Killing Houston

By Dealey Ford

There is no justice but what we make.

That's a lesson that U. S. Marine Nick Kacey is learning all too well. While on his final tour in Iraq, he witnesses a fellow soldier murder a young boy in cold blood. When the military turns a blind eye, it seems that the killer is going to get away without being punished.

But Nick can't let that happen. He just...can't.

Nick takes it upon himself to set things straight. An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth.

A life for a life.

And that's where the line between right and wrong begins to blur. When the tables are turned, Nick ends up on the wrong side of the law and a cutthroat millionaire who will stop at nothing to silence him. Everything he values and everyone he cares about is now at risk, and the murderer is still out there watching...waiting...

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. C. Bass
• Release date: Sep 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311530653

Book preview

Chapter 1

Weeks of planning brought me to a one-acre yard that held a dirt-caked single-wide trailer belonging to the man that I intended to kill. A gutter hung loose and pressed against a grimy window. The metal siding was pried away near the foundation leaving all sorts of things to crawl beneath. A rusted and battered pickup had been cannibalized for its parts and sat forlorn at the edge of the property, hovering above several feet of weeds and discarded bits of engine parts.

A haze hung in front of a sliver of moon, blocking what little light there was to be had. On a normal night this far from the city lights, the stars should be shining above, but clouds like smoke lingered, unmoving. All was silent.

My watch read 2:56 AM. Time enough for one more cigarette.

I shielded the flame as I lit up. Habit. Nobody was watching to catch the glimmer of light that flickered for a brief second and went out. Houston would be asleep. He had to work tomorrow and when he did, he usually went to sleep around 1:30 or 2:00. He should be in or around the deeper stages of sleep now and with any luck, sitting in front of the TV with it still on Sportscenter, or whatever came on ESPN this late.

The fear was still there. It would always be. Any time there was shooting to be done a bit of fear was perfectly natural and healthy. I had known some other veterans that claimed they didn’t feel it in a firefight anymore, but I always took that with a grain of salt. Millions of years of evolution won’t turn off just because you think you’re a badass.

I wiped the sweat from my forehead. My truck was off and the windows were down. No air came in. All was still. The clouds didn’t move. I was parked behind a veil of trees about fifty yards from Houston’s place. I wouldn’t have to worry about neighbors because this far outside of Aiken, there weren’t any.

I looked at my watch again. 2:58. One last ammo check.

Four fifteen-round magazines of 5.56 NATO. Two mags of 9mm hollow point rounds for the Sig I had on my belt. My AR-15 was as ready as it had been half an hour ago, but it never hurts to check again. When I was satisfied with my weapon I tightened my Kevlar vest and made sure it was snug. I hoped there wouldn’t be any shooting back, but better to have it and not need it.

I’d smoked about half of my cigarette when I decided it was time. I flicked it out the window and stepped out of my truck, easing the door shut, feeling the click but not hearing it. The dry and brittle grass crunched beneath my boots. All this civilian gear rubbed together a little louder than I was used to. But in the silence of the night everything seems louder than it is.

I crossed the gravel road, taking it extra slow to prevent noise. I entered the yard and hunkered down for a moment behind the forlorn pickup. Through one of the broken blinds of the trailer I saw a flicker of light infinitely brighter than the darkness surrounding it. The TV in the living room was still on.

I cut across the yard and went around to the opposite side. Houston’s truck was a red 2003 Toyota Tacoma, probably the one thing he took care of. It was sure as hell cleaner than the outside of his house. I took my Ka-Bar and stuck it into each tire and listened to the whoosh of air as they flattened. In my worst-case scenario back-up plan, I’d still be able to catch up to him if he managed to get away from me.

I came to the back yard. Discarded rusty lawn chairs. A broken push mower. Garbage bags. Weeds. A small dirt footpath had been worn from a rickety tool shed to the back door. A wooden step creaked beneath me as I crept up the porch. I ignored it and pressed on.

Even with care, the screen door creaked a little when I opened it. I unzipped a small leather case and took out my lock-picking tools. I’d spent a while practicing on my own door in preparation. I wasn’t great, especially with old locks, and this one looked like it had seen better days.

Ten minutes later and the lock was open. My own lock at home had been quite a bit faster, but the time was less important than the result. I eased my way inside to the kitchen.

Gaudy multi-colored plastic dishes lay unwashed in the sink and on the counter. They didn’t seem Houston’s style. Probably left behind by an old girlfriend. Houston had a thing for ditzy back-alley blondes. Daughters of trailer park drunks. High-school drop-outs. Stoners who thought he was edgy. Few had stuck around for long. And the ones who did were a study in themselves, let me tell you.

But for tonight, he was alone. I could hear the TV now. It was Sportscenter. A discarded and hastily ripped open case of beer sat on the floor. Natural Ice. I stepped over it.

