Skin In The Game: Paragons Of Virtue, #2

By Garry Miller

Canada 2053.  As if being a despised mutant psyker wasn't enough, when Bruce McDonald's model girlfriend is abducted by a gang of slavers, he is forced to don his old Sanctioned Tracker uniform and Bearpaw Blaster. But these aren't just human traffickers – they are The Dark Creed, a death cult whose origins are not from this earth.

What's a human life worth?  And what are people willing to do for money?

Canada 2053.  The justice system is crumbling.  Society is split into the haves, the have nots and the have to have yours. 

Retired manhunter Bruce McDonald hung up his gun and badge to settle down to a normal civilian life of university day job and weekend garden parties.
As if being a despised mutant psyker isn't enough, when his model girlfriend is abducted Bruce is forced to don his old Sanctioned Tracker uniform and Bearpaw Blaster. But these aren't just human traffickers – they are a death cult of unknown origin. At their heart is a sadistic butcher who has a penchant for human skin. 

Bruce – codename Renegade – has 24 hours to use his unique psychic talents to rescue his girlfriend before she is skinned alive… or worse!

DISTURBING. GRAPHIC. ADDICTING.

A thrilling bounty hunter book in the sleazy underbelly of human trafficking, 'Skin In the Game' is the second book in the Paragons Of Virtue series of superhero novels for adults. These are all standalone superhero books and can be enjoyed in any order.  Check out this tense superhero thriller that will keep you at the edge of your seat!

If you like superhero fiction by Al K. Line and Tom Reynolds then you'll devour this.  Scroll up and click the buy button now to discover why readers love The Paragons Of Virtue!

Not recommended for young readers - contains violence and graphic scenes

• Language: English
• Publisher: Garry Miller
• Release date: Aug 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223832881

Book preview

On Fire

"I will neither give a deadly drug to anybody who asked for it, nor will I make a suggestion to this effect. Similarly, I will not give to a woman an abortive remedy. In purity and holiness I will guard my life and my art."

Ottawa, Canada 2053.  Nurse Smith reads the Hippocratic Oath on the wall mural as she waits in the corridor.  Outside, blinking perimeter lights pulse through the darkness and floodlights illuminate the rooftop. The Ottawa Hospital Trauma Team dash up the ramp to meet the air ambulance touching down on the landing pad.  The whining rotors are deafening and the cold downdraft buffets the medics as they rush to the helicopter.  They carefully unload the patient, who is hastily gurneyed off the chopper and down into the much quieter Emergency Department.

Nurse Smith tries not to stare at the trauma victim.  They are wrapped from head to toe in bloodstained bandages and the chief medic is appalled.

Who the hell wraps a burn victim in cotton bandages?

His trauma team know they have precious few minutes to stabilise the patient.

The unfortunate's eyes are fixated and staring, an oxygen tube already up their nose.  Their feet and hands look like bloody stumps.  A lady Doctor takes over and two nurses hurriedly wheel the patient into the ward and into the intensive care cubicle and scan vital signs.  The weak and rapid beep of the patient's elevated pulse speaks volumes.

Nurse Tremblay tells Nurse Smith, Two Paramedics couldn’t keep their lunch down.

The lady Doctor glares in disapproval, and then leans close to the patient, Can you tell me your name?

The bloodshot eyes just stare at the ceiling, unblinking. Every few seconds the victim gasps a deep, wounded moan.  Blood has clotted around their lips, the only part of the face that juts through the bandages.

Do you know where you are?

The patient's eyes dart to the right and look directly at a tablet computer sitting on the bedside cabinet.  The doctor makes the connection.

Nurse Smith - give the patient the tablet.

The bandaged hands shake as they clumsily grasp the slim computer.  

Careful honey.

A blood red smear glistens across the glass as the finger joint struggles to move from letter to letter.

The room is a sterile area and everyone has to follow strict procedure.  Preventing the patient's ravaged body from drying out helps prevent contractures of the skin and ultimately minimises scarring.  Keeping the patient hydrated is very important since extensive loss of skin can cause hypovolemic shock. Nutrition is necessary for healing, so intravenous tube feedings for severely injured patients start at once.

