The Unforgivable Sin: When Heaven is lost, the killing begins.

By D.B. Corey

Hanna risks her Immortal Soul to take on the corrupt judicial system involved in her family’s murders. Turning once again to her old CIA handler, she offers her skills as an assassin in exchange for his help. When she finds those responsible for her family’s decimation, the real killing begins.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bernie Dlugokeski
• Release date: Jun 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9780999032336

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Hanna’s childhood bathroom hadn’t changed all that much in the years she’d been gone. Light-blue subway tile, color coordinated toilet, sink and medicine cabinet. All the same. The only real change that had occurred in the last thirty years was her father’s murder, and with his death, it now belonged to her.

She stood in the bathtub veiled in steam—an assassin in mourning. Scalding water cascaded down the curves and crevices of her body stinging her skin, the pain providing no distraction, the heat, no comfort or therapy; and as the sound of the shower likened itself to a rainy night, disturbing images from time recently passed denied her respite, rekindling the grief that tore at her soul.

A single vision raced through her mind, repeating more often than any other, appearing and reappearing in her image stream at random; the memory of euthanizing her dog returned once again, barging into her mind like an unruly hooligan jumping a ticket line. But this time, instead of forcing herself to push it out, instead of lying to herself to deny the pain, she held it.

Putting Zeake to sleep was one of the hardest things, one of the saddest things, she ever had to do. She cried, there at the vet’s office, holding Zeake in her arms, rocking back and forth as the poison did its vile work. From her late teens he was a huge part of her life, and she would have held him forever if she could. But God had called him home. It was his time.

She thought it was the agony of loss that recalled the memory so often, but then she questioned why the thought of her dead dog entered her mind before that of her dead father. Might it be a death association with the dog? Or perhaps a kind of subconscious denial that her father was truly dead. She didn’t know. But what she did know was that Zeake’s death left her with a degree of anguish that ached bone-deep. But her father’s death—her father’s murder—left her numb with rage. And in her heart, rage was all that remained.

Hanna Braver stepped from the shower and toweled off, drying her long auburn hair until it was damp; then, standing naked before the bathroom mirror, guided her hands without thought to fix it into a tight bun at the back of her head.

She applied a bit of make-up—not too much—and then selected a new dress from the cedar-lined closet. It was sleek and sleeveless and as black as the night, and she would not wear it again after this day. It had a specific purpose. Its high neckline and below-the-knee hem made it appropriate for her father’s funeral.

Stepping into a pair of two-inch heels, she tried to reconcile the disparity overwhelming her. She accepted that Zeake was just a dog, and the loss of her pet was incomparable to the loss of a parent, so why did she feel no grief for her father? Was the rage she felt at her father’s murder stronger, more demanding, than any grief she should feel at his death?

Pulling on a pair of elegant black gloves, she slid them along her arm to a stop just above her elbows. As the early morning sun momentarily broke from behind a lingering overcast, she gently placed a wide-brimmed hat on her head, one the same shade of black as her dress. The cloud-laden sky swallowed up the morning sun once again as she cast a resigned glance in the mirror before starting down the stairs.

She strode with military-like precision to the coat closet by the front door. Head up, back straight, a purpose to her stride. A hint of mothballs greeted her as she pulled open the small cuddy. Her father’s battered old gentleman’s umbrella, the black one with the curved wooden handle, leaned in the corner awaiting his return. A pang touched her heart and a sob escaped. She choked back another before choosing an old black woolen shawl that once belonged to her mother. Taking care with the hallowed garment, she pulled it around her shoulders.

Easing the front door open, she paused. The soaking showers that fell during the night had stopped, but the fresh smell of rain lingered; the storm having scrubbed the air clean. She felt compelled to examine the bullet-riddled door, to study the penetrations in the outer layer of the metal entry.

Bullets held no mystery for her. Nor did death. She dealt in death as a CIA sniper in Afghanistan, having inflicted demise upon the enemy on uncounted occasions. There, death did not move the enemy to engage in funerals, at least not the death she delivered. Death in war, death of the enemy, the bodies lay where they fell. She remembered each one she removed from the battlefield, each pull of the trigger. For them, the war was over, but they lay there in the street with no one possessing courage enough to collect them. Their comrades left them lie denying them Janaza, the right of a proper Muslim burial; one that should occur within twenty-four hours according to Sharia Law, leaving the thick odor of decay to languish about like low-hanging fog, beckoning buzzards and wild dogs to feast.

