Splintered State Read online

  SPLINTERED

  STATE

  By J. Robert Kinney

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner or are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  Splintered State © 2018 Justin R. Kinney

  Cover Design © by R. Atanassova, elementi-studio.com

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without the express, written permission of the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotations included in articles or reviews.

  Visit and follow me online!

  www.justinrkinney.com

  www.facebook.com/jrobertkinney

  www.twitter.com/justinr_kinney

  [email protected]

  DEDICATION

  To my sister, Rebecca, of whom I honestly could not be prouder. I’m so impressed by all you’ve accomplished and the person you’ve become. I always knew you were going to grow up to be awesome…as usual, I was right!

  To Mom and Dad. Your love, support, guidance, and constant encouragement has made this possible. Thank you for teaching me to believe in God, to believe in myself, and to follow my dreams.

  “A republic, if you can keep it.”

  Benjamin Franklin (1787), when asked, upon leaving the Constitutional Convention, what sort of government the delegates had created

  “He changes times and seasons; he removes kings and sets up kings; he gives wisdom to the wise and knowledge to those who have understanding.”

  Daniel 2:21 (ESV)

  TABLE OF 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

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  Franklin Holt gathered his things from the corner booth where he’d spread out in The Last Drop, a quaint café and coffee shop. It was his favorite escape from the hustle and bustle of the city.

  He double-clicked the icon to power off his laptop, then shuffled his papers and notebooks into a leather shoulder bag, the one luxury he allowed himself. As he waited for the old machine to power off, he allowed his eyes to roam and his mind to wander.

  This booth was Franklin’s usual evening position; he’d been occupying this same seat, bent over his keyboard with a hot cup of coffee, three to four times a week for years. Over that time, he’d memorized every detail of the shop, gotten to know the name and order of every regular and even a few “irregulars.”

  This shop had become a place of familiarity and of comfort. A safe haven. This was where he came when he needed to unwind, to retreat from society. More importantly though, at least in the eyes of the public, he had completed Helios Rising in this exact seat.

  His first book, a loosely autobiographical work penned under a pseudonym for his protection, had begun as a coping mechanism suggested by his psychiatrist, then became a pleasant hobby, and finally morphed into something more when the therapist read a few pages and was impressed enough to show a literary agent friend.

  Helios Rising had not gone so mainstream that tourists made the pilgrimage to see the famous corner chair in this tucked-away café, but once in a while, the occasional fan would wander in and want to meet the great Franklin Holt. Or rather Gus Marley, as he was known in the publishing world. Helios Rising had shocked everyone by peaking at number six on nationwide bestseller lists only a couple months ago and Franklin’s publisher was already hounding him to hurry on a sequel.

  Franklin told him he’d consider it, but the truth was he’d already been thinking about the possibility. He wasn’t ready to leave his characters behind; they’d become like family members and abandoning them seemed impossible.

  His laptop finished booting down and the screen went black, so Franklin snapped it closed, loaded the device into his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and headed for the exit. He paused to say goodbye to the young barista he’d gotten to know. And to drop a small tip in the jar. She studied at the local college and could use the extra couple dollars.

  He stepped outside and took a deep breath. The air weighed heavy and damp in his lungs. A faint mist still hung around after the storms that afternoon. It wasn’t yet dusk, but you wouldn’t know it from the lack of sunlight. A gloomy pall enveloped the city, making Franklin’s dreary week just a bit drearier.

  Franklin turned left and headed for the metro station, a block and a half from the café. His limp always felt more pronounced in cold or wet weather; he presumed it had something to do with the change in air pressure affecting the old injury.

  He trudged along the sidewalk, his walk heavy, but his eyes vigilantly eying each passer-by from head-to-toe. A habit from his old life, he took notice of everyone and everything around him.

  Crowds unnerved him. Too much could go wrong. Too much unseen.

  But as was common, everyone around him was immersed in their own lives, heads down, ear buds in, eyes locked on their phones. They were oblivious, to him and to everyone else. The logical result of the self-actualization hogwash peddled nowadays, or so his father claimed; by pursuing self-fulfillment and “do what makes you happy,” people retreat into an egocentric shell where they became too wrapped up in their own neuroses and pleasures to notice, or care about, anyone else.

  It probably wasn’t good for society. But for Franklin, it suited him just fine. No one noticed him and he preferred it that way.

  He paused as he passed Julius Scissor, eyeing the half-dozen patrons receiving haircuts, dyes, and perms. Valentine’s Day was fast approaching and everyone wanted to look their best for their loved ones. He felt lucky to not have to deal with that. Not anymore, anyway.

  His own image, reflected in the plate glass windows of the shop, caught his attention for a moment and he flinched.

