The Scar That Bleeds: Augustus Baltazar, #2

By Neil Bursnoll

Something is savaging Augustus Baltazar’s many wounds. Is the voice in his head the Shadow Lord, or is Solani tricking him with mind games? Can he stop the incessant rotting before it becomes too much, and consumes his very soul? DI Merrick encounters similar difficulties, after playing his hand that results in unexpected disaster. The loss of his closest colleague and the tragic circumstances of his past have become heavier than stone.

Find out which path they both take. For Stu, it could be a life of darkness and decay alongside the man of fire, or the understanding and openness with the woman he yearns and is slowly falling for. For Merrick, it could be a descent into darker territory, or a salvation that no-one is willing to offer.

This is the second thrilling novel in the Augustus Baltazar series from author Neil Bursnoll.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Neil Bursnoll
• Release date: Jun 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9781494910860

Book preview

Chapter One

"Avan’nas - this futile breed you called your own know nothing. The anger you’ve suppressed is driven by their insipid desire for greed and power. You are the God they clamour for. You cannot be stopped."

Stu drives a kick with such force that his front door bashes open, twisting on the last hinge it can cling to as it dances a buckled routine. He storms through, whamming a quivering fist into the nearest plywood door. The sheen splinters, popping inward to form a neat crater. He boots the foot locker in the corridor, shattering the sliding door and uprooting the shelf behind. He stomps into the living room, grabs the armchair, and hurls it at the dining table. The impact sends scores of DVDs and empty wrappers into a void of shards and splinters, the slab cleaved in two. Next he turns to his aging TV, punching straight through the glass and shattering the thick tube beyond. The force slams the shell into the wall before it clatters to the floor.

Stu’s eye sockets smoke with a dull hue. They extinguish the moment his eyelids fall.

"Remember. Remember everything."

Augustus Baltazar pauses, out of breath and forehead starting to leak claret. His tall, athletic frame has dried quickly following the last superheated expunge of electricity. The words that taunt his wavering mind are familiar, but he can’t remember the voice. Stu has been unable to stop it reverberating through his skull.

The dialect, spoken so venomously in the ancient language he somehow understands, is hard to forget. It’s exactly like the first time, when he reappeared three long days after the accident that robbed him of life. He became a supernatural warrior driven by the forceful commands that leaked through his thoughts, unbeatable in battle, aided by the incredible power to regenerate from freezing cold water. It wasn’t until he lost Sam that he silenced the voice, and then it strikes him. It’s the same booming voice of the dark cloud from the void he frequents when he can’t yet heal back to consciousness.

His fists remain clasped, steaming blood oozing from his cracked knuckles. His body shudders as he tries to hang onto the sapping adrenaline. His eyelids are still tightened harder than his fists. The darkness in his eyes flashes with faces he can never forget - faces that are only memories now.

Angela Dawson. Matthew Reynolds. Max Jefferson. Samantha Willis.

"You cannot be stopped."

His eyelids fly open to reveal brown orbs much paler than normal. The white sky is penetrated by vibrant forks of lightning. Pockets of steam puff away. Each new blink restores a darker shade to the iris, similarly quelling the array of bolts.

This is identical to the early days. His mind is so fuzzy right now, hammered like the head of a nail. When he first emerged from the waters of the Silenti after that long absence, the voice controlled everything, ordering him with incessant kill commands. One thing he’d never noticed as a human was the insane amount of creatures and demons that needed to be destroyed - perhaps he just wasn’t hardwired that way when alive.

The voice hadn’t suffocated his brain since Sam died three years ago - whatever trick he deployed in grief has worn off. He senses a presence stood over his shoulder, radiating love and warmth. He can smell her perfume, and see glimmers of her blonde hair in his peripheral. She is the closest she has been in years. She must be here to help him.

Stu catches his breath, albeit briefly, struggling to remind himself he is still human - to a degree. The presence at his shoulder is gone. He shakes his head violently to keep it clear, even though each furious shake seems as fruitless as the last. The ire still bubbling deep within his bones is on the cusp of consuming him; surely if he grits his teeth long enough it will subside. For how long though, he dare not question.

His eyes catch the glaring sun outside, staring into the hot flame. Flame.

Stu suddenly remembers the shadowy figure he saw escaping from Mike’s workplace. It was amidst a torrid inferno fuelled by hundreds of tyres. He has to phone his best friend to make sure he wasn’t there. After all, it was Mike that led him there before Solani attacked.