Perhaps they were more wary than fearful. Only the very foolish or the very lucky ventured through her field of fire. Or perhaps they were afraid to honor their dead, or found retrieval of their dead degrading, the fallen having been killed by a woman sharpshooter; a woman with auburn hair. The Red Devil. That was how the enemy referred to her. That was her name. She found that ironic, her being a devout Catholic and a woman of faith.

She tucked her black patent-leather clutch under her arm and removed the glove from her left hand, unaware that it slipped from her grasp to fall to the mud beside the stoop. Driven by some subconscious primal need, she pushed a bare index finger into a bullet hole, seeking the jagged razor-sharp metal inside. For what reason ... she did not know. A bit of pressure, a lancing prick, a trickle of blood—she registered the pain without reaction. Placing her fingertip to her lips she drew the blood from the wound, and as the coppery taste connected her to the violence rained upon her family that day, the guilt returned: the guilt of taking cover, the guilt of being unable to protect them, the guilt of walking away without a scratch.

Guilt: That was the reason.

Pulling the front door closed, she stepped from the stoop. Striding to the waiting limousine she lowered her veil, unmindful of the missing glove.

***

The seats in the back of the limo were soft black leather, and the pleasing scent of the recently detailed interior reminded her of the last time she sat in a new car. The driver wore a dark suit, and his demeanor was solemn in keeping with the occasion. He kept the passenger compartment dark and cool, but checked with her early on to ensure her comfort. No radio played and silence prevailed, and Hanna found herself alone once again, disturbing thoughts her only company.

She would bury her father in a short while, following the funeral services at the small neighborhood church that she attended throughout her life. It was her second burial of a family member in as many years.

Jonas Braver was murdered, same as her sister Molly almost two years ago, and as the limo made the solemn journey to the church cemetery in silence, Hanna replayed the afternoon of the attack once more, reliving her failure. They were her first waking thoughts of the day—her first waking thoughts of every day.

She remembered the Asian import with its high-revving engine and tantara-like exhausts. A ten-second car. That’s what street-racers called them. Screeching tires had her glimpse the souped-up Nissan tricked out in neon paint and chrome wheels as it turned the corner.

She watched the hotrod scream down the neighborhood street as if it were a racetrack, its custom-tuned mufflers blaring a metallic upper register bright and penetrating, loud enough to rival the blast of a dozen trumpets.

The Nissan closed on Hanna’s house as the rear window rolled down. She saw the two men inside; one with a facial scar, the other missing an ear. A moment later flame erupted from the muzzle of some kind of machine gun and time slowed. She heard each staccato burst of the automatic weapon as bullets assaulted the morning calm, each 9-millimeter round that tore through her aunt’s car and the house and the windows, and the sound of glass shattering and the ripping of bullets through metal and wood. Her reflexes and her training had her dive for cover behind her Aunt Aggie’s car, but her father and her aunt did not possess her reflexes. They were caught in the open, and she could only watch their bodies buffet and spasm, struck by round after round.

CHAPTER 2

The limo arrived at the cemetery and the reflections of her recent tragedy faded in deference to the solemn event about to take place. As the driver assisted Hanna out of the car, she thought Saint Clare’s Cemetery had become all too familiar. Unfairly so, as her mother and sister were buried here before their time—her mother more than ten years ago when cancer took her, and her sister Molly, following her murder, less than two.

Father Stallings performed the Mass of the Resurrection, speaking to a gathering of mourners in the little basement church where Hanna studied her Faith and grew as a child of God. The Mass was simple, and beautiful, and well attended, and Hanna worked to force her mind away from hateful ponderings of vengeance and killing while in The Lord’s House. But of late, even that small discipline was a bit much to ask of herself.

When services ended, all moved to the small church cemetery in groups of two, three, or four. Hanna walked with Father Stallings and felt the heels of her patent-leather pumps sink into the rain-softened earth as she strode to her father’s casket. A spontaneous image of the mud that would cling to her shoes passed through her mind and she quickly dismissed it. There was no room for it here.

Standing apart from other mourners, she paid no mind to the light rain that had returned and dripped now and again from the brim of her hat. The pattering of water droplet’s falling against the casket came as impacts from off in the distance, and the rain became as radio static as it fell through leaves still joined with the limbs of the trees.

Leaving a single rose among the rainwater spilling down the polished pewter metal, she said a prayer as she committed her father to his final rest beside his wife and youngest daughter. The drive-by shooting that took her father and sentenced her Aunt Aggie to life as a vegetable was setting her once again on the path that led her to kill Daemon Goode: the man that murdered her sister Molly over a year ago. And when that cop … that, Detective Sosa … the one investigating the gang drive-by told her that they could do nothing about her father’s murder for lack of evidence, she contemplated taking out the gang herself.

