Tears of Redemption

By Anthony McBride

"Tears of Redemption" follows Mercer, a man who sets out to avenge the murder of his mentor, Lucas, who took him in after his parents were killed by street gang.  Mercer travels across the Western frontier to kill Elias, leader of the gang who killed Lucas, only to mistakenly kill Elias' son who has the same name and likeness as Elias.  Mercer thinks that revenge has been earned only to discover that the stakes have only exploded as Elias amasses an even bigger gang to go after Mercer, his love interest Olivia and the very town he tried to protect.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anthony McBride
• Release date: Apr 13, 2025
• ISBN: 9798230368601

Anthony McBride

A former U.S. Army Intelligence Officer who transitioned to the creative heart of Los Angeles in 2012. With a certificate in Entertainment Studies from UCLA and ongoing screenwriting studies, I have penned multiple feature scripts that have received Hollywood and international recognition.

Book preview

INTRODUCTION

During a time when the animals were wild and the men were even wilder, heroes were born.  They weren’t always the clean-cut, well-mannered men in the movies who wore all  white, they were forged by the fire and fought the great fights that most others would cower from and run away.

Tears of Redemption is the story of a new type of hero--the antihero.

The story is a journey through a place where Ol’ Gold meets the New School. Where old values fought in a battle against modern technology. The great battles of between good and evil were often and the casualties were plenty. Much blood was spilled and many tears fell--tears of redemption.

CHAPTER ONE

Scene 1

A rust-colored sun sank low on the horizon, its orange glow bleeding into a restless sky where towering cumulus clouds gathered like silent sentinels. Dust swirled in the dry spring air, kicked up by a restless wind that whispered of change across the endless stretch of nowhere. Somewhere near the turn of the 20th century, the Wild West teetered on the edge of a new era—new technology clashed with old-school values, and the shadow of Corporate America loomed, ready to swallow the Great American Hero, the Lone Ranger, whole. This land, raw and untamed, bore witness to another tale of how the West was won, etched in blood and grit under the fading light of dusk.

A narrator’s voice rolled in, deep and weathered, like the creak of a saddle worn by years on the trail. This is the story of how heroes were made in a time when things were wild in the west, he intoned, his words carrying the weight of a campfire tale spun under a star-strewn sky. The story of how the Wild West died. This here is the story of a boy who became a man; the story of an ordinary guy who became a hero—even though he didn’t want to…

Silhouettes of horses sliced through the shimmering sunset, their powerful forms pounding the earth in a relentless gallop. A gang of marauders rode atop them, their figures dark against the fiery sky. Stubborn lines carved their weathered faces, and meanness glinted in their narrowed eyes, focused like hawks on a lone house squatting innocently in the middle of a barren plot. The riders stormed forward, a furious tide of dust and muscle, their coats flapping like vultures’ wings. The air thickened with the promise of violence, the mood tightening like a noose. Something brewed in the twilight, something dark and unstoppable, and it wouldn’t end well.

Inside the house, lamplight flickered over the rough-hewn walls of the main room, casting jagged shadows that danced with the smoke curling from cigars and pipes. A group of men huddled around a poker table, their voices a rough symphony of bravado and laughter. They swapped war stories of battles fought in muddy fields, money stories of fortunes lost to bad bets, and wild tales conjured from the depths of their whiskey-soaked imaginations. The table groaned under scattered coins, crumpled bills, and half-empty glasses, the amber liquid catching the light like liquid gold. Their boots scuffed the floorboards, leaving streaks of red dirt, while the sharp tang of tobacco and the yeasty bite of liquor hung heavy in the air.

In a neighboring room, the wives clustered together, their voices a soft murmur beneath the men’s raucous din. Giggles bubbled up as they sipped wine from chipped glasses, their gossip weaving a web of secrets and scandals. Their dresses rustled—faded calico and patched silk—brushing against the worn furniture, the fabric whispering of better days now lost to the frontier’s grind.

Deeper in the house, a cluster of children gathered in a sprawling back room, its walls lined with peeling paint and shadows that stretched long and thin. They huddled in a loose semicircle, their small hands clutching straws as they drew lots to pick the finder for a game of hide-and-seek. Laughter rang out, sharp and bright, as they blindfolded the chosen one—a freckled boy with a gap-toothed grin—then spun him around until he wobbled. Alright. Everyone find your spots, Child 1 called, his voice piping above the chatter. The others scattered like startled rabbits, their footsteps pattering across the creaky floor.

Mercer Woods Jr., a shy twelve-year-old with a mop of dark hair and hands shoved deep in his pockets, lingered at the back. His slight frame blended into the shadows, unnoticed by the others, a ghost among the living. When the scramble began, he slipped away, cheating the rules by ducking into an old cupboard just outside the room. The door creaked as he pulled it shut, the scent of mildew and aged wood wrapping around him like a shroud.

Back in the living room, the revelry swelled. A banjo player plucked a lively tune, his fingers dancing over the strings, while a singer’s gravelly voice wove through the crowd, drawing cheers and stomps. The partygoers swayed, caught in the night’s fleeting joy, until—

BOOOOM! The front door exploded inward, splintering wood and shattering the song mid-note. Marauders charged in, guns blazing, their boots thundering across the threshold. The leader, Black, strode forward, a hulking figure in his sixties with a face uglier than sin—pockmarked and twisted, framed by a mane of greasy gray hair. His men fanned out behind him, their grins sharp as knives, their eyes glinting with malice under the brims of sweat-stained hats.