He reaches for his phone, finding the pocket dry but the mobile slightly damp. Condensation laughs at him from behind the glass screen.

Fuck. Stu skims it toward the felled CRT, the phone pinging off a plastic corner.

~~~

DI Merrick holds the phone to his ear, once again hearing Dawson’s voicemail kick in.

Fuck. He bites his tongue, gripping the phone tightly. He can’t even fathom how annoyed he is with her at such a vital time. Fine, she can miss out. he mumbles, inaudible amidst the noisy churn of the big engine. DS Angela Dawson has been invaluable to him these past few weeks, the only person willing to sacrifice her own career and help hunt down a serial killer. She was the only one to step up and join his case. A fellow DI offered a small level of support, but couldn’t compete with Dawson. Merrick’s marriage crumbled, his daughter died, and he couldn’t get through work without losing his temper at colleagues. The leftover bruises aren’t physical anymore.

He turns to the row of heavily armed men to his right, and scans the eyes of those on the opposite side of the van. Their identities are disguised by black Kevlar body armour, black overalls and full-face ballistics helmets emblazoned with a bright blue POLICE stamp. There are eight faceless men in total. Directly opposite him sits fifty-one year old Chief Inspector Derek Mason, a Kevlar vest strapped over his standard issue shirt. His once-black hair is a less-harsh shade now, daggered moustache flecked with silver.

The belly of the ARV is a big and cold chamber with enough room for over double the current occupants. Spare vests swing with the swaying vehicle, assorted weapons unmoved as they’ve been fastened to the walls. Gazing through the meshed rear window, Merrick can see an additional squad car trailing them by a few lengths.

Merrick continues to glance at the surrounding men, lingering on method of entry specialist Adam Martins. He is in charge of the Enforcer battering ram, clenched between his knees. He watches the constable click the first shell into the barrel of his Remington 870 shotgun, carefully waiting for the sway of an attacked pothole to pass before inserting the next. Multiple cartridges are slipped into pouches at the side of his vest, but the DI hopes Martins won’t need to reach for them.

Still not answering? Merrick doesn’t hear the voice at first. He then notices the CI wave slowly in his direction, and he engages.

Sorry?

Is she still not answering?

No - but she can be stubborn at times. He slides the phone into his trouser pocket, ensuring it’s pushed far enough in.

That doesn’t surprise me. Mason retorts. Merrick knows what he means, but barely smirks. I take it you’re not going in?

Why would you think that?

No body armour. Does it not fit you anymore? he wryly smiles.

I don’t think I need it.

Sorry sir, but you don’t know what’s waiting for us on the other side. Constable Barry Fahey speaks out with his thick West Country accent.

Thanks for your concern, but I know this guy. The firearms are merely to spook him. There won’t be any rounds discharged today. Merrick confidently assures. The two officers on his right chuckle heartily. Something to share? he scolds.

Indeed, sir. The furthest one away, Constable Anton Davis, coolly replies as he finishes loading a magazine into his MP5SF. I’ve experienced a situation exactly like this before. It ended in unnecessary bloodshed, so I strongly advise you follow the words of the CI and don a vest. Merrick stares into the eyes behind the scratched visor. It is for your own safety, sir.

Right. Merrick gnarls, taking umbrage at being wronged. He tries to further his argument, but quickly realises that this firearms unit are being deployed under false pretences. There are no guns at their destination, and admitting to this now could result in the operation being scrubbed. The weapons are to give them an advantage, if it comes to that.

Merrick reaches for a spare ballistics vest and straps it on. He briefly checks through the windscreen as he leans forth to slip into it, interested to see how close they are to the destination. A part of him still hopes that Baltazar will come quietly, however with seven murders and an ABH charge hanging over his head, the sight of such heavily armed backup should hopefully swing this in Merrick’s favour.

Sir? another constable, Giles Grant, nervously calls out to Mason from the far end of the van.

Yes Grant?

Could you possibly remind me of the door number? Mason smirks a little, and a few occupants exchange annoyed glances.

Not that you’ll be up front, Grant, but it’s number thirteen! he shouts.

Unlucky for someone. Constable Darryl Robbins retorts from behind his balaclava, his penetrating eyes staring at Merrick. His imposing figure, him being the tallest of those present, is exemplified greatly by his close-fitting armour. Only one person laughs, the muscular Sergeant Alex King, shrewd Team Leader to this assembly. He continues to titter amidst the otherwise relative calm inside the steel shuttle.

Thank you, sir. Grant calls.

Keep your head in this. King tells him. Remember the training. Keep your wits about you. You’ve one strike in my book already, Grant, and this is only day two for you. Don’t double it.

Will do, Sergeant. He hurriedly nods.

Bloody red shirt. Robbins mutters, knowing he won’t have been heard. King butts his knee with a clenched fist. Robbins ignores the punch, and focuses on another colleague cooped up inside this chamber. Hey, Barry. Where’s that tenner? His grin goes hidden beneath the balaclava.

You think I’d bring money with me out here? Where are we going afterwards, Express Chicken?

I’m in! the driver, Constable Sin Chang eloquently calls from up front. As long as I’m not ordering all of that shit.

Well I should have some of that waiting for me, whenever my DS gets her arse in the game. Merrick pipes.

Speaking of arses... Davis laughs.

Enough! Mason calms. How long until the target? he calls to Chang, clad in an identical outfit to his colleagues.

One mile. To the target, that is. Express Chicken is a little further. There is the odd muffled snigger from the armed men.

Very funny, gentlemen. Get yourselves ready, you know the plan! Mason yells to the team. Grant - welcome to your first taste of the unit.

Yea! King growls, thumping the butt of his Heckler & Koch on the steel floor. Welcome to the club! He reaches over and forcibly bops Grant’s helmet. The others quickly follow suit.

"Remember the plan, Mason continues. Approach stealthily. Assist any civilians you might find. We don’t want an accident on our hands, or any unfortunate injuries. Keep your heads clear, stay on target. Get the job done, and the burgers are on me."

