as her own flesh and blood.

She smoothed back the dark brown waves of hair streaked with grey and white, tucking the few strands back into the knot coiled at the nape of her neck. With a hand on her hip, Maxine turned her attention to the conversation of the morning. So what you’re trying to say is that our Angelo won his match last night, Pete? He knocked out that Fitzgerald boy?

Pete Perrera beamed, pride overtaking exhaustion. Most of the boxing matches didn’t begin until the late evening. If these men had attended the fights, they would have slept for barely four hours, if at all. Eight rounds, but he wore down that rich thing and sent him to the mat with a right hook! Pow! He imitated the hook at the nearest patron who played the part of young Roddy Fitzgerald with a graceful collapse to the counter.Boxing had proven a popular sport in Charlton, with young men from all backgrounds seeking out the squared circle as a way to make their way out of the city and onto something greater. The Terrace had produced its share of successes, but money and influence from the families in Upper Charlton threatened those successes in recent years. Everyone around Pete cheered the victory as much as if it had been their own; in a way, it was.

Maxine tried to give a stern frown, but she fell into laughter as the others continued to reenact parts of the fight. Bells rang at the window as orders came up and the celebration ebbed as the men ate breakfast. Most of them worked at the warehouses on the south end of the Terrace, although a few started early at the local hospital or took the bus to Charlton proper in time to punch the clock at seven o’clock sharp. The next hour would bring the factory workers coming off the third shift, so Maxine put on a fresh pot of coffee. By the time the sun came up over Byrne Tower in Upper Charlton, there wouldn’t be an empty seat in the tiny diner.

A younger version of Maxine pushed through the kitchen door, plates balanced on her forearms and a smile on her face. She wore her long dark hair in a single ponytail down the middle of her back, a pale yellow smock over jeans and a sleeveless shirt. The men at the counter clamored to be the first to share the news from the night before with her, but Pete beat them to it.

Mira! Did you hear the news? Pete waved his fork to emphasize his words. Angelo, he beat that Fitzpatrick kid last night!

Miranda Garren beamed at the news, her dark eyes dancing. She shared her mother’s easy smile, setting down each plate with a sure hand. That’s great, Mr. Perrera. I guess you were out with him, celebrating late?

You should’ve been there, Mira, a young man at the end of the counter piped up. He wore the t-shirt of a local hardware store a few blocks over and would go in after breakfast to help his parents, much in the same way that Miranda helped hers at their diner. All those rich kids, they were cheering on that dumb bastard, and Angelo, he comes in and lays him out cold! An hour later, we’re down at Maggie’s having a beer and Angelo walks in, with two stitches. Two! He slapped the counter and leaned forward on an elbow. Tell you what, if Maxine’ll let me, I’ll take you to the next one. That is, if you want.

Oh, I’ll be there next time. You tell me the day and I’ll be there. Miranda poured a cup of coffee from the new pot, added cream and sugar, and pressed it into her mother’s hands. Miranda winked at the other men, a smile playing on her lips. But Joey, stop trying to ask me out. You’ve got your hands full with Maggie’s youngest, anyway. You can’t handle more than one girl from the Terrace.

The young man’s face turned scarlet as the older men around the counter jeered and laughed. How did you… who told you?

When Gina is waving you home at five in the morning as I’m setting up, nobody has to say anything. She patted Joey on the cheek as he buried his nose into his coffee with a grumble. Miranda settled back against the counter with a smile as Maxine distributed the first set of bills and sent the first group on their way. The men assembled for breakfast had seen her grow up before their eyes, and they treated her like a favorite niece. Some of the younger ones would try to ask her out, but the ‘uncles,’ as her mother called them, would put that nonsense to rest.

When they couldn’t, then Alfonse Garren could. Miranda’s father had passed his fighting prime, arthritis and old injuries keeping him away from the gyms and boxing rings for more than two decades. He had grown up in the Terrace, a product of another hardworking family and the boxing circuit. He had met Maxine while he was training for the big money fights in Atlantic City, and she had stuck by him ever since. Alfonse had found some success in the ring away from Charlton, but he had walked away from the business that went on outside of the ring as well as within. After eighteen months, he had returned to the Terrace with enough money to start his own restaurant in a familiar corner of the city. Now, he spent his days in the establishment named for his wife, balancing the ledgers and managing schedules for their modest business.

Alfonse limped through the kitchen door, the daily paper under one arm. Miranda met him with a cup of coffee, rising on her toes to kiss his cheek. Age had stooped his shoulders, and the worries of day to day business in the Terrace replaced dreams of the fights in Atlantic City. In the evenings, he would hold court with the other old men who remembered the early days of the Terrace, a time when there was a better balance between those who had a little and those who had more.

