Night Man
Night Man
Brett Battles
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Thank you for reading Night Man
About the Author
Also by Brett Battles
Brett Battles
Night Man Copyright © 2019 by Brett Battles Cover art copyright © 2019 by Robert Browne All rights reserved.
Night Man is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
For more information about the author, please visit www.brettbattles.com.
Created with Vellum
Chapter One
Here they come.
They’re in a gray Honda Accord. It’s not the same car they used last time, but it’s the kind of vehicle they favor. Ubiquitous, bland, and very blend-into-the-scenery-esque. I’m watching it on the feed from the camera I’ve set up to cover the street.
I’ve been waiting for over two hours, in case they showed up early. They haven’t. Like clockwork, they’re right on time.
I click the button on my laptop that shrinks the feed into one of four squares. In the other three squares are views from my other cameras—one inside the store, one outside covering the storefront, and one focused on the back alley. On the inside view, I can see the owner, Mr. Park, sitting on his stool and ringing up a customer while keeping one eye on his TV. I’m not familiar with Korean TV shows so I don’t know what he’s watching. Appears to be some kind of period drama.
There are two other customers, a pair of teenage girls hunting for drinks in the coolers at the back. I will them to hurry up. Not that I’m expecting problems, but the fewer people around, the better.
As expected, the Accord turns into the alley.
It’s taken me nearly two weeks to figure out their pattern. I thought I’d had it worked out twice before, but both times they failed to show up. After going back over everything I knew, I realized where I’d made my mistakes. Their arrival today is the validation of that correction.
As the vehicle slows, my gaze moves to the feed showing the front of the store. The camera is across the street, giving me a wide shot that spans several units on either side of Park’s Mini-Mart. Entering the frame on the right is the guy I’ve come to call Waste of Life No. 1. He’s Caucasian, skinny, about five foot seven, with close-cropped brown hair and ears that lie flat against his head. Today, he’s dressed in slacks, a dress shirt, and a jacket. No tie, but he doesn’t need it. The outfit is enough to make him appear disarming.
WOL1 walks down the sidewalk, talking on his phone. I don’t need a camera inside the Accord to know he’s speaking with someone in the vehicle. His expression is jovial, as if he’s talking to a friend about plans for the evening.
He pauses before he reaches the mini-mart, like the conversation needs his full attention. On the alley cam, the Accord stops behind Mr. Park’s place. Three WOL passengers get out. Only the driver remains inside. Today they’re wearing clown masks, which seems fitting.
If everything were to play out like the gang’s previous jobs, WOL1 would enter the mini-mart, sneak into the back to unlock the rear door, then return to the front and nonchalantly shove a rubber doorstop under the front door to keep it from opening. At about the same time as this last bit, his buddies would slip in through the back entrance. After that, he and his asshole friends would take all the money from Mr. Park’s cash register and make him open the safe.
Though they don’t know it, things are going to play out a little differently today.
I check inside the store. The two girls are still trying to decide what they want, which means they won’t be leaving in time and I will need to be extra careful.
I close my computer and open the door.
I’ve been hiding inside an empty store two units away from the mini-mart. It’s a considerably more pleasant stakeout location than the Dumpster I used on one of my failed attempts.
When I step into the alley, I’m about a car’s length behind the Accord, right in the sight line of the trio moving toward Mr. Park’s door.
“Afternoon,” I say, as I move my hands behind my back. “Nice masks.”
I’m wearing one, too, only mine’s a black ski mask with holes for my eyes and mouth.
This confuses them. One of them starts to say something, but before he can get a whole word out, I whip my hands in front of me and pull the triggers of the two Taser guns I’m holding. Sets of wires fly, hitting two of the three men and dropping them to the ground, where they writhe like frying bacon.
These Tasers of mine aren’t your off-the-shelf, everyday kind of electroshock weapons. They’re specially made and have detachable cartridges connected to the wires that keep the charge flowing. I drop one of the guns, pop the cartridge out of the other one, and replace it with a new wire set.
By the time I’m through, the third guy has realized things are going sideways and is running away from me, but he hasn’t gone far enough. The needle-like pins hit him in the back and he crashes to the asphalt.
From my first shot to my last, fewer than five seconds have passed. Just enough time for the driver to panic. Before he can put the car into drive, I yank open the rear passenger door and toss in a smoke bomb. As I shut the door, he punches the gas and makes it maybe fifty feet before the bomb goes off. The device is designed to fill a good-sized room with smoke. In the Accord, the smoke is thick and opaque.