~~~

"You are weak." the voice taunts. A startled Stu immediately looks over his shoulder, spinning a couple of times. He quickly realises how foolish he’s being.

Show yourself! he commands. There is no response. Where are you?

"You were warned." The words ooze like a thick condiment. Stu throws himself headfirst into the nearest wall, accidentally scattering a small gathering of parched water bottles. Half-slumped, he looks around the trashed room, unsure of how he could possibly eradicate the voice again. Unexpectedly, surging pain strikes the circular scar upon his breast, incapacitating him and making him yowl like a wounded dog. Deep purple stalks of dead electricity creep out from the wound. The jagged outline cracks, splits, and turns a rotted black.

He collapses to his knees, struggling to fathom how much this truly hurts. His eyeballs wither and decay, shrivelling in the sockets as vapour pours out as if from a boiled kettle. Tightening both lids shut does nothing. The pressure is too much to hold back, and as his eyelids burst apart, an empty void emerges from behind the sizzling steam.

"I have not failed you." Stu booms in Latin.

"I suggest otherwise." The voice replies.

"I do as you ask. I am no longer distracted."

"Not through your own control."

"She is worthless to me." His words are uncharacteristic but decisive.

The voice does not hesitate. "Then kill her."

Stu initially remains silent, the last ounce of humanity deep within him unable to stop the obvious answer. "I cannot be stopped."

~~~

The ARV comes to a halt outside the four storey Triple Tree Heights, once twittering birds scattering in fright. Black armour piles out, visors obscuring identities. The troops scuttle like beetles in close formation, flattening against the front of the building one after the other. Voiceless hand signals order the next motion.

Merrick slams the rear doors shut as the trailing Police car spits dust and crunches gravel. It parks with a skid right behind the van. The extra bodies wait patiently, merely here as backup and unlikely to be called upon. One rolls down his window, expecting to given instructions, but instead nothing is said. Merrick is already on the move.

A man in his forties, dressed in slacks and a flannel shirt, appears from the front door. He is unsurprised by the party of guests, and slides a nearby pot plant into place to keep the door prised open. He walks away, head hung low, wanting to be away from what comes next.

Fahey and Robbins filter into a stifling stairwell. Robbins pauses, quickly signalling for the other to go. Fahey sprints up the first flight and hugs the wall, spinning quickly to check the next flight with weapon poised. Robbins bounds two steps at a time, kneeling at the next level to copy the pose. Fahey scales the next flight and pauses once more. As Robbins waits, three more - Martins, Grant and Fuller - scurry up to join Fahey.

All five repeat the motion on every new corner, scaling each flight as quickly and quietly as they can. They spot not a single other soul - a blessing in case disaster strikes. Robbins reaches the top floor first, checking for activity before waving Fahey on.

The pair creep along the corridor, weapons raised and triggers lightly pressed. Martins is close behind, leaving bodies four and five a little further back. Robbins and Fahey pad gently along the mosaic carpet, keeping low until they are almost upon door number 13. They spy the entry point battered and ajar, dangling precariously on the hinge. A gentle breeze from within the flat gently nudges it, letting it swing ever so mildly to provide a disconcerting squeak. They wait for the following trio before making another move.