  A man he hardly recognized stared back through sunken eyes, slate-gray like gun metal, dark and striking. Close-cropped brown hair, receding too fast for a man in his early thirties, and a scraggly beard he’d been neglecting to shave, framed an oblong face. There was no joy in his features anymore.

  Franklin raised a hand and caressed his cheekbone, just below his right eye. The scar tissue there was still raised and probably always would be, the skin a lighter color, tracing across his cheekbone all the way to his ear. It made him look hard—scary even—especially to children.

  Seems right. If they knew the things I’ve done, fear would be the appropriate response.

  His pseudonym might be mildly famous, beloved by a moderate-sized cadre of fans for his writing, but it was no wonder he was alone. His fingertips rose and fell as he grazed the scar. At one time, that sensation would’ve sent shudders down his spine, but now he
just sighed. His gaze moved downward, eyeing the shirt hanging loosely on his thin frame. It was dangerously worn in places, holes waiting to open.

  Franklin turned to the street, but something else in the reflection caught his eye.

  Across the street. A man. A man who shouldn’t be there. He spun around to get a more direct look, but there was no one there.

  His eyes flicked back and forth, scanning the people walking past, but he didn’t recognize anyone. It couldn’t be. Not after all this time. His mind must be playing tricks on him. A chill coalesced in the pit of his stomach.

  Probably just the weather…I hope.

  Franklin shook his head to clear those thoughts, then picked up his pace, and a couple minutes later he boarded an escalator and descended below ground. After a short wait, he boarded a metro car bound for outside the district.

  ***

  Franklin arrived home forty-five minutes later. His fourth-floor apartment wasn’t much to brag about, but he didn’t need much. Didn’t want much. He wedged the key into the lock and, after a jiggle, he managed to pop the mechanism and the door swung inward.

  He entered and closed the door behind him, shutting off the outside world with a satisfying thunk as the deadbolt clicked into place. Silence, he sighed.

  “Hello, Frankie.”

  Franklin jumped, swiveling to the source. “Silas. So that was you on the street outside the coffee shop.” His voice trembled, but he steadied it as he eyed his visitor who nodded from his seat in Franklin’s favorite armchair.

  The man was tall and lanky, broad across the shoulders, and rougher-looking than he remembered. The last couple years had not been kind to him.

  Three days’ worth of unshaven stubble didn’t help the impression that the man was unkempt, but Franklin knew better. Silas Sherman was efficient and deadly.

  “You know, I always expected the apartment of Franklin Holt to have more of a ‘homey’ feel. But there’s no curtains, minimal furniture…not a single family photo out anywhere I can see. Not even one of that sweet nephew of yours.”

  “You need to get out of here,” Franklin demanded. His voice was soft, but even at low volume, the threat was evident, hanging over the room like a cloud.

  Silas smirked, unimpressed by the threat. “It’s been a long time, Frankie.”

  “It should’ve been longer,” Franklin hissed. He didn’t try to hide the bitterness in his response. “And don’t call me that…”

  Silas sighed and cocked an eyebrow. “I think you’ll be glad I stopped by when you hear what I have to share.”

  “How did you get in here?” Even as he asked, Franklin knew the answer. The fire escape ran outside his living room. It would’ve been easy to jimmy a window lock. Child’s play for Silas.

  “You’ve gotten sloppy. What happened to the Frankie who would’ve never been content with standard apartment-issue locks?”

  “That’s not my life anymore. You know that.”

  “I suppose not. But there’s still plenty of people out there who wouldn’t mind if you wound up dead. You never escape it completely.” Silas stood.

  “Even if they wanted to hunt me down—and I’m not sure anyone cares anymore—I doubt they could find me.”

  “I found you. Did you think your ‘pen name’ would keep you hidden? ‘Gus Marley’ isn’t such an airtight alter-ego. Half the Brotherhood knows.” The air quotes stung.

  “That wasn’t what I meant—” he interjected, but Silas kept talking over him.

  “Plus, you’d be surprised who might care.” That caught Franklin’s attention.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you remember the Tankov twins?” he asked.

  “Lev and Zak? Sure.” Franklin cocked an eyebrow. “I mean, I’m familiar with their work. They ran with the Romanovs. I met their older brother, Andrei, once before he was killed by that arms dealer. Never had the pleasure of meeting the duo though.”

  “Well, I’m afraid you never will. Not anymore.”

  “They’re dead?” To be honest, Franklin wasn’t surprised. The whole Tankov family had a reputation for not being well liked, even by each other.

  Silas nodded. “And they aren’t the only ones. They found Bobby Ekel a few weeks back, stabbed. Keith Gansky, shot. Omar and his brother Donald—”

  “Not Donnie!” Franklin blurted, his jaw dropped.

  “Oh right, I forgot you two were close,” Silas intoned without a hint of caring in his voice.