Alfonse, did you hear—

Alfonse cut off his friend with a good-natured grumble. Pete, they heard you all the way across the city. But, good on Angelo, he’s strong in the ring. It’s nice to see someone standing up for the Terrace. Isn’t that right, Mira?

His daughter shook her head. Once upon a time, she and Angelo had hidden in the alley behind the diner, making out in the awkward way of fifteen-year-olds. Those days had passed; they had both graduated high school and remained friends, but nothing more. Angelo focused on training at the gymnasium for the weekly fights, while Miranda dedicated her time to the family restaurant and her studies through the local community college. She respected the fights and what they meant to those from the Terrace, but Miranda didn’t want to make them a part of her life.

Angelo’s not quite a ‘Terror of the Terrace’, Daddy. At least, not yet. And I’ll make sure I go to his next fight, Mr. Perrera. Miranda cleared a few of the empty plates from the counter and set them in the service window. As long as I don’t have any work scheduled with Doctor Larkin that night.

Her father frowned. If Reggie’s having you work in his lab so much that you can’t have time out in the evenings, then I’ll have a word with him myself. It’s not healthy to spend all that time with your nose in books and manuals. He began to say something else, but Maxine shushed him and motioned him toward the back booth that served as their unofficial work space during the day.

Go drink your coffee and read your paper. Girl that smart can study all she wants, Maxine fussed at her husband. Better than the alternatives.

Alfonse sighed but didn’t argue with her. The rest of the regulars knew better than to try and take his side in such a conversation; there was a reason why the restaurant had Maxine’s name in neon on the front window. They tended to their coffees and plates while the Garrens fussed at each other on their way to the back booth. Miranda took over the breakfast duties at the counter, leaving her parents to their private conversation as she poured herself her first cup of coffee for the day.

* * *

As the day went on, the crowds came and went with each cheerful ding at the kitchen window and the register. Fewer people ordered breakfast, and the girls who worked the day shift showed up at eight, leaving Miranda to tend the register while her parents retreated to the back office to manage the daily deliveries and the weekly schedules. By ten o’clock, Miranda had hung up her smock and taken her parents’ place in the corner booth to tackle her schoolwork on her laptop.

Miranda had graduated with honors, but the public high school that served the Terrace sent fewer than ten percent of its seniors to any kind of college or university. The few who did leave wound up at competitive schools that sought out inner-city kids for special programs and enticed them with lucrative scholarships. Miranda had heard about such things and her grades would have supported such studies, but those opportunities required her leaving the Terrace. For her, going away to a university was out of the question; Miranda refused to leave her parents alone in the Terrace. She picked away at a few classes through the community college each semester, doing them online rather than take the bus north of the city.One of her father’s friends had taken his chances in leaving the Terrace to study up north in Rochester, but Doctor Reginald Larkin had returned to the city years later as a medical researcher with a lab partially funded by the Byrne family in Upper Charlton. Doc had tried his hardest to get her to take a similar chance with a scholarship to a school in Connecticut; when that had failed, he had convinced Alfonse to have Miranda work with his research while she did her schoolwork.

Your mother says you missed breakfast. You had plenty of coffee, but no breakfast. Miranda glanced up as her father pushed a sandwich across the table. He pointed to the clock on the wall. And it’s past lunch, Mira. She thinks you’re going to waste away if you keep skipping meals to pick away on that fool machine. Some reason why you forget to eat when we own the best kitchen in Charlton?

She sighed and removed an earbud, then pulled the plate over. The aroma of jerk spices met her nose. I was busy reading, Daddy. There’s an exam next week, and I want to make sure I do all right.

Alfonse leaned against the side of the booth and craned his neck to examine the laptop screen. He grimaced when Miranda enlarged the video lecture. Anatomy outlines and muscle charts mixed with the images of surgeries on hands and fingers. On second thought, he said, rubbing his own gnarled fingers. You’d be better off reading on an empty stomach. I’ll get you another coffee.

Miranda smiled up at her father and reached for one of his hands. Rheumatoid arthritis complicated old injuries, and she massaged his fingers with sure pressure while nodding at the screen. It’s just pictures, Daddy. Reconstruction, putting pieces back together, all the things that Doc works on with his research, except he does it with robotic pieces and not real people. It doesn’t bother me, though.

Alfonse shook his head. It might just be pictures, but I’ll stick to reading the paper. Leave the medical things to you and Reggie. He leaned to kiss her on the forehead. Come to think of it, why don’t you take the rest of your homework over to see him this afternoon. I’ll pack up your lunch and send some for him, too.