~~~

Stu gazes at the rows of houses beyond the back of the building, his back to the gaping door. He casually looks down at his side, not concentrating on the corridor beyond, but knowing something is coming. He can ever so slightly hear someone out there.

"What a welcome surprise. his old tongue rasps. Come, show me what primitive force you wield." He beckons whoever it is, turning to the door and spreading his arms wide.

Is that Italian? Robbins hushes, seeing Fahey’s eyes tighten to show he is expecting to hear more. Martins reaches them, gloved hands primed with the Enforcer battering ram. He looks at each one in turn, not even acknowledging the state of the door. Before anything else can be said, a crackling ball of lightning smashes through the plywood wall and garrottes Robbins, encasing his helmet in pulsing red lightning. His entire body convulses from the agonising electrocution, leaving him unable to react. He drops to one knee, eyes twisted as his brain shuts down. He slams to the floor with a heavy thud. Slithers tickle his armour and his corpse twitches one final time.

Martins drops the thick tube with a dull whack, pulling at his shotgun and scuttling away from the door, an overwhelming surge of adrenaline overriding the rigid mission protocol. He thumps his back onto the wall where Robbins was, struggling to spot anything through the sheen of his visor as it catches the sun. He edges his view into the gaping hole, moving his head to try and avoid the glare. As he steps tantalisingly closer, he accidentally knocks at one of Robbins’ prone ankles.

Back! Fahey spits, compounding his frustration with an angry wave of his arm. And grab that ram - don’t be so lazy! Martins doesn’t think twice, relinquishing the shotgun for the moment. He fumbles for the Enforcer, keeping his eyes fixed on the fresh hole.

As Martins reclaims the ram, he and Fahey remain low, paused and expecting another surprise. Fahey raises a flat palm to the creeping remnants of the team, halting their single file march. He peers down at the fallen Robbins, his prone body unmoved.

Anything? Mason calls from atop the stairs, assessing the situation from what he can see. He and Merrick are furthest away at present. Mason covers himself behind the advanced pair of King and Davis. Merrick is halfway up the same stairs. His hand constricts the bannister, hoping Stu will understand why this is happening and come quietly.

Martins responds with a negative hand gesture, continuing to glance through the hole as wisps of smoke toy with his vision. Incoming! he suddenly yells, throwing himself a few feet back down the corridor. A beaten CRT smacks into the door frame, showering him with splinters that bounce harmlessly off his vest. Mason presses hard against the wall, making sure King’s bulky frame stays in his line of sight. Martins immediately pops a CS canister and hurls it into the room, a trail of hissing smoke lingering in the air.

Merrick hears a door below click open, and he hastily drops several steps, almost losing his balance on the last two.

Please, stay indoors. There’s nothing to worry about. he says.

Really? The exasperated woman below squeals.

Really. Merrick flashes his badge. Police business. Please, do as I say. The neighbour takes umbrage and slams her door so hard the wall warps.

What’s wrong? Mason asks, popping his head into view.

Nothing, nothing at all. Mason offers no retort, his stony glare saying enough.

Further along the corridor, Martins breathes hard, trying to keep his bubbling emotion under control. He can sense Davis and Grant approaching stealthily, weapons raised and decisively pointed. He looks to them, and doesn’t hear Fahey’s warning. In fact he doesn’t hear anything else.

A searing orange welt lashes his face, blood spurting from the cut directly across his helmet. The visor cracks cleanly, and is the first to fall. The top part of his head, still tucked inside the black shell, slides the other way. His body careers against the wall and tumbles as his legs fail him, exposed cranium bubbling with hot magma. He hits the floor hard, the scolding substance spilling down his armour and destroying it as fast as acid.