  “Tutored the poor kid in geometry as a favor to Omar,” Franklin groaned. “He’d never have graduated high school without my help.”

  “Lot of good that diploma did him.” Silas nodded. “And two days ago, Abdullah was found. His was the worst. Decapitated.”

  Franklin cringed. “You think someone’s offing the old guard? Like a vigilante?”

  “Maybe.” He shrugged.

  “And you think they’re after me? Why?”

  “Because they already took a shot at me and missed.” Silas fingered a frayed hole in his jacket collar, before frowning. “Whatever they’re after, it appears they’re tying up loose ends. And you’re one. Plus, there’s more.”

  Franklin felt a growing pit in his stomach.

  Silas picked up a glass from the table—Franklin hadn’t noticed his visitor had poured himself a drink—and took a sip before continuing. “Have you heard from Ham recently?”

  Now it was Franklin’s turn to frown. That wasn’t a name he didn’t expect. “Ham? Lorin Hamlin? From our crew?”

  “You know more than one?” Silas cocked an eyebrow. “There aren’t many people named for a non-kosher deli meat—”

  Franklin rolled his eyes. “Lorin Hamlin is a part of my past. One I left behind. Where you should be too.”

  Silas’s eyes narrowed. “So I take it that means you haven’t heard from him.”

  “No, I haven’t. Why?”

  “He’s missing.” Silas answered matter-of-factly. “Since last Thursday.”

  “Good.” Hamlin missing wouldn’t cause Franklin to shed any tears.

  “That’s cold, Franklin.”

  “How do you even know? Were you still in touch?”

  “You’ll just have to trust me. I still have certain connections.”

  “Trust you? How do I know I can?”

  “You don’t know.” Silas smiled, as though he thought it was a joke. He was toying with Franklin. “That’s the nature of these relationships, remember?”

  “We both know that isn’t possible, Silas. Not for people like us. Besides, that isn’t trust, Silas.” Franklin limped over to the counter and tossed his leather bag on the counter. “What you’re asking for is blind faith.”

  “Then have faith! I never pegged you as a faith-guy, but whatever works for you.” He crossed his legs and leaned back.

  Franklin glared. He had no intention of giving Silas either faith or trust. “So Ham’s in trouble. Again, I fail to see why this is my problem.”

  “I want you to help me find him.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Franklin sputtered, incredulous. “As soon as you’re out of here, I’m gonna pop open some wine and toast in celebration. Why do I want him found?”

  “You’ve gotten callous, Franklin. He was your friend once.” Silas stared, unblinking. It was making Franklin uneasy. “We all were.”

  “Silas, I was a runner for Ham. A getaway driver. We weren’t friends. He was my boss. And frankly, a bad boss at that. And that’s not counting the time he gave me this.” He pointed to the scar on his face.

  “Franklin—”

  “You and I weren’t exactly friends either. I chauffeured you away from crime scenes a few times.”

  “You’re selling yourself short, friend. You were much more than a runner. A thief, a dealer…a darn fine grifter too, if I do say so myself.” He paused and sighed heavily. “Plus, it’s for your own good too. You’re not safe.”

  Franklin glared. “And how exactly does finding Ham keep
me safe?”

  “Fine, if the friend appeal won’t work, then let’s do this the selfish way.” Silas ignored the question, uncrossed his legs, stood and took a couple steps toward Franklin, who instinctively backed toward the door. “If someone really is after people like us, how long do you think it’ll be before you have another visitor waiting for you in your apartment one night? One less friendly than me.”

  Franklin took another step back and bumped against the door. Silas advanced slowly.

  “You and I…together, we can—”

  Franklin had heard enough. In a flash, he yanked open the end table drawer near the door and grabbed his old gun, leveling it at Silas. “You need to leave. Now.”

  It’d been a while since he’d held a weapon, much less aimed one at another person, and it trembled in his palm. All the muscles in his body tensed in stress, which sent a new bolt of pain through his knee and he winced.

  Silas raised his hands in mock surrender before slowly sliding one hand into his pocket and pulling out a playing card. Jack of Spades. He held it up to show Franklin before setting it on the table. “You’ll change your mind soon enough, old friend. I’ve written down a number where you can reach me when you do.”

  With that, he turned and headed for the window and the fire escape. He paused after opening it and glanced back. “Oh and Franklin?”

  Franklin glowered, still keeping his gun trained on the man crawling out his window. The pain in his knee throbbed, but he ignored it and held the weapon as steady as he could.

  “Point that thing at me again and I’ll shoot you with it. I promise you that.” Then he winked before stepping outside and vanishing down the fire escape.

  Chapter 2

  After Silas vanished, Franklin tried to relax, but couldn’t. Television didn’t help. Neither did a book. And when it was time to sleep, his mind still raced, as did his heart.