Dead Man Walking

www.AntonioGarciaBooks.com

The gun shot might as well have been right in Frank’s ear as easily he heard it.

Instinct kicked in and quickly grabbed his own piece and first aid kit, then ran towards where the sound came from, now replaced with the sound of squealing tires.

There was already a crowd in the middle of the street.

Seeing that the immediate danger was gone, Frank hid his gun under the back of his shirt.

Also trained in first aid, he pushed through the crowd saying, “Let me through. Let me take a look.”

As he pushed through the crowd, there was a mixture of shock and sadness on all their faces.

Frank felt like he had been struck by a truck as he cleared the crowd to see his own son laying on the ground.

He threw himself into action, checking for a pulse, and not feeling one, began compressions. He pushed on his son’s chest with one hand while he opened the first aid kit and dumped all the contents on the ground.

He stopped the compressions just long enough to stop the bleeding and went back to trying to keep his son’s heart pumping blood.

Even though the ambulance arrived in under ten minutes, it was too late. His son was gone.

As soon as the ambulance drove off with his son’s body, Frank immediately started asking everyone that was there what had happened.

They told him that it was a drive by shooting and gave him the description of the car. It was all he needed.

“Frank,” one of the officers said when he saw the look in his eyes. “I know you’re angry, but you need to let us handle this.”

Frank wanted to scream but only stood silent.

The police had come to know Frank over the last few years. He volunteered at the local youth club and taught self-defense there.

They also had come to know how vocal he was against the local gangs, doing everything he could to dissuade teenagers from joining their ranks and informing the police whenever he saw suspect activity going on in the neighborhood.

He knew the gangs didn’t like him, but he knew what lines he could and couldn’t cross that would potentially put his own teenage son in danger. Or so he thought.

The gangs knew how close he was with law enforcement and Frank figured the thugs wouldn’t be stupid enough to incur his wrath. He had been wrong, and it had cost him his son.

Once all the questions were asked and the crowd dispersed, Frank remained there, staring at his son’s blood that now stained the road.

All of Frank’s rage almost forced him to hit the streets and make them all pay, but he was also in mourning and decided to let the police find justice for his son. He knew they would do everything in their power to find his son’s killer.

It wasn’t long before the day came when Frank saw a cruiser pull in front of his house and he had a gut feeling it wasn’t with hopeful news.

The officers’ faces confirmed his fears. He could only watch as they slowly made their way to his door.

Frank stood still as they told him that they couldn’t get anyone to come forward and that the case had, for the moment, gone cold.

He let them finish telling him how sorry they were. He watched as they returned to their cruiser and drove off.

The rage in him started to boil over again. Every part of him wanted to tear the city apart to find the men who had killed his son and make them suffer.

It took everything he had to get through the funeral. He wanted to be anywhere but there.

Even after everyone had left, he couldn’t bring himself to leave. All he wanted was to lay down by his son’s grave and die.

Eventually though, he found a way to walk away, though not all of him left that spot.

Over the next few days, he went through the motions of work.

Every time he looked at himself in the mirror, he recognized himself less and less.

Finally, one day he woke up and didn’t go to work.

He turned his phone off and walked down to the basement, feeling like he was in a trance.

As he opened his weapons locker, he felt like he was watching someone else inventory his weapons. He felt like he was in a trance.

He pulled out his arsenal one by one, examined them, and then put them in a duffle bag. He put all the ammo he had in another.

As he walked to the garage to put everything in the trunk, he passed the bathroom, where he saw his own reflection.

His eyes were glazed over and he only saw a shell. His soul had remained at his son’s grave.

Darkness welcomed him as he pulled out of the garage and drove off into the night.


Pulling up to a curb, he took out a pair of binoculars and started watching for the car that was involved in his son’s death.

He knew this warehouse to be a place where the gangs would drop off stolen merchandise to be sold later.

It wasn’t long before he saw the car that had been involved in his son’s death pull in, being greeted by half a dozen armed men.

Frank drove off and found another place to park a few blocks away.

He grabbed his camera and began taking pictures of the building from every angle.

He wanted to go in with guns blazing, but he had to be sure he lived long enough to find out who killed his son and ensure he was dead before he died himself.

After he was done, he found a small hill nearby where he could watch the place from a higher vantage point as he scrolled through the pictures he took.

The car that he was following exited the building.

Frank knelt up high enough to see which direction it went but not be seen himself.

Once it was out of sight, and no one was looking, Frank sprinted to his car and charged off to track it down.

The other car hadn’t gotten far, driving at a casual pace, and as soon as it was in sight, Frank slowed to keep from being seen.

He followed the car until it arrived at a small home.

From a few blocks away, he could see the same man who was driving it before get out, along with three other men, and walk into the house through the front door.

