The Blueprint (The Upgrade Book 1)
WESLEY CROSS
This is a work of fiction. Any likeness to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2016 Wesley Cross
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by
Cerberus Prints
PO BOX 90399
Brooklyn, NY 11209
2016
Prologue
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
Epilogue
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
Travis was hunting an unusual prey.
A limousine parked just a few feet away from the train station spat from its belly a tall man in a three-quarter trench coat. Closely cropped dirty-blond hair and icy blue eyes made him appear stern, almost military. Watching him from the shadows Travis noticed an oversized expensive watch as the man stretched out his hand to shut the car door. What this obviously wealthy man would be doing in this part of town was a mystery, but Travis didn’t care.
He smelled a big score.
Roaming the streets of the southern Bronx always put Travis into a foul mood. Despite the early snow, it was mild for the end of November, but the air was damp; the wind penetrated his rain coat with frustrating ease. On nights like this he often found himself thinking back to the time when he was just eighteen.
Ten years ago his life could have gone a different way. A talented boxer, Travis Smith had quite a few agents eyeing him as a rising star. Standing six foot two, and with a reach of 77 inches, he was frighteningly quick in the ring. A tactical fighter, he was also capable of making smart decisions that frustrated opponents and forced them to make mistakes.
Travis saw career success as an inevitability. For him it wasn’t a question of if; it was a question of
when
.
This all changed, however, one fateful night when he was returning from the gym to a tiny apartment in the projects. Three youths wielding brass knuckles and a rusty iron rod ambushed him a few steps away from his building. Before Travis realized what was happening, he found himself bruised and bloodied, fighting for his life, but this was no ring. The referee wouldn’t stop the fight for punches below the belt and there was no crowd to cheer him. He pleaded for the attackers to stop, but they wouldn’t listen, and when a blow of the iron rod barely missed his head, he stopped pulling punches. Few seconds later one of the attackers was running away but the other two stayed.
Dead.
Travis called the police, shaken by the fact that he killed the two men, but confident that he was in the right.
The judge disagreed.
The sentence came as a crippling blow—eight years. Eight long years taken out of his life. His career was over before it even began, dreams shattered, his freedom taken away.
Travis was angry.
He was angry at the judge who didn’t care that he was outnumbered and unarmed, angry at the kids who ambushed him, but above all, angry at himself.
Looking for an outlet was difficult in prison, and before long he found solace taking orders, following Johnny the Butcher, a big shot member of the Red Dragon gang.
Johnny took Travis under his wing and when they were finally released, first Johnny, and then a year later Travis, he ended up working for Johnny on the outside as well. Jobs were easy; drive this from here to there, guard this from now till then and such. Occasionally Travis added some muggings to his repertoire to enhance his income and sometimes out of boredom.
He spotted his targets at the train station, a rugged old building with a squeaky turnstile. Once he identified the victim, Travis would shadow them for a few blocks to make sure nobody was around, then he would catch up with them and strike. His method was simple, but effective; approach from behind, a quick and brutal kidney punch which would bring the victim to his knees, followed by a shattering hook to the jaw.
It was usually over before it even started. Travis would then pick up his reward from an unconscious loser and walk away into the night. He didn’t feel bad for his victims. In a few minutes they would wake up in serious pain and relieved of their valuables, but at least they would be alive. As far as Travis was concerned, they got off easy.
• • •
Keeping some distance and trying to stay in the shadows, Travis tried to refocus on the present and his newest target. He followed the wealthy newcomer, and when the man made a turn to a narrow street, choked on both sides by two abandoned buildings, Travis saw his chance.
In a few quick strides