The nurses scurry to prepare the autogenesis tank - a cylindrical chamber into which a patient is submerged for accelerated healing and treating major injuries.

The patient grunts with the effort of lifting their arm.  They continue to type with a bloody bandaged stump.  Every so often their head jerks and lolls.

The paramedics left enough space around the patient's mouth to allow feeding tubes and hydration.  As Nurse Smith administers vital fluids, she visibly jolts when she looks into the victim's mouth.  

Oh my... goodness!  What happened to your tongue!?

And the first sentence of their hideous story makes the Doctor put her hand to her mouth and gasp...

Oh Pretty Woman

University lecturer Bruce McDonald is doing his best to act normal in a world where your looks and dress code determine your worth.  Difficult when you’re a six foot bald mutant.  Fortunately the audience are all facing forward.  He's sitting in front row VIP seats inches away from impossibly perfect legs and swishing high fashion.  He fidgets with the Invitation to the Toronto Fashion Show - a glossy black card with embossed silver script made out to Miss Tyra Forthington. Squirming in his chair, he strives to live up to his role as ‘significant other’ while Tyra watches her fellow catwalk models parade the latest fashions.

Loud dance music by some teenage heart throb assaults his ears.   Brilliant spotlights and strategic strobes help the crowd worship at the feet of post-pubescent supermodels.  Seldom glancing up, he can't help but compare these young women - though some of them look like emaciated schoolgirls - to the beauty he's fortunate enough to be dating.

Tyra Forthington is twenty nine years old with long straight black hair and piercing hazel eyes you could just dive into and sink forever.  She might be nine years younger than Bruce, but she's already reached her shelf life for this fickle industry.  So it's nice to see her back in the world she knows so well and watch her light up with like a Christmas tree. She's drinking it all in and nodding in time to the dance track.

Tyra's shipping magnate father Peter Forthington paid for everything [as usual] as an early birthday present, and she gets to bring the guest.   Forthington is a shady individual with questionable ethics who uses his fortune to buy affection and favour.  But Bruce managed to make Tyra’s birthday for once and he does his best to fit in with the normal.  Perhaps in a world of skinny freaks a bald psyker can blend into the background.

And what a world it is.  Where the size of your waist and the genetics you have no control over decide how much money you'll make and the length of your career.  Where corporate suits take one look at a woman's bust and seal her fate with a yes or a no.  Where beauty, bling and sex are more valued than philosophy, academia and virtue.  Nothing much has changed since the Roman Empire.

Then he gets a familiar sensation in his head.  Call it sixth sense, him being psychic or just a hunch, but Bruce keeps looking at the back row of seats behind them.  He can't shake the inkling that someone's watching him.  Or them...

Another slender waif parades past him with a price tag displayed on her evening gown and it grabs his attention.  He's startled when he sees the cost.

That last dress cost more than I make in a month!  Back in the day, one decent job and I could have bought the entire line.

But he's trying to put that behind him now, for Tyra's sake, and to save his relationship.

Tyra grew up in a privileged family bubble.  She's lived a charmed, playful life with little responsibility. Even at twenty nine she hasn't grown up yet, but at least she's thinking about it.   She likes to let others take the lead, so she can avoid taking responsibility.  Let others worry about stuff.  That’s why she still lives with her parents in their twelve bedroom mansion. But Bruce has tried to wake her up and get more streetwise.

There are dangerous places with bad people babe, he'd told her, and he saw from her expression she believed him.  Then as usual she changed the subject.  But Bruce had seen his fair share of manslaughter, rape and slavery.  Places where human rights were non-existent.  Where girls like this wouldn’t last two minutes.

Walking hand in hand out of the show, Bruce is feeling amorous. She smells incredible as he leans in to kiss her neck, but she pulls away.  She's embarrassed by his affection when she's surrounded by her peer group.  OK, he gets that.

She struts over to the clothing line display, and he can't stop admiring her ass.  All those hours in the gym have honed her already generous flanks, in that way that only gym training can do.

