Antihero (Imperfect Heroes Book 1) Read online

  By C.J. Pinard

  Pinard House Publishing, LLC

  Copyright © 2016 Pinard House Publishing, LLC & C.J. Pinard

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Acknowledgements:

  Cover design by: Kellie Dennis @ Book Cover By Design

  Copyediting by: Amabel Daniels

  Dedication:

  This is for Emma, queen of the brainstorm.

  PROLOGUE

  Eight Years Ago

  He looked left, then right, trying to ensure the coast was clear. The spray paint can in his right hand heated as his sweaty palm struggled to keep a grip on it. The muggy Florida night hung heavy all around him. He knew wearing a hoodie and jeans in July wasn’t smart, yet, he knew he needed to blend into the shadows as easily as possible. He sucked in a breath of humid air and glanced around one more time for assurance. Not seeing anyone, he looked back at his buddies, giving the nod that all was clear. The four of them stepped out of the alley, staying close to the brick wall at the back of the large sports supply mega-store.

  A streetlamp that was supposed to project light and protection to the back of the store had long since burned out, and dumpsters were already overflowing with trash. The stench was overwhelming, but they paid it no mind.

  As his buddy, Ripper, went to work on the padlock of the grated door barring entrance into the store, he shook the spray can and began to tag the back of the building.

  O A B bitches! he wrote in black paint. He stepped back and looked at it, just as Ripper spoke, breaking him out of the admiration of his handiwork.

  “Fuckin’ got it!”

  He looked over to see Ripper punch the air with his fist, his gloved hand matching his black hoodie. His jeans were dirty and torn, and his designer tennis shoes had seen better days.

  He grinned and chucked the spray paint can into the overflowing dumpster. He followed Ripper and the other two inside the store.

  All the lights were off, and the store was eerily quiet. The first things he saw were rows of kayaks up against the entire back wall, their accompanying paddles set neatly in the row holes on each one.

  “Hurry up!” Ripper barked, looking back at him and the other two.

  Peering up, he stared at the signs hanging from the ceiling, indicating the different departments. He could easily see that they were heading toward the firearms and weapons department. His stomach summersaulted in excitement and nervousness.

  The store was dimly lit, but there were a few low lights on throughout, giving them just enough illumination to see around. He turned toward Ripper’s voice and saw they were standing at a glass display case full of every kind of gun and weapon he could want. Handguns, shotguns, rifles, crossbows, buck knives, and bows and arrows were displayed beautifully under the glittering glass.

  “LT, it’s your turn,” Ripper said, piercing him with a challenging brown stare, a crowbar held out in front of him.

  He looked down at the proffered weapon and then back into Ripper’s commanding eyes. Nodding, he took the crowbar and licked his lips before taking a step back, winding the crowbar around like a bat he was ready to hit a homerun with.

  “Stand back,” he said over his shoulder to the other three.

  They took a step back as he swung the crowbar with all his might. An ear-splitting crash filled the quiet store. His elation at breaking the glass on the first try was quickly drowned out by the wailing alarm that followed. A blaring red light accompanied the alarm from out of the gun case, flashing on and off like a police siren.

  The store’s floodlights soon popped on, and another siren began to screech.

  “Oh shit!” Ripper said. “Grab as many as you can and let’s get the fuck outta here!”

  He didn’t need to be told twice. He picked up a smooth black Beretta 9mm and three boxes of bullets. He then shoved the gun into the waistband of his pants and the bullets into the pockets of his hoodie.

  Running with all they had toward the back door, the four of them made it into the alley, the warm humid night hitting them in the face as they ran.

  Police sirens screamed in the distance, causing their adrenaline to pump even harder until they reached the end of the alley.

  “Call you assholes later!” Ripper hollered as the four of them went their separate ways, heading home or wherever they spent their nights.