Crunch.

I thumbed my Maglite and shielded the beam, casting it beneath my foot. A roach had crumbled, its antennae whirling around in the desperate last firings of dying nerves. Houston wasn’t much of a housekeeper I guess.

I scraped it off and continued forward, entering a carpeted hall. Through a doorway I could see the flicker of the TV on the wooden living room walls. An anchor talked golf. I heard it and didn’t, listening for sounds of movement within the trailer. I could see a ring-stained coffee table covered in discarded beer cans, fast-food bags and empty cigarette packs. I entered the living room and swung my weapon around.

Empty. A ruffled blanket sat next to a pillow on the couch. He must have gone to the bedroom.

Of course the paranoid part of my brain said it was because he’d heard me, but I thought that unlikely. The humidity was thick. He got warm and went to a cooler room. I kept going.

The hall had several framed pictures. Hunting photos mostly. Houston was six-foot three, maybe 220. Muscular build. Blonde with short hair. As I went on down the hall, I could hear the drone of an air-conditioning window unit and the flutter of the little plastic strips put on the front to see how much it was blowing. I listened for breathing or movement. I heard nothing.

I’d thought a great deal about what I would do at this point. For a long time I told myself I should just shoot him and get it over with. But a quick and painless death in his sleep was better than Houston deserved. I wasn’t going to make him suffer because that would put me down on his level, but he would be awake for it. And most important of all, he would know why it was happening.

I came to the end of the hallway. Two bedrooms. One had a treadmill and some old boxes. The door was closed on the other. I put my ear close and listened. Nothing but the air-conditioner.

My heart pounded. Houston was asleep. Now was the time.

I flung the door open. Nothing. No one. There was an empty bed with an air-conditioning unit beside it, straining to cool the whole of the trailer. A chair full of dirty clothes sat against a wall.

Where the hell-

A toilet flushed and a door opened next to the closet. Houston saw me and let out a cry, as anyone would. He was wearing boxers and an undershirt. I hadn’t seen him in nearly a year, but he looked the same. I raised my weapon.

Who are you? he asked. I could hear the fear. And I won’t lie, I took pleasure in that.

I stayed in the shadows of the doorway. He would know soon enough. I told you this wasn’t over.

He stood staring, wide-eyed. The look of a man who knew he was held up dead to rights and didn’t understand. But he would understand. I would make him.

Who the fuck are you?

As he said that, I noticed something. A shotgun was sitting in the corner next to his closet door. It was directly behind him.

The smart thing would be to shoot him and get it over with, but I wasn’t ready for this to end just yet. You remember that village outside of Karmah?

His eyes narrowed. What the hell are-

Do you remember? Yes or no.

No.

The one with the mortar team that shelled the market.

He thought. What about it?

You don’t remember?

He shook his head, still wide-eyed. He began to look about the room as he thought. He would start to get his bearings straight soon. The Marine in him would kick in. He would remember the shotgun.

There was a boy. About nine.

The memory flashed behind his eyes. And then all the fear left him. He relaxed. He even smiled. It was an arrogant thing. I hadn’t expected it.

You’re Nick Kacey.

I stepped forward into the light so he could see my face. He grinned and suddenly I hated him more than I thought possible to hate a human being. I know the Bible says that a man should never hate another man, that it was the same as killing him in your heart. But I hated him. And I was gonna kill him anyway, so I might as well hate him. Call me stubborn or wrong, but that’s just the way it was.

So you know why I’m here, I said.

Still that same shit-eating grin. That grin passed for charm in bars where the girls were too drunk or too young to know better. Yeah, I remember. He stepped to the right, the direction of the shotgun.

Don’t you move, Houston. My gun followed him.

He kept moving. You don’t have the balls.

I fired out the window, just a few feet from his head. The glass broke and he jumped back. At least that grin was gone for the moment.

You stay still, or I’ll make this hurt more than you can imagine.

What the fuck do you want?

I blinked the sweat away. I want you to tell me why.

What?

Tell me why. I want to know.

Houston stared at me. Why the hell do you want to know that?

That boy never did anything to you. He never did anything to anybody. I want to know why you did what you did.

Why the fuck do you care so much about some hajji kid?

I fired next to his head again, this time just a foot away. He couldn’t help but jump at the sound. He glared at me.

You tell me why you did it.

Or what?

Or I’ll leave you gut shot out in the yard. I’ll leave you in such a state you won’t be able to even crawl. You might die in two or three days when your throat dries up.

You think I’m afraid of that?

If you aren’t, you’re dumber than I thought.

Fuck you. If you’re gonna kill me anyway, then just go ahead and do it. But I’m not telling you anything.

Don’t you have a soul? How can you not feel guilt?

You think I’m the only person to do something like that?

I’m not talking about anybody else. I’m talking about you. Now tell me why.