The music died. Silence clamped down on the room like a vice. Good evenin’ ladies and gentlemen, Black drawled, his voice a low growl that rumbled through the stillness. My name’s Black, however my enemies call me Satan and so do my friends. His men snickered, a sound like the hiss of snakes.

Looks like someone here is in a lil’ bit o’ trouble over a lotta money, he continued, his gaze sweeping the room like a predator sizing up its prey. One of the men at the poker table, Mercer Woods Sr., rose to his feet. In his thirties, he carried the lean strength of a farmer, his hands rough from years of coaxing wheat from stubborn soil. His jaw tightened, defiance flashing in his hazel eyes. Now, lookey here. Nobody owes you— he began, but Black cut him off, his voice rising like a thunderclap.

You owe me whatever the hell I say you owe me to keep my guys from killin’ ev’ry last one of you in this damn house! Black roared, his spittle flecking the air. Mercer Sr.’s face hardened. The wheat I sell don’t make enough— he tried, but Black sneered, leaning closer, his breath reeking of rot and cheap whiskey. I ain’t talkin’ about no wheat, I’m talkin’ ‘bout ‘dat speakeasy you runnin’ in here.

Mercer Sr. fell silent, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. Look, sir. I ain’t takin’ no part in any dope or booze smugglin’ operation, he said, his voice steady but strained. Black’s eyes narrowed to slits. I don’t remember askin’ you for ya’ opinion, he snapped.

At the table, another man—broad-shouldered and grizzled—shifted slow and careful, his hand inching toward a pistol hidden beneath the scarred wood. Mercer Sr. raised his voice, a desperate edge cutting through. Ain’t go’n to be no profiteerin’ in this house.

In the back room, the children emerged from their hiding spots, shaken by the distant boom. They clustered together, whispering, their wide eyes darting toward the door. Hey, where’s the quiet kid? Child 1 asked, scanning the shadows. No sign of Mercer.

The argument in the main room ignited. I ‘on’t wanna hurt nobody up in here tonight, Mr. Woods, Black said, his tone mockingly smooth, given that you gotta lotta ladies and chil’ren runnin’ ‘round here. He paused, then added, We takin’ what’s ours… Before he finished, the man at the table yanked the pistol free. POW. A shot rang out, but a marauder’s bullet found him first, sending him sprawling across the table in a spray of blood and splintered cards.

Mercer Sr. trembled, his voice faltering. Hey… hey, now, he stuttered. Black surveyed the room, silence stretching taut as a bowstring. The men at the table sat stunned, their faces pale. Black motioned to his crew. Kill e’rything that moves, he ordered. Guns flashed, and the room erupted. POW. POW. POW. POW. Bodies flew, crashing into the table as bullets tore through flesh and bone. The marauders finished them off with ruthless precision, then swept into the neighboring room.

Screams pierced the air as the women fell. POW. POW. POW. Blood splattered the walls, painting crimson arcs across faded wallpaper. The marauders moved swift and silent, their boots leaving red smears on the floor. In the back room, the children clung to each other, trembling in the center as the killers stormed in. Darkness swallowed the scene. POW. POW. POW. Small bodies crumpled to the ground.

Inside the cupboard, Mercer froze, his breath shallow as gunshots echoed through the house. A slim beam of light sliced through a crack, grazing his pale, terrified face. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat in the stillness that followed.

The marauders paused in the back room, their shadows looming over the carnage. Black stepped in, his boots crunching on broken glass. We’re do here. Mount up, he barked. His men filed out, leaving death in their wake. Black lingered, his cold gaze sweeping the room, then turned and vanished into the night. Stillness settled, heavy and suffocating.

In the cupboard, Mercer sat motionless, alone in the dark. Fear pinned him in place, his small hands trembling. Slowly, gently, he closed his eyes, shutting out the horror beyond the thin wooden door.

Scene 2

Days later, death clung to the house like a shroud. Inside, bodies from the massacre sprawled across the floors, lifeless and stiff, their skin graying under the relentless hum of flies that swarmed the stagnant air. The buzzing gnawed at the silence, a ceaseless, grating chorus that filled the once-lively abode. Sunlight sliced through the grimy windows, its golden rays barging in uninvited, illuminating the carnage in harsh relief. Dust motes danced lazily in the beams, settling on the blood-streaked furniture and the glassy, unseeing eyes of the fallen.

The front door creaked open with a groan, its hinges protesting the intrusion. A silhouette loomed in the threshold, framed by the fiery glow of a sunrise that painted the horizon in streaks of crimson and gold. The figure wore a weathered cowboy hat, its brim casting a shadow over a face etched with years of hard living. Spurs jangled faintly on scuffed boots, and a gun rested heavy in a holster slung low at the hip. Lucas Ellison stepped inside, a man in his sixties with a beard and mustache streaked with gray, the lines on his weathered face deepening as he surveyed the scene. His boots thudded against the floorboards, each step deliberate, as if the weight of what he saw pressed down on his broad shoulders.

He crossed the room, the air thick with the coppery stench of blood and the sour rot of spilled whiskey. His eyes fell on Mercer Woods Sr., slumped over the poker table, his lifeless form tangled with his buddies in a tableau of ruin. Blood pooled beneath them, sticky and dark, mingling with overturned bottles that glinted dully in the light. Lucas’s jaw tightened, a flicker of regret shadowing his steel-gray gaze. Aw, crap Mercer, he muttered, his voice rough as gravel. I told you to stay away from the booze trade. He stood there a moment, lost in thought, his calloused hand brushing the brim of his hat. Remorse gnawed at him, a quiet ache that settled in his chest. Darn, he whispered to himself, the word barely audible over the flies’ relentless drone.

Lucas moved deeper into the house, his heavy