The people and places were different, but the results were the same. Her family suffered and the law did nothing; and in Molly’s case, went as far as to release her killer after a bogus trial. So she punished Daemon Goode herself, but she could do nothing about the corrupt judicial system behind his release or the people who arranged it. She didn’t know who they were and had no way of finding out other than through Deputy-Director Cole, her former CIA handler and bane of her existence. She’d rejected Cole’s assistance weeks earlier, burning her bridges after Cole’s CIA clout sprung her from jail and had the charges for the murder of Daemon Goode dismissed citing National Security.

Now she lived to regret that rash decision, and felt her rejection of his offer a bit hasty. And then, there was the insinuation put forth by Detective Sosa.

I doubt your family was the target of the drive-by, he had said. Given their age, I find it highly unlikely they had enemies. So I have to ask if you might have been the target. Is it possible that someone wants to kill you? Ms. Braver?

With the increasing gang activity in the area, Hanna could believe the drive-by an act of random violence … until Sosa implied that she might have been the target. Even so, that he would do nothing about the attack on her family, legally or otherwise, infuriated her. She had taken the law into her own hands to punish Molly’s killer and managed to avoid prison with Cole’s National Security ‘Get-Out-of-Jail-Free card;’ and since the law would do nothing for her father, she easily justified doing the same once more. However, she held no illusion that Cole would step up to the plate for her again, not after she reneged on her agreement to kill for him.

As Father Stallings blessed the grave and delivered the Rite of Committal, Hanna stood back, her veil concealing the random tear tracking down her cheek and the rage seething in her blue eyes. Funeral rites concluded, but the celebration of Jonas Braver’s life continued in the hearts and minds of family and friends: the neighbors who stood in the rain to attend, and the parish faithful who offered their condolences.

Hanna managed polite smiles for those paying their respects, and as the last of them departed for the wake held in the rec room of the basement church, Father Stallings joined her.

Are you doing all right, Hanna? the elderly cleric asked.

As well as can be expected, I suppose. The mass for Daddy was lovely, Father. I want you to know how much I appreciate it, and all of your support through these trying times.

Child, even retired, priests are still shepherds. We still tend to our flocks. Besides, I’ve known your father for many, many years. I feel blessed to have lived long enough to see him return to Our Lord. He was a cantankerous old goat on occasion as you well know, but he was a good man. There is a place waiting for him in God’s Kingdom.

Stallings’s words coaxed a mournful smile from Hanna.

That’s a beautiful headstone, Hanna, Stallings continued. A simple cross on polished granite. Modest. Humble.

Hanna turned to view the stone once more, bearing the anguish it brought.

Jonas Zachery Braver

Beloved Husband & Father

February 17, 1932 – October 8, 2010

The Dash, Hanna murmured.

I’m sorry, Hanna, Stallings said. What did you say?

Turning from the stone, she said, "Oh … I was just remembering a poem I read once, Father. It refers to the dash between the dates on the headstone. I don’t remember all of it, but one stanza went something like:

For that dash represents all the time

that they spent alive on earth,

and now only those who loved them

know what that little line is worth.

The power of words, Stallings said as he placed a hand on her arm, gesturing to something behind her. That man over there…. He nodded before returning his eyes to her. He’s been watching the ceremony with much interest but did not join us. Do you know him?

Hanna turned to look but saw no one. She turned back to the priest. I don’t see anyone, Father.

Stallings looked past her once more. Oh, he’s gone now. How very curious. A well-dressed black man in all this rain. And no overcoat or umbrella. Just a walking stick. How very curious.

Hanna’s mind summoned the image of Cole, the only man she knew of that dressed well and carried a cane. When she did not see him, she became suddenly distant.

Concerned with her abrupt lethargic turn, he said, Why don’t we retire to the rectory before we attend the wake ceremony in the hall. You seem anxious over something. Let’s have a coffee to ward off the chill. Then we can talk if you like.

Hanna nodded and walked with the priest to the rectory. She sat in the same large blue-fabric chair as when she was there last to confess a sin she had yet to committed. At the time, she had asked permission to punish the man that murdered her sister, Molly. Father Stallings did not, could not, grant permission to murder, and with that, Hanna turned her back on God for the first time in her life.

Stallings strode to the nearby kitchenette and checked a tarnished old percolator on the counter. The volunteer housekeeper, a woman of fifty-some years with a beautiful Irish brogue said, Sure, I just made that pot, Father, as she dried her hands on her yellow-and-white striped apron. She folded a kitchen towel lengthwise into thirds and placed it over the gooseneck faucet to dry, smiled, and went about her chores.

Thank you, Mrs. O’Brian, Stallings called to her as he carried the old percolator over, and then fetched a pair of cups and saucers.