For a moment I saw a look in his eyes just like you would see in any other human being. For a moment I thought he would actually tell me.

For a moment I was wrong.

Houston moved in a blur, but not toward the shotgun. Before I could react, I heard a shot and felt the hard hammer strike of a bullet hitting my vest. The flash that lit the room blinded my vision, but I caught a glimpse of a revolver in his hand. Before I could return fire he shot once more, that one whizzing past my ear, and I had to duck into the hallway for cover.

Despite the shock of adrenaline, I realized what had happened. I’d been too worried about the shotgun in the corner and hadn’t noticed anything else. The revolver had probably been sitting in the nearby chair. He’d hit me square, but the fact that I wasn’t dead meant my vest had stopped it.

Houston kept firing and the cheap wooden walls in the hallway didn’t offer much cover. The bullets tore right through sending woodchips splintering around me. I ducked into the room across the hall and planted myself behind some boxes. It was all I had.

My weapon was much more suited for this than his. I returned fire, putting a whole magazine through his bedroom wall and door. He must have known his disadvantage and taken cover. He fired four shots back, one of them hitting the metal bar of the treadmill, striking a high note that rang throughout the room. Now both of us were just shooting in the dark, through walls of wood and sheetrock, trying to hit each other.

Instinct told me he’d fired his last shot. I knew he’d be going for the shotgun. Now was my chance.

I moved to the doorway. I could see the shotgun in the corner of the bedroom across the hall. If he went for it, I’d have him.

Only he didn’t.

He was waiting for me around the corner as I started to reload. He stormed forward, shoving me into a head-high stack of boxes propped against the wall. I hadn’t managed to get the next mag into my rifle, but Houston didn’t know and was trying to rip the gun out of my hands.

I gave him a head-butt that might have broken his nose. I used my leverage to push him against the wall and grip for his throat. He jerked his head aside, gasping for breath. His left hand struggled to find something on me to grip, but couldn’t.

Houston kneed me in the groin, and as I tried to recover I relented for a second, enough for him to shift his weight and turn me around. Suddenly I was on the defensive. He pushed me against the window and I heard it crack from my weight.

Once again, he grabbed for my rifle. I knew there was a good chance he hadn’t realized I had a pistol on my belt. I made my choice.

I let go of the rifle. Houston wasn’t expecting that, and as he pulled backward the sudden lack of resistance made him stumble. I pulled the Sig from my belt and racked the slide. He must have instinctively understood that I wouldn’t let go of the rifle unless it was empty. So instead of trying to shoot, he pummeled me with the butt. I took the blow with my shoulder, and even through the adrenaline I felt the pain cascading through my arm. The hit threw off my aim and when I fired it went wide. The flash blinded both of us, but he swung the rifle again and this time it connected solid with the side of my head. Reality sunk to tunnel-vision, and I knew I was in trouble. Houston gripped for my pistol and as he did, I fired twice more.

Houston cried out in pain and the rifle came down on my wrist, sending my pistol clattering to the floor. Houston staggered toward the hall and I knew he was hit, I just couldn’t tell how bad.

Still reeling from the blow to the head, I barely managed to find the rifle and reload. By the time I fully gathered my senses, I heard Houston heading out the back door. I stumbled down the hallway after him. I felt warm blood trickling down my cheek and as I walked, the world lurched suddenly and I had to brace myself on the hallway wall.

I made it out the back door and heard Houston’s truck and the metallic scrape of rims on gravel. He was at least hobbled enough to want to run for it. His truck stormed down the dusty road and I fired off a few rounds, but because of the surrounding trees I knew I hadn’t hit anything.

I tried to catch my breath. I knew what would be going through his mind, the options he had. My back-up plan was all mapped out, but where that would take me was up to him now. I would just have to wait and see.

My vision blurred. My footing failed. The last thing I saw was the patchy dead grass of the yard.

Face down.

Chapter 2

I grew up in Texas in a town called Lamesa, and I spent most of my youth in love with football. I tried baseball too for a bit, but wasn’t very good. Never could hit speed. And it’s dangerous not to be good at a sport in Texas, so I stuck to football. I played running back and wasn’t half bad. I liked the idea that as soon as I got the ball everybody was out to get me. I liked dodging around people, spinning out of tackles. The whole thing was like a big puzzle and as a kid I thought that if I played the game enough, one day I’d be so good I’d get a touchdown every time. Then I could play for the Cowboys. As a kid, you always think like that.

When I was ten my father got a job in Jacksonville, North Carolina. My brother Sam, who’s three years older, didn’t want to go any more than I did. But our father was a minister and we knew that moving was part of the job. Sometimes you have to go where you are needed and apparently Jacksonville was where he was needed. So that’s where the Kacey family went. My mom had worked in the same paper mill in Lamesa ever since she graduated high school. Sam and I had hoped she wouldn’t want to go either, but she never seemed to have any qualms about it. Moving across country was just her idea of adventure, I guess.