  He yawned and opened his eyes, blinking against the piercing light of the morning sun streaming in through his partially open curtains. Remembering the night before, his eyes flew open and he immediately reached under his pillow to see if his new Beretta was still there. He sighed in relief when his hand wrapped around the warm metal.

  Pulling it out, he examined the gun more closely than he had last night. Its black body gleamed in the morning sun. He locked the slide to the rear and looked inside. He fiddled with the magazine release until it fell out into his hand and saw it was empty. He glanced over at his chest of drawers, as he remembered putting the boxes of bullets in his underwear drawer.

  Glancing at his bedroom door, he flipped the thin blanket aside and went over to the chest, and then slowly opened the top drawer. Moving his underwear aside, he saw the three boxes of 9mm bullets. He breathed a sigh of relief and smiled. He and Ripper and the other two from the OAB had gotten away with it. He was thrilled to have his very own piece to carry around for protection—and when the need arose, intimidation.

  “Ellis! Get down here!” he heard his mother call.

  He sighed, setting the gun and bullets back into his drawer, covering them up with the undergarments. Pulling on the jeans that were lying in a heap on the floor, he fastened the button and slogged down the stairs.

  His mother was in her waitress uniform, spooning hash browns and eggs onto a plate. A cigarette dangled from the corner of her mouth.

  “You’re going to be late for school,” she barked through a hazy blue cloud of smoke.

  He coughed and resisted the urge to wave the smoke away. He loathed the smell and looked forward to the day he could move out of his mother’s house.

  “I don’t give a shit about school,” he murmured, squeezing ketchup onto his eggs and hash browns.

  He flinched when his mother’s palm made contact with the back of his head. “Boy, you go to school, you graduate, then you can do whatever the hell you want. Until that happens, these are my damn rules. And watch your mouth in my house.”

  She glared at him before crushing the cigarette out into a nearby ashtray.

  He said nothing, just shoveled more food into his mouth, hoping she’d hurry and leave. She headed for the door and opened it. She stepped out into the morning sun, but before closing the door, she pointed a blood-red fingernail at him, her eyes narrowed. “If I get another frickin’ call from the school that you’ve ditched, I’m gonna beat your ass when I get home. You hear me, boy?”

  He sucked in a deep breath and nodded. “Yeah, Ma.”

  “Good.”

  She slammed the door and Ellis flipped her off after it was closed.

  He went to school… barely. He was still hungover from the cheap beer Ripper had manipulated a pretty girl at the corner store to buy for them before they had hit the s
ports supply store last night.

  As he sat at the dining room table staring, at his backpack, which was full of homework he most likely wouldn’t be doing, he grinned in triumph at his conquest from the night before.

  He was in his senior year and wasn’t even sure how he’d made it this far. He had continually given each teacher hell every year, learning at an early age that if he was a holy terror in each classroom, the teacher would pass him onto the next grade just to get rid of him.

  He startled when the door opened and his mother came walking through, dressed in her uniform, just like she had been that morning.

  “Son, how was your day?” she asked.

  He looked at her weary blue eyes and wrinkling tanned skin, almost feeling sorry for her. She’d lived a hard life and he knew that he was all she had. Still, he couldn’t wait to move away from home and be on his own. She pulled her bleached blonde hair out of its ponytail, set her purse down on a worn kitchen chair, and lit a cigarette.

  Sitting at the table with him, she pulled off her rubber shoes and began massaging her feet over the nude-colored pantyhose.

  “It was fine, Ma. I got homework, though.” He pointed to his backpack.

  As she was about to reply, there was a knock on the door to their townhouse.

  “You expectin’ someone?” she asked through the cigarette at the corner of her mouth.

  He shook his head and swallowed hard, trying to think. Ripper hadn’t said he was coming by when they’d parted ways at school, and he wasn’t expecting anyone else. “No.”

  She cautiously went to the door, looking through the peephole. She saw two men in suits and ties. Opening the door a crack but leaving the chain bolted, she glared at the two men. “What the hell you want?”