Davis turns away at the sight of such horror. His eyes blink over and over, trying to wash them of the memory. Grant is the direct opposite, staring at the seeping cranial mass that once belonged to a colleague. He pinches his eyes, knowing it can’t be true.

Fahey reacts immediately, stepping into the exposed door frame and firing short controlled bursts. He keeps his knees bent, lowering his position as he strides forth. The smoke is still dense, but he can spot faint colours flickering ahead. As he gets closer, he notices a topless man in jeans, one knee dug into the floor and an arm bent upwards. He is hidden behind a crackling wall of electricity that has formed into a circular red shield. It has swallowed every single bullet, suspending them inches from the target’s head. Fahey can see a black wound upon his breast. It’s only now that the gas has started to dispel, and his surroundings become much clearer.

Before the armed officer can pump another quick burst, the shield vanishes with a flicker and the target slams a flat palm outward. A searing bolt of lightning long and sharp like a spear appears and punctures Fahey’s armour as if it were paper, embedding deep within his beating heart. The weapon quickly dissolves into a glistening crackle, firing enough charge into Fahey’s chest that the surrounding organs frazzle and burn to a crisp quicker than it takes his limp body to hit the deck. His face smashes onto the floor, snapping the visor with a load crack.

HOLY FUCKING FUCK!!! Grant screeches from the corridor. He draws his pistol and slams out of sight against the opposite wall. He cannot believe the lies his eyes have processed, and shudders uncontrollably. Sir! he yells, seemingly to anyone listening. SIR!

I heard you the first time! Mason yells back. Keep it down! King! The Sergeant doesn’t need guidance, already sweeping forth with Fuller close behind. Grant can’t stop convulsing, unable to dispose of the anxiety clawing at his senses. He exhales loudly, breath steaming his visor. King is almost upon him, stopping by Robbins to briefly glance at the violent wound that severs his face. Grant peers down as well, seeing the remaining eyeball fixed right on him. He recoils in utter terror. He is convinced that eye still has life in it, leering like Darryl always did. Grant has to get it back together. He’s trained so hard for this. He knows how to deal with a fallen colleague, no matter how much anguish comes with it. He never expected the sensation to make his sweat so cold.

Grant shakes the remaining fright from his body, in time to see King waving three joined fingers. The Sergeant peers cautiously into the wound in the wall above Robbins. As Fuller shuffles past him, crossing in front of the shattered door as fast as possible, King glances down at a whirring crackle. His eyes widen, and he dives back down the corridor. Grant hastily rolls in the same direction, hitting someone’s corpse as he tumbles. Fuller is far too slow, stumbling with his feet as he can’t decide which way to go. The battered CRT glows white hot, and the deafening pop is replaced by a booming explosion that obliterates him from sight. The constable’s red waste splatters the walls, the ceiling, Grant’s polished visor and King’s back. All that is left is a tossed handgun and one boot, bony ankle poking out of a black sock of shredded flesh.

Grant fumbles with his firearm, hands shaking violently. He tries to prep it, flicking the safety and loading the chamber. His itchy finger twitches too far, and he pumps the bullet into the neck of an unsuspecting King, not even letting him get up from the carpet. The Team Leader collapses in a heap, blood spurting from the gaping hole in his nape.

Davis stares on, tightening his grip on the MP5 like he wants to use it on Grant himself. Mason can’t avert his eyes, unable to accept that this simple mission has been struck by an insane twist. He drops down the first flight of steps, trying his hardest not to be torn apart by dejection.

The standing constable shuffles down against the wall, knowing that he has to engage the enemy and not his fellow colleague. Davis briefly pops into view beyond the door frame, not having seen anything within. He then swings round and into the flat, leaving Grant behind. He paces slowly with his weapon high and ready to fire. It is eerily silent within, the thunderous bump bump of his thrilling heart the only thing in his ears.

Merrick edges up the first flight, meeting Mason on the flat portion between floors. Sir?

What? Mason replies angrily.

We need back up.

No.

I disagree.

NO! he snaps. We need something else.

Deafening gunfire and flashes of light flicker from within number 13. A pained scream echoes towards them, followed by snapping bone, then a second, a third, and after a short pause a long and sickening fourth. The lights around them, having always been on and blindingly bright, pulsate and die.

The building is quiet. Neither senior officer can hear activity on the floors below. There are not even any birds trilling from outside.