The driver is smart enough to slam on the brakes before he hits anything, but now he’s faced with one of those damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-don’t situations. He can stay in the car and hope he doesn’t choke to death, or he can get out where he’ll have to deal with me.
He chooses option two, probably the smarter decision. But I’m sure that’s not what he’s thinking when I hit him with the Taser darts the second he steps out.
I return to the other three clowns. The battery charges on the wires connected to the first two guys have run out, and both men are starting to stir. Taking them in order of growing coherence, I apply a sleeper hold to each, cutting off oxygen long enough to make them unconscious. I then do the same to the third man and the driver.
After zip-tying each man’s wrists and ankles, I head over to the back door to Park’s Mini-Mart. It’s unlocked, WOL1 having done his job. Before I enter, I check that my ski mask is still covering my face. In addition to the camera I sneaked inside his store, Mr. Park has his own surveillance
system and I’d rather keep my face off the evening news.
I load a new cartridge into my Taser and ease open the door.
The entrance leads past the storeroom and down the side of one of the refrigerated cases. I can see only a small slice of the store, mainly the shelves along one wall and a little bit of the floor, but no one is standing there.
In the security tapes of the other robberies, WOL1 usually stays by the front door, where he acts like a victim when his friends come storming in demanding the cash. He even forks over his wallet.
I’m guessing right now, he’s wondering where the hell his friends are and growing nervous. Which means he’s bound to be looking at the end of the refrigerated cabinets, waiting for them to appear.
I walk fast and confidently into the store. WOL1 is right where I thought he would be. His brow furrows when he sees me, probably wondering why one of his crew is wearing a ski mask instead of the clown ones.
Mr. Park, on the other hand, jumps off his stool and reaches under his desk for what I’m sure is a weapon.
I raise my gun and aim it at WOL1, which has the added benefit of freezing Mr. Park.
WOL1 apparently decides that though my mask is wrong, the plan is proceeding. He raises his hands and says, “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! You-you can have my wallet.”
Ugh. That kind of performance is never going to get him an Academy Award nomination. There’s only one thing it deserves.
I shoot.
If he was perplexed before, the twin wires flying at him seem beyond his ability to compute. He stares at them as they sail across the room into his chest.
Screams come from my right, where the two teenage girls are standing, arms wrapped around each other.
I pop the cartridge off so that it will continue to deliver its charge, and point my now empty gun at Mr. Park.
“Please put your hands on the counter,” I say.
He does as I request.
“If you want money, take it and get out of here,” he tells me.
“I don’t want your money.” I wave the gun toward WOL1. “He wanted your money. Him and his friends out back.”
The confusion bug claims another victim in Mr. Park.
“Come around the counter,” I tell him.
He does.
“Go stand with the girls.”
Mr. Park remains where he is, while the girls whimper in fear.
“Look, I’m not going to hurt anyone. I promise.”
Once Mr. Park complies, I give WOL1 the sleep treatment and tie him up.
I retrieve the spent cartridge and wires, and detach the micro camera I hid on a wall support near the front door—can’t go leaving any evidence around, after all. I walk over to where I can see the store owner and his two unfortunate customers, this time with my gun at my side.
“Call the police,” I say. “Tell them you’ve caught those men who have been robbing convenience stores.”
Mr. Park blinks in surprise. “You-you mean, the Masked Raiders?”
It’s a terrible name given to the Waste of Life Gang by a local TV news reporter. A kind of play on masqueraders, I guess. I’m sure it sounded good in the reporter’s head. The Raiders have been hitting up convenience stores on a regular basis. They didn’t catch my attention, though, until they pistol-whipped a kid manning his mother’s store three weeks ago. Technically it wasn’t my attention they caught, but that’s not important.
I nod. “The other four are in the alley.”
The man is silent as he lets this sink in, then asks, “What about you? What do I tell them?”
“I’d prefer if you don’t say anything.” I nod up at his camera. “But I’m sure they’re going to want to see your tape.”
From the look on Mr. Park’s face, I know he now believes I’m not a threat. “I…could tell them it doesn’t work.”
I’m not often surprised, but his offer is worth a raised eyebrow. While it’s very kind, it’s unnecessary. The police won’t be able to identify me from the footage.
“Don’t put yourself in potential trouble for me,” I say.
I look at the two girls and see from the cans of soda shaking in their hands that they finally picked their drinks. I pull a few dollars out of my pocket, set them on a nearby shelf, and glance back at Mr. Park. “For their Cokes.”