Jacksonville schools were bigger than I was used to. My brother fit in just fine, but it took me a while for some reason. I used to get bullied a lot. Never figured out why, to be honest. When I was fourteen I met Skylar, the girl I’d end up marrying. She was a bit of a misfit like I was. One day I saw some people giving her a hard time and I stuck up for her. She appreciated it and we ended up dating. After that, neither of us really worried about being accepted or not. Soon enough, it was hard for either of us to remember what our lives had been like when we weren’t together.

My grades were never that good except in history and grammar. For some reason, I really liked those. They were things that were concrete. I did really poorly in math until one day my teacher explained to me that math was just the same way, with certain concrete rules and certain exceptions. I did a lot better, then. Sometimes it’s just all in the way you look at it, I guess.

Sam ended up doing really well in baseball. He got scholarship offers and minor league scouts were showing up at his games. My parents advised him to let baseball pay for his college, but in the end he chose to go pro. He got drafted by the Chicago Cubs and they sent him to one of their farm teams, but he blew out his arm six months later and had to quit.

I was working on my junior year in high school then and still had dreams of playing running back in the NFL. I think Sam missing out on his dream taught me a lot. That taught me you have to have a backup plan. Sometimes life doesn’t work out the way you want it to.

Turns out I was good to think that way. I tore my ACL and MCL my first game senior year. The college scouts ended up more impressed with the stats of my replacement than me. My parents took it hard, but I didn’t really. I’d always wanted to go to the military too, and had struggled with the choice of which I wanted to do. Fate had chosen for me.

Skylar and I married six weeks after graduation. I worked installing car stereos and saved up a little money for when I got shipped out. My mother was proud, but my father always had a grand notion about me becoming a minister. I told him that I’d thought about it a lot, but I didn’t really see God anywhere. I never had a moment in my life where I felt anything like that. He took that to mean that I didn’t believe, which wasn’t quite true. I just had a lot of questions, that’s all. A lot of people go to war and end up getting saved. I told him I hoped that happened to me. I tried to explain, but he didn’t really understand. Since then we’ve been cordial, but I wouldn’t call it friendly.

While I may not have gotten religion from my father (at least not in the way he had wanted), he did give me a sense of justice. Getting my head kicked in by other kids every day and not understanding why made me come home with a lot of questions, and he was always quick to help. I understood earlier than normal that life isn’t always fair and sometimes there’s not anything you can do about it.

He wouldn’t approve of what I’m doing now, but something he said once led me to make the decision to come after Houston. One day we were talking about the relationship between law and justice. He and I generally agreed that the law was meant to enforce a common sense of justice, but the trouble came when we tried to define what justice was. For example, people could agree that theft was wrong, but what if a person stole to feed their family? Should it matter why they did it, or should they be punished the same as other thieves? There wasn’t a concrete guide. He said the Bible was concrete, but being through my share of Sunday school lessons and hearing him talk at the kitchen table for many years, I knew that there were about a million different interpretations of what the Bible really meant. Even right and wrong often get blurred. The Ten Commandments are pretty straight forward, but even in the Bible there’s a time to kill.

Then we got to talking about karma. I said that I believed what goes around comes around and in the end everybody gets what they deserve. Surprisingly, my father said he didn’t think deserve had anything to do with it. Sometimes bad things happen to good people, and sometimes the law can’t do anything about it. In those cases, the bad guys get away. The law is not the same thing as justice, even though we try to make it that way. In the end there’s no justice but what we make. In most places it matches up, but sometimes it doesn’t. And when it doesn’t, it’s up to the people as a whole to make things right. I said that sounded like something a vigilante would say, and that couldn’t be right. He said that if I had a problem with that, then maybe I valued law more than justice.

I thought about that for a long time after. Originally, I thought I valued law and justice equally. But after a while in the military, I began to realize he was right. The two don’t always go hand in hand. But even after that realization, I didn’t think I’d ever have to choose between the two.

And then one day, I did.

***

If the military had handled Houston in the first place, I wouldn’t have to. When the incident first happened, I went through the proper channels and told a Lieutenant named Prost everything I’d seen. I didn’t speculate or exaggerate. I didn’t have to. What I knew should have been more than enough. He said they’d look into it.

He interviewed Houston, but I don’t know what was said. Whatever it was, the result was this: There was no investigation. Apparently he was satisfied with Houston’s version of events. I spoke to Prost again and told him that with all due respect, Houston’s version was horseshit. He smiled and told me he was satisfied and that was it. When I got back home from my tour I called a few more people, but I never heard back.

In the end, it was just my word against his. And if we’re going to be honest with ourselves, the military has enough problems fighting an unpopular war. Any news of a soldier killing a kid on