The CI creeps up, expecting to see something - anything. He’d forgotten completely about Grant, who thunders into him and collapses down the stairs, the waiting pair barely getting out of his way. Mason nor Merrick can form a sentence to stop him, as he regains his feet and disappears down the next flight.

Mason takes the next few steps lightly, horrified by the lost men scattered ahead. He is a little relieved at first to see Robbins spasm, expecting him to have survived this ordeal. But his body jerks too violently. Without warning, his head explodes with a sickening splat. A palette of red, grey and brown appears as if tossed from a pail. Some brain matter lands a foot away from the nervous CI.

Mason stares in disbelief, astonished that his men were carved through so easily by an unseen assailant. Then he appears, nonchalantly stepping out past his broken front door as if nothing could faze him. He prowls like a panther smelling fresh prey, beating down the corridor with effortless aplomb. Mason stares at the stranger’s chest, shocked not by the five scabs that puncture his bare flesh, but by the black wheel that sizzles like hot fat. Mason reaches for his firearm, fingers clasping at air. Before he can put his hands up to plead for mercy, a swirling magma pulse shoots from Stu’s palms. It cleaves Mason in two, tossing his torso one way and his flailing legs the other. The ball of flame is so powerful it smashes cleanly through the stairwell wall, daylight pouring in.

As Stu reaches the top of the stairs, he gazes down to see Merrick there, cowering in a ball. Their eyes cross and stay locked. Stu’s glare is intense and damning. Merrick’s is fearful and overwrought. Stu doesn’t relent. Merrick’s thoughts are fractured, his lips quivering unintelligible words.

Stu has a different sheen to his brown eyes. His gaze penetrates but is distant, as if his actions are not indicative of who he truly is. He breaks to scan the shuddering wreck, not easily spotting a weapon in his midst.

Merrick’s lips keep shuddering, unable to fathom anything legible. The words are strangled by the horrible anticipation that these could be his last moments. He has heard enough suffering for a lifetime in a few short minutes, and if he’s going to die, it needs to be quick. He keeps staring up at Stu, fists clenched so tightly his thin wrists struggle to stay still. He wonders if now would be a good time to start praying, to see if he has enough time to ask forgiveness in case there is a heaven.

The half-naked assassin descends one slow step at a time. He is staring at Merrick’s face again, still lost with his gaze. Merrick has not broken eye contact once, fearing this could be the last face he ever sees.

But Stu keeps walking, passing the DI without uttering a single word. He drops out of sight, and Merrick continues to stare, expecting him to return.

It seems like minutes have passed. Has he actually died, and this is the transition to the afterlife? He gasps and cannot control his breathing at first. He is flustered, realising that he had in fact held his breath the entire time he’d been staring at Stu. But was it truly him? Has this all been a lurid nightmare that his brain has concocted? Was it actually someone else that committed these terrible acts?

The top half of Mason is to his right, sprawled across a series of steps, sliced through like a knob of hot butter. He glances up to spy a gaping hole in the wall above. It has cooled and light smoke waves with the breeze. What the hell did Baltazar do?

I... I trusted you! he blurts, unable to stop himself. He then spots a young woman in a fluffy dressing gown staring at him from above, utterly terrified by what surrounds her, wide eyes shuddering and mouth permanently agape. She has no soundtrack for her expression.

~~~

As Stu saunters through the front door, smoke curls away from his hot scar. He spots the empty ARV first, before he sees another armoured constable conversing frantically with another dressed in standard uniform. A third is in the car.

Before Chang can even react, Stu launches a swirling discharge of crackling red lightning at the car. It penetrates the bonnet, suffocating the battery and causing it to send a flaming shockwave through the vehicle. The car detonates, taking Stu by surprise and making him step to the side as the shockwave catches him. Chang and the officer at his side are blown clear, their tattered and ragged corpses splatting in neighbouring backyards. The ARV bounces forward a little, and Stu’s parked Monza scrapes back into the bordering hedge.

With the sudden blast of wind having passed, he moves, bare feet scrunching and scuffing at the gravel driveway. He spots a bewildered teenager nearing him on the street, his eyes fixated on the burning heap of metal. Stu casually smacks the kid’s hand to release a clasped phone and fling it into his grasp. Before the boy can even think about retaliating, Stu throws his arm back, lashing him with a searing cut right along the side of his head.

Thanks. he coolly adds, sauntering away. The boy wails louder than a cat.

Stu inspects the phone in his hand, noticing