BREAKING POINT (Anonymous Justice Book 1) by Craven Jr. Boyd & Craven III Boyd

Author:Craven Jr., Boyd & Craven III, Boyd
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Boyd Craven
Published: 2015-12-17T05:00:00+00:00

I’ve been at the hospital for two days, probably a day longer than I needed to, but the doctor has been trying to keep me as safe as he can. The ADA has indicated in a press conference that me walking out with a gun on my hip was being seen as an inciting action. My argument with the protestors had been unnecessary, and that my words on camera spewed anti-Muslim hate speech.

I’m floored and sickened. I’ve always thought of myself as a pretty decent guy. I don’t hate anybody because of their race or religion. I never considered that telling that man to “fuck off and fuck Muhammad” would be looked at as hate speech, and get me labeled as a racist. How can merely walking out in public with my gun visibly strapped to my waist be an inciting action? The ADA is arguing that I have my CCW/CPL, yet choose to open carry. Yeah bubba, you can’t conceal a big gun like that Raging Judge without some serious work, and with the city turning to shit, I wanted the extra firepower available.

That’s why when Mike shows up to spring me from the hospital, I’m more than ready to go. He’d flat out refused to be interviewed and has had to close the store for a day, for crime scene investigators and police to go through everything and talk to the staff. My doctor has made them wait to talk to me, but I had to promise to go to the station as soon as I’m discharged.

“You ready to go, Will?” Mike asks, when the doctor finally lets him in.

“Yeah, but uh… did you bring any clothes?” I ask.

I’d been able to get a nurse to get a message to him, because my clothing and phone were taken by the police as evidence. Hell, they even took my gun, and I feel naked without it.

“Didn’t know your size, so I got you some sweats.”

“That works. Shoes?”

He pulls out a pair of boots and thick athletic socks from a bag and places everything on the end of the bed.

“Do you need a hand?”

I shake my head. “Naw, I’m mostly just banged up. Light concussion is why they kept me so long,” I lie.

“Is that what made you pass out?” Mike asks, as I take the hospital gown off over my head and pull the sweater on.

“No, the doctor thinks it was shock mostly.”

“So it has nothing to do with the fact you had, like, seven people stomping the shit out of your head… Yeah… Sure.”

“I didn’t know it was seven,” I say, finishing getting dressed. “I just…”

“I know man, I know,” he said, putting a hand on my shoulder.

“How bad is this going to be?”

“Do you have a lawyer?” he asks and, for the hundredth time since the shooting, fear - real fear - shoots through my veins.

“No. I’m kinda a paycheck to paycheck kinda guy.”

“You make enough to live large, yet you drive a shitty Toyota and have a tiny apartment.

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