Best booty in this place, he whispers as he approaches her from behind.

She fusses over garments as she tells him coyly, Patience Bruce, not yet. I'm saving myself for you, you know that.  Wait till the time is right.  She squeezes his hand in reassurance.

Tyra is looking at high fashion jackets and comes across a suit made from what almost looks like...

Is this made from human skin?

Complete with blemishes and wrinkles, he can almost make out humanoid features.  The varying hides have been stitched together in a patchwork pattern.  Bruce reaches out to touch it and finds it soft and smooth as if it's the real thing.

Jesus! Really? I've heard of fake fur, but fake skin now?

Then she finds a vintage leather jacket she coos over.  Bruce takes mental note of the jacket she loved, waits till she's moved onto the next bit of bling, and photographs her favourite.

Show over, Bruce plays the loyal boyfriend and walks arm in arm with his beau and escorts her to his car.  He asked the valet to park it right at the back of the lot.  Reliable and safe it may be, but it's embarrassingly plain compared to the supercars and private limos that fill the parking lot.  

If I want to play the part of humble Biochemistry lecturer, then I have to fit in.

Biochemistry seemed a natural subject to master as it helped him get to grips with his own ‘condition’. So he holds her door open as she elegantly slides inside, then closes it and walks round the car to the driver's side.

Then there’s that sensation again - and sure enough, he locks eyes with two men who are loitering across the street.  They step back into the evening shadows, and Bruce chooses to let it go and drive Tyra home.

He wonders what the 'old him' would have done?  

Nah, scratch that.  I know exactly what the ‘old me’ would have done.

Can’t Stop Lovin’ You

The next morning Bruce wakes up in his basic apartment in Toronto. Its sparse and mostly in darkness, but it serves as Basecamp for now.  Not quite a man cave, but it's spartan and functional.  As he swings his legs out of bed, he smiles groggily at the photograph of Tyra on the shelf.  Amazing that a schlep like him can land a stunner like Tyra.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, he says to whatever deity or omniscience is responsible.  Maybe she'll be the one thing that lets him turn the corner and live like a normal person.

Then he recalls the loitering scoundrels that were shadowing them last night.  His hands clench and he frowns. Could've been over obsessive fans, could've been something more.  Years spent looking over his shoulder and trusting no one have left him cynical and suspicious.  

Mutants like Bruce would be safe enough - no one wants a mutie as a slave.  They're damaged goods and fetch a much lower price. There are still parts of the world that allow or condone human trafficking, even in 2053.  However there are certain authorities that will hunt down people who engage in this trade. As each country is free to make its own rules, there are loads of places where such activities go unhindered.  Fortunately Canada changed its laws when DELTA took over thirteen years ago and his ex-colleagues are more than capable of taking out the trash.

Need to loosen up if I’m going to build a new life as the dutiful husband.

There's a chess board on the one table he owns, and when he gets up and walks past it he notices a pawn has moved slightly. Probably bumped it walking by last night.

He locks his eyes on the small piece of shaped glass, takes a deep breath, and lets the rest of the world fade into a blur.   He imagines a finger of force reaching out to move it and he hears the faint buzzing in the back of his skull.  There’s pressure on his forehead equal to the pressure needed to move a small glass chess piece a centimetre. It slides neatly into place in the centre of the square.

He's already got a tissue ready to catch the drip.  Every time he uses his mental abilities, he suffers a thin trickle of blood oozing from his nose.  The more effort he exerts, the worse the bleed.  Rupture of the capillaries inside the nasal membranes because of intense psychic effort.

The nosebleeds started in adolescence.  And when he joined The Sanctioned Trackers, he met other psykers.  Are the psychics straining so hard that they raise their blood pressure high enough to burst arteries in their nose? If high blood pressure were the reason for the bloody noses, we’d have psychics and telepaths dropping like flies from strokes and heart attacks. And are they straining any harder than the more physical heroes who are lifting houses and bench pressing Buicks? You never see those heroes with bloody noses.

Turns out that part of the process of using psychic powers requires increasing the