Miranda sighed and closed the laptop. The end of the week carried reminders of the financial stranglehold on the families in the Terrace, one that was enforced by the uglier side of the city. You don’t want me here when Rafe comes by for his payment, she offered quietly. When her father didn’t answer, she took a deep breath and began to gather her things. I’ll take the bus downtown, study at Doc’s laboratory until the dinner shift. Just call me when he leaves so I know that you and Mom are okay.

Alfonse opened his mouth as if to argue with her. You... He let out a long sigh and passed a hand over his forehead. Miranda didn’t notice, her eyes fixed on the pages she slid into her knapsack. You should bring lunch for you and Reggie. The two of you need more than just sandwiches if you’re going to work all day on those hand-robots he enjoys so much.

Alfonse took the plate with gnarled fingers before she could protest. She slung the bag over her shoulder, her coffee in her other hand. She hated knowing that part of her parents’ hard-earned money went into the pockets of the Cabezas de Muertes gang, and those who used them for their dirty work. Saying anything else about the weekly security payments they owed for so-called ‘protection’ in the Terrace would only wound his pride. Miranda waited patiently at the counter while he busied himself in the kitchen, packing neat white to-go containers with the daily special and wrapping up her sandwich in paper as he had done every morning before sending her off to school. When Alfonse finished, he stacked everything in a simple brown bag, folded the top over and stapled it shut.

Daddy? Miranda felt the lump rise in her throat as he came through the door. He set the bag in her arms and patted her cheek. Daddy, I didn’t—

You go see our friend and finish your schoolwork. We’ll see you tonight. Alfonse interrupted, his voice gentle as if to tell her that she never had to apologize to him. He waved her to the door. Go on, Mira. You’ll miss the bus.

Alfonse struggled to maintain his pride as he steadied himself against the counter. A lump rose in Miranda’s throat at the sight. She hugged the lunch bag to her chest. Better to pretend that she was nine years old again, sent off to school while her parents tended to the diner. I’ll see you tonight, Daddy. I love you… and Daddy, I—

He stopped her with a smile before she could say anything else. The bells chimed as the door opened. I know, Mira. Love you too.

Chapter 2

There are places in the world where it’s hard to imagine anything is wrong. It’s merely an illusion and only the foolish would think otherwise. But even more foolish are the people that cling to that illusion as if it were reality. They are the ones that stand to lose the most when the illusion fades, like so many stars in the morning sky.

This illusion was easier to hold onto in Upper Charlton. Originally given the title simply by being the part of the city north of the river, it had all but literally risen to fulfill it. Gleaming luxury condos and majestic business towers touched the sky, reminding everyone for miles around that Upper Charlton was the shining, beating heart of the city.

For the two men riding the glass elevator up the Byrne Tower, it was easy to look down on the inhabitants of Upper Charlton, both figuratively and literally. They both knew the history of the city that they had had a hand in creating. They knew their place, and they knew what they would do to ensure they kept that place.

The elder of the two, John Harper Byrne, couldn’t care less about the ultimate fate of the lower half. He had been there when the economic boom of the 1980s was in full swing, making a quite public show—alongside the more generous of the city’s elite—of throwing their money into the urban renewal project that became known as Charlton Terrace. Its success at creating jobs and homes for the working class was so great that the project eventually consumed the whole of Lower Charlton, including its name. This generation had never known any other name but the Terrace.

John Harper Byrne didn’t care about any of that. The Terrace served the purpose that he and many of its original investors had intended. Charlton Terrace had given the lower class hope, encouraging them to workhard toward a dream that they would pull themselves up with the generosity of the elite. The ugly truth was less complex. For John Harper Byrne and those like him, the Terrace allowed them to line their pockets even more and widen the gap between the haves and have-nots. They controlled that gap. The city was theirs.

The aging multimillionaire barely gave any of this any thought any more. Whenever he looked out across the Terrace from his tower, all he could muster was mild, almost indifferent disgust. The Terrace was beneath him, in every way. It perturbed him a bit that his young companion in the elevator didn’t share his sentiment.

The sun had just set over the horizon, the last rays reflecting off of the shining towers, casting the Terrace into a murky twilight before the night’s lights could overcome it. He shifted to the side to avoid the glare and continue to read his tablet feeding him the latest information from the Tokyo Stock Exchange. As he did, John Harper Byrne caught sight of his companion staring out over the city. He spared a glance towards the Terrace only because it had the younger man’s interest.

How many times do I have to tell you, it’s better not to get involved with that place? he asked gruffly.

Criofan Byrne gave a grunt of acknowledgement. He’d heard the same speech over and over again for almost a decade now, ever since coming home from boarding school. ‘Don’t get involved with the Terrace. It’s beneath you, not worth your time or energy. Focus on where you belong: on top.’ It bored him every time.