I head out the back, where I quickly collect the other spent cartridges. I grab my computer and backpack from the store I was hiding in, and pull out a manila envelope. As I pass the Masked Raiders’ Accord, I dump the envelope on the passenger seat. (I really hate that name—the gang name, I mean. I have no opinion on the car name.) Inside the envelope are photos of their other robberies, lifted from police reports, and a multi-page summary of all the information I’ve gathered on the members of the gang and how they pulled off their jobs.
After that, I head home.
Chapter Two
Just to set the record straight, taking out assholes like these isn’t the way I make my living. I guess you could call it more of a hobby.
Chapter Three
Actually, I don’t know if you could even call it a hobby.
I’m pretty sure a hobby is something one chooses to do. Like stamp collecting or plane spotting.
I’m not doing this because I particularly want to. I have more than enough opportunities to get into serious trouble with my day job. I’m doing this because…well, I have to.
Chapter Four
I live in Los Angeles. Until recently, I was house-sitting my business partner’s home in the Hollywood Hills. He’d been spending more and more time over the last few years with his girlfriend at her place in San Francisco. After the birth of their daughter last year, he stopped coming back to L.A.
His place is a pretty plush setup. A great house. An awesome view. And zero rent. Why would I ever want to leave, right?
Let’s just say something happened, and I felt it was time to find my own place.
I know, that’s a little vague. Suffice it to say, things became strained between me and my partner after the death of someone we both cared about. I’ll admit our problems are probably more my fault than his. The good thing is, while I’m skeptical that things between us will ever be completely back to the way they were, we’ve begun mending the wound and are working toward being okay. I guess that’s all I can hope for. At least we’ve kind of figured out how to work together again.
The bottom line is, earlier this year, when things turned sour, I moved into a rental a block from the ocean in Redondo Beach.
I like it down here.
If I stand at the very edge of my deck and lean as far as possible over the side railing, I can see a sliver of water between the two monstrosities that pass for homes across the street from me. I’ve fantasized about buying the one directly in front of my place and razing it to the ground, but while I have a nice nest egg, the price for beachside property in L.A. is ridiculous and I still wouldn’t have enough. So I live with my little lean-to-the-side sliver of the Pacific, while enjoying the full effects of the coastal breeze and ocean atmosphere.
My favorite part of my townhouse is probably that deck. It stretches over my garage and is accessed through French doors off my living room.
And that’s where I am, drinking a beer and getting a little late afternoon sun, when my phone buzzes with a news alert.
ARRESTS MADE IN
MINI-MARKET ROBBERY SPREE
Tap for Details
Well, that didn’t take long.
I’ve been home for only about an hour, barely enough time to take a shower, set an alert for anything connected to the robberies, and crack open this beer.
Reluctantly, I go back inside and grab my laptop. On one of the local TV stations’ website, I find a link to a live news feed. I click on it, and after several seconds of the Spinning Circle of Purgatory, the video kicks in, displaying a reporter standing in front of the entrance to Park’s Mini-Mart.
“…sure, but we don’t have confirmation
yet,” she’s saying.
The shot shrank to only half the screen, revealing on the left a smartly dressed African American female anchor behind a news desk. The anchor said, “Thank you, Ashley. Right now, we’re going to switch to Mark Francis at LAPD headquarters.”
The image changes to a full-screen shot of a man with a I-may-be-good-looking-but-I’m-a-serious-reporter expression.
“Mark, I understand you have some new information.”
“That’s right, Sylvia. I just came from a briefing where an LAPD spokesperson confirmed that the five people who were taken to the hospital this afternoon have been arrested on charges of attempted robbery at Park’s Mini-Mart earlier today. When pressed on whether police believe the five are connected to the so-called Masked Raiders robberies, the spokesperson would only say the investigation is ongoing. An announcement concerning the robberies, and the aggravated assault of Eddie Mauer, the son of an owner of one of the markets, will occur at a press conference with Chief of Police Mendoza scheduled for tomorrow at ten a.m.”
The disembodied voice returns. “Is there any more information on this unknown person who helped subdue the suspects?”
Uh-oh.
I mean, not really uh-oh. I expected as much, but even the mention of me on TV in the abstract makes my stomach clench. In both my day job and this new hobby-that’s-not-a-hobby, anonymity is key. I expect them to run a clip from Mr. Park’s video surveillance system next, showing me taking out WOL No. 1.