Frank got out of his car and walked in a large circle around the block, taking pictures of the house whenever it was in view.

Back at his car, he flipped through the pictures forming a plan of attack.

He knew there was no real covert way to get into the house, but didn’t see any more men through the windows, so he figured if there were more, they were in the basement.

The trunk didn’t make a sound as he opened it and grabbed a shotgun, two pistols, a knife and a smoke bomb he had collected some years before.

He cloaked himself in a leather trench coat and casually walked up the street.

As he walked in front of the house, he saw that no one was guarding the front door, and no one was visible through the windows.

Seeing his opportunity, he looked both ways up the street and seeing that it was empty, he walked up the front steps.

Instead of kicking down the front door, he crept by one of the windows and peeked inside.

As far as he could tell, it was empty.

He used the knife to jimmy the lock as quietly as he could.

Once the door unlatched, he pulled out one of his guns and entered. He walked with the pistol in one hand and the knife in the other.

He cleared the rooms of the one story house, and then pressed his ears to the basement door.

Through the door, he could hear music and voices.

‘Talk about fish in a barrel,’ he thought as he slowly opened the door.

He walked slowly down the stairs, walking along the edges to limit the creaking.

At the bottom, he pulled out his smoke grenade and took a deep breath before pulling the pin and tossing it along the floor.

He followed it and started shooting before the group of men even knew what was happening.

Avoiding the driver, he shot every armed man as they tried to raise their own weapons.

The driver pulled out a gun, but before he could shoot, Frank shot out his kneecaps. The instant pain caused him to drop his gun.

The whole assault took less than a minute and when it was over, the only two alive were Frank and the driver groaning on the ground.

Frank holstered his gun and stood over the driver holding his knife.

“Who the fuck are you?” the man shouted, half begging for his life.

Frank knelt low to the man and answered, “You killed my son.”

“What? Who?” the man replied.

Wanting to make sure he was the right man, Frank repeated, “You killed my son.”

Still seeing the confusion in the man’s face, he elaborated.

“My son was gunned down by you in your car,” Frank stated.

“That wasn’t me!” the man shouted, seeming happy that he wasn’t the one Frank was looking for.

“It was that car out front,” Frank said. “If you didn’t kill him, who did?”

The man’s expression changed from happy he wasn’t the one Frank was looking for, to one who didn’t want to snitch.

To help him along, Frank stabbed the man in his leg, eliciting a scream of pain.

“Who was it?” Frank shouted, shoving his knife even deeper.

“They call him Baby Nellie,” the man said between tears.

“That’s a dumb ass name!” Frank stated. “What does he look like!”

The man gave him Baby Nellie’s description between sobs and told him he was at that warehouse he had come from.

“Thank you,” Frank said, standing up.

The man, still sobbing, relaxed a little but it didn’t last long, as Frank pulled out his pistol and shot the man twice in the chest.

He patted the dead man down and found the keys to the man’s car.

Over in the corner of the basement, Frank found a small arsenal of weapons.

He quickly grabbed a couple automatic rifles, as many grenades as he could fit into his pockets and walked out of the house.


He was done being cautious. It was time to avenge his son, and he already knew it was a one-way trip.

The warehouse was void of anyone outside when he parked the car facing the main doors.

After ensuring all guns were loaded, he threw the car into drive and threw a heavy rock on the gas pedal.

As the car peeled towards the door, he picked up the first of a row of grenades he had laid in front of him.

Without hesitation, when the car crashed through the front doors, he began pulling the pins from each grenade and threw them into the huge hole the car had created.

He threw them in every direction, one by one until they were all gone. The sound was deafening, and he could barely hear the screams through the explosions.

Exhausting all the grenades, he walked in with a fully automatic AR-15 he had taken from the house and shot anything that moved. When he finished one magazine, he immediately slapped in another.

He never stopped shooting as he walked through the warehouse feeling a little like Robocop.

It wasn’t long before he began taking rounds himself, but they didn’t stop him.

He continued shooting as blood began to pour out of him and when he couldn’t stand any more, he dropped to one knee as he continued firing.

Finally, he ran out of bullets and laid down, feeling his life fading.
There were only three armed men left and they cautiously approached him, ready to shoot if he tried anything.

“Who the fuck are you?” one of the men shouted, keeping his rifle pointed at Frank.

“Are you Baby Nellie?” Frank asked while coughing up blood.

“Baby Nellie?” the man asked confused. “Motherfucker, that’s him over there. At least what’s left of him after one of your grenades blew him up. Now, before I cap your ass, tell me who you are!”

“A dead man walking,” Frank said with a smile as he opened his hand and let one last grenade roll out of his grip with the pin missing.

Frank was already dead when the explosion finished the job.