I know, Da’, answered Criofan, keeping his grip in the elevator’s railing and his gaze on the city below. I haven’t forgotten.

He couldn’t help it, despite the admonishments. There was something about the Terrace that fascinated him. He could still remember his first visit to the lower city, making the rounds of the amateur boxing circuit. He remembered being surrounded by crushing defeat and quiet desperation. He remembered the way the inhabitants of the Terrace fought to overcome it, no matter how many times they failed. He admired that underlying spirit of never giving up, even though it came with a twisted sense of pride that his family had helped make all that happen.

The Terrace still had potential. Criofan believed that he could somehow harness it and make it serve his family long after his elders had written it off for serving its original purposes. While he had yet to determine that potential, he knew that eventually he would find a way to lift his family well above the rest of the families vying for control of the city.

Criofan knew better than to discuss these things. His peers ridiculed him for his ideas, and most of the executive board openly scorned them. His father took the attitude that the young man would grow out of it. Criofan learned early on that he should keep any such plans and ideas to himself. Among the elite, no one took him seriously about anything to do with the Terrace.

The stark physical contrast between father and son made it difficult for anyone to take Criofan seriously. John Harper Byrne was a large man; tall, muscular, and dark-haired, every inch of him was intimidating, especially for a man in his late 60s when most of his colleagues had let themselves go and lived a life of luxury and excess. Criofan had almost none of his father’s features. He was just as muscular, but nowhere near as tall, barely coming up to his father’s shoulders. That, combined with his flaming red hair and detached, laid-back attitude towards everything, cut Criofan out to be something of a lazy prince, and certainly not one with aspirations beyond the boxing ring.

Only one man took Criofan seriously; one whom Criofan could use towards his own ends, but only because the two shared similar goals. Even then, he couldn't confide in the man. Criofan saw him as the savage dog left to patrol the junkyard; he saw it as his domain while Criofan held the leash. It was a brutal yet effective arrangement to deal with the underbelly of the Terrace. When the time came to assume the throne of Byrne Consolidated Enterprises, the rest of the elite would be shocked to discover no carcass to pick clean. Criofan Bryne had plans and the patience to keep them close to his chest while the elite thought of him as still a child unfit to rule his empire.

The elevator came to a stop and the doors slid open, putting a temporary halt to Criofan's thoughts of the Terrace. He walked down the hallway a half step behind his father. The double doors at the end swung open automatically as they approached, and the two men entered a large room that Criofan had always found uncomfortable. The majority of the Byrne family business took place in this richly-appointed room, which served as both John Harper Byrne’s office and informal conference room. Here the elite hashed out the ebb and flow of Charlton's economy. The ancient mahogany desk at the far end dominated the other furniture in the room and was practically iconic in Criofan's mind. It had always been there, almost if the room had been built around it. It had seen the rise and fall of many companies and business affairs. Someday, it might even be his.

Today’s business wouldn't happen at the desk. Father and son made their way over to the lush sofas and the half-dozen men in expensive suits who rose to their feet as the Byrnes drew near. John Harper Byrne nodded to them as one and sat down, placing his walking stick across his lap. Criofan and the other men did the same. An attendant brought out a drinks tray and the men took a moment to fill their glasses. Criofan rolled his shoulders, trying to relax. He never felt comfortable wearing the expensive tailored suits that these gatherings required.

How was your trip out west? one of them asked the elder Byrne.

Same as always, John Harper Byrne replied with a dismissive wave of his hand, Trying to impress with showmanship rather than results. That's my son's forte, not mine.

Criofan made a fist and cracked his knuckles, then feigned interest in his fingernails. Difference 'tween me and them is that if I show you flash, you're gonna see the fire soon enough.

Everyone chuckled at the quip except for the elder Byrne. Criofan knew the look in his father's eye well enough, that he had every confidence that his son didn't make idle words that he couldn't back up with action. All the men in the Byrne family possessed this trait, and Byrne Consolidated was their proof.

The men settled into business from there, and Criofan paid as little attention as possible. This wasn't his arena, not yet. He knew enough about the company to take his father's place when the time came; until then, Criofan had his own interests at heart. To not be here at his father's side would be disrespectful, and that was something Criofan would never do, to his father, his family or himself.

Men and women came and went from the conference room over the next few hours to discuss business with John Harper Byrne and his executives. Criofan was polite, but his mind was miles away. He entertained himself by sizing up the men on how long they'd last in the ring with him, and the women on how much Irish charm it would take to get them into his bed. It was a mental exercise he’d taken from boxing gyms into the real world. To fight and conquer, which was the heart of the Byrne Family motto, you had to know your opponent. And it was something Criofan had become exceedingly good at.

Engrossed in his daydreaming, Criofan barely heard his father ask, "Is that the last of them for