I’m pretty good at listening as you well know, Stallings said to Hanna, tipping the percolator’s spout to fill a timeworn coffee cup; its Biblical passage of faded blue script all but unreadable now.

Hanna watched the steam rise from the ancient china, noticing small chips here and there along the lip of the cup, seeing them as symbolic of the hardship and suffering followers of Jesus Christ had endured throughout the centuries. She lifted the cup to her lips and blew across the top of the liquid to cool it. She took a sip, engaging a sharp edge on the lip to remind herself of her renewed duty to God. Setting the cup in its mismatched saucer, she folded her hands in her lap and turned to her childhood priest.

Father, I’ve been having a disturbing dream….

CHAPTER 3

The Crime Beat column in The Baltimore Sun reported that Jonas Zachery Braver had succumbed to the injuries that he had sustained during a random act of violence. The column was light on details, and did not give specifics for obvious reasons, but it did go on to say that the police had no suspects in custody.

Jonas Bravers’s obituary spoke of his deeds as a loving husband and father, a Marine veteran of Korea, a respected member of the community, his Catholic Faith, and altruistic pursuits after his retirement. It mentioned that he was survived by a sister, Agatha, also injured in the event, and his only living daughter, Hanna, who had survived the violent episode and escaped injury. It went on to say that he was laid to rest beside his wife and second daughter at Saint Clare’s Cemetery in Chase Maryland, and that in lieu of flowers, donations to Saint Clare’s Catholic Church would be appreciated.

The obituary intentionally omitted the phrasing ‘drive-by shooting’ or the word ‘gang,’ in an effort to ensure the safety of what family remained, and to preserve the dignity of the deceased.

As he walked, the Maryland State Attorney for Prince George’s County loosened his tie and read the obit a second time, scrutinizing the column to ensure he did not misinterpret the information.

Rolling the newspaper into a cylinder, deep in thought, he began thumping it against his thigh as he ambled along the walking path circling Schoolhouse Pond: a scenic twelve-acre conservation area that served the surrounding town of Upper Marlboro, Maryland. Just a stone’s throw from his office in the county administration building, it offered fishing, hiking, and canoeing activities for the locals, and the wooden picnic tables made it a favorite lunch-hour spot for county employees, weather permitting. But at this time of day, near sunset, it provided total privacy, and Hank Kennedy walked alone on the boardwalk style footpath pondering this unexpected, and unwelcomed, complication.

Hanna Braver was still alive.

According to her father’s obit, she had escaped the contract hit he had placed on her with the el Calle street gang (pronounced, el Calay), a brutal Salvadorian ring operating in major cities around the country, several of which were located in Maryland.

Braver tortured his first contractor, Daemon Goode, to death after his bogus acquittal for killing her sister Molly, but what concerned Kennedy was that Daemon could have revealed his involvement in Molly’s killing while under duress. If that were the case, Braver would surely come for him next. With her being CIA, that was a given.

Molly had refused to abort her baby, the illegitimate child he had fathered, and threatened to make her pregnancy public. So he did what he had done previously on two separate occasions without consequence. He had her killed.

Her pregnancy was a career ender for him, especially in light of recent polls that placed him well ahead of his opponent in the race for Maryland State Governor by nearly twenty-three percentage points. If her illegitimate pregnancy became public knowledge, his political enemies would make hay with such information and ruin him. Now he discovered that the second contract he placed on Hanna Braver had failed; a contract he felt obliged to place when the CIA wrested her from a prison sentence for murdering Daemon Goode. He could have reached her in prison, but now….

He paused at the far end of Schoolhouse Pond, removed an unused burner cellphone from his jacket and dialed a number from memory.

CHAPTER 4

Aero Acres was an older working-class community in the Middle River area of the Baltimore suburbs. Built when the United States entered World War II, it consisted mainly of inexpensive housing constructed along streets bearing names such as Compass Road, Glider Avenue, and Fuselage Drive. The Glen L. Martin aircraft manufacturing plant in Middle River had developed the neighborhood to support the families that supported the war effort—the Rosies of riveter fame.

After the war the men returned home and the families stayed. The Martin Corporation flourished as a defense contractor building warplanes and the community grew throughout the fifties. Neighborhoods sprang up—schools, services, and small businesses came to be. As the years passed, the community underwent the changes that older communities usually do. New housing intermixed with the old; houses refurbished or renovated or torn down completely.

Then there were those older homes that had no renovation, were abandoned, and simply deteriorated. The owners let them go for a song, unloading them for the value of the land. That’s how el Calle came by their headquarters. The real estate agent they contracted to