  The taller of the two, a clean-cut white guy in a tie, produced a police badge. “Are you Mrs. Anderson?”

  She nodded. “Yeah, why?”

  “Is there an Ellis Anderson living at this residence? Your son?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We need to speak to him. Now.”

  Oh, shit, Ellis thought at hearing who was at the door. He considered running up to his room, throwing the gun and bullets out the window, but what good would that do? They’d find them, and they were covered with his prints. Maybe he could rub the prints off? Maybe he could shimmy up a loose board in his room and hide the contraband under a floorboard. Maybe he could hide them in his laundry basket or the trash can in his bathroom. Who wants to search through that stuff?

  Maybe it is too late and I am completely screwed, he panicked.

  His mother briefly closed the door and slid the chain off, opening the door wider and reluctantly inviting the two cops inside. She looked past her decaying porch and down both ways of the street before closing the door, a common habit of most inhabitants of the roughest neighborhood in Orlando.

  “Y’all want something to drink?” his mother asked as she awkwardly indicated for them to sit on one of the two sofas, a couple of pink and blue flowered pieces that looked like the nineties might want them back someday.

  “No, thank you, Mrs. Anderson,” one cop said.

  The taller of the two shook his head and looked at Ellis. “You. Come sit over here.”

  Ellis complied, sitting on the other sofa.

  His mother sat on the sofa next to her son and stared at the men.

  The one who’d spoken first started. “I’m Detective Atcheson, and this is Detective Johnson.” He pointed to his partner, a light-skinned black guy who looked too young to be a cop.

  “What’s this about?” Mrs. Anderson asked.

  Detective Atcheson produced an envelope from the inside of his suit pocket and set it on his lap. He fixed his stare on Ellis. “Where were you last night, son?”

  Ellis swallowed hard, but tried to keep a cool mask over his face. “Out with friends, why?”

  “Are you a member of the Orlando Aryan Boys gang?”

  He feigned innocence and gasped for effect. “No. No way.”

  Without warning, the detective reached over and grabbed his arm, yanking his T-shirt sleeve up to expose Ellis’s shoulder where a tattoo with the letters “OAB” decorated his shoulder.

  His mother gasped. “Ellis John Anderson! How the hell long have you had that?”

  Starting to get angry, he yanked his arm away from the detective and pulled his shirt sleeve down. “I got it on my seventeenth birthday, Ma. Calm down.”

  “Calm down?” she screeched. “Why are you involved in some gang? I raised you better…”

  “With all due respect, Mrs. Anderson, we’re here about something more serious than his affiliation with the OAB. The Jensen Sportsman’s Warehouse was robbed and vandalized last night, and we know the OAB was responsible.”

  Ellis and his mother said nothing, just continued to glare at the detectives.

  When they didn’t respond, the cop cleared his throat and pulled a series of black and white eight by ten sized photographs from the envelope he had set on his lap earlier. Spreading them on the wooden coffee table, he pointed at the surveillance video photos and said, “This is you.”

  It wasn’t a question. The detective’s hard stare demanded an explanation.

  Ellis didn’t say anything, he just stared at the photos, wondering how the hell he was gonna get out of this. He absentmindedly wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans. He was brought out of his thoughts when a smack to the back of his head made his vision go fuzzy.

  “Answer him now, boy!” his mother ground out, her piercing blue stare shooting daggers at him.

  He glanced at her, and then back at the detective. “No, that ain’t me.” He gazed at the photo again, the dark hoodie covering most of his face, only a small part of it was showing. “That could be anyone,” he continued, his confidence growing.

  The detective nodded, thrusting another photo of him with his arm raised, crowbar in hand, winding up to smash the glass. “This isn’t you, either?” The detective was almost mocking him now.

  The hoodie had come back a little in the excitement of swinging the crowbar. Ellis sat back and folded his arms. “Nah, not me.”

  “I see,” the detective said, not bothering to show them the rest of the photos, but instead, putting them back into the envelope. He then pulled a piece of paper out of the breast pocket of his suit jacket. He handed it to Ellis’s mother. “I have a warrant to search the premises.”

  Detective Johnson fixed Ellis with a glare. “Unless you’d like to save us the trouble and just tell us where the weapons and ammo are?”

  Ellis narrowed his eyes at the detectives. “Fuck you.”

  “Ellis!” his mother screeched, standing up and yanking him by the arm. “What the hell is going on here?” She was trembling, her eyes a mixture of fear and desperation.

  The detectives stood up and tossed the search warrant on the coffee table.

  Lifting a shoulder and letting it fall, Detective Atcheson glared at Ellis for his disrespect and then said to his partner while staring at Ellis, “Johnson, you take the kid’s room. I’ll start in the kitchen.”

  Just then, two uniformed police officers walked calmly through the front door. “These two will make sure you stay either outside or in this room while we search,” Detective Johnson said, heading upstairs.

  Not five minutes later, Johnson came down the stairs carrying the gun by its handle in his gloved hand, the boxes of bullets wrapped in a plastic bag. He glared at Ellis, and then poked his head into the kitchen, looking at Atcheson, who was pulling drawers and cabinets open. “Found it. Let’s roll.”

  Atcheson spied the gun and then cut his gaze to Ellis, who was on the sofa with his head in his hands. Briskly walking to him, he grabbed his bicep and yanked him up. “Ellis Anderson, you’re under arrest for robbery and forced entry.”

  Ellis pulled out of his grip and began to struggle. He was going to try to flee out of the back door and run—somewhere—anywhere! He just had to get out of there.

&nbs
p; “Get your fucking hands off me!”

  The two armed police officers ran to the aid of the detective and pinned the boy to the floor, putting handcuffs on behind his back.

  “Get off me!” Ellis screamed again. “Let me go!”

  They stood him up as he continued to struggle futilely.

  “Don’t make me taze you, boy,” said one of the officers, a large guy who looked like he’d been a professional linebacker before he became a cop. His hand was twitching to pull out his Taser and his face was stern and serious.

  They escorted Ellis to the front door, Detective Johnson opening it for them.

  “No, please don’t take my boy, please!” his mother pled, falling to her knees, sobbing.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” Atcheson said, cutting her a sympathetic glance. He walked over and pulled a card from his breast pocket, offering it to her. “Here’s my contact info. Call me tomorrow and I’ll tell you if he’s made bail.”

  She continued to cry, tears streaming down her cheeks, ignoring the detective. He placed the card on the coffee table and the detectives and officers left with Ellis in custody, placing him in the back of a police cruiser.

  “This is your third strike, Mr. Anderson,” the judge said, his wise hazel eyes narrowing on the defendant as he sat in the Orange County, Florida courtroom.

  Ellis simply nodded as his court-appointed attorney leaned over and whispered something in his ear.

  His mother was seated behind them in the galley, clutching her purse and watching in horror as the judge handed down a sentence to her only child.

  The judge cleared his throat and looked at the paper in front of him, his glasses perched on his nose as the arms of his black robe swept across the desk as he read. He lifted his eyes up to Ellis. Removing his glasses, he set the paper down and folded his hands over it. “You know, when you first appeared in front of me last year, I gave you a chance, like I do to all teens. I thought maybe you were on the wrong path and that some community service helping the homeless would open your eyes. But no. Six months later you appeared again in front of me, on yet another robbery charge. Boy, the worst thing you could have ever done is get involved with the Orlando Aryan Boys. The other three are already behind bars, and your leader,” he looked down at his paper, “Justin Silver—or ‘Ripper’, is going to have a hell of a time in prison with the other gang bangers. But you”—he sighed—“I still don’t think you are beyond repair, even though you seem to be on the same path as your father.” He shook his head. “Despite that, your mother has tried her hardest to raise you, but you’ve continued to disappoint her, time after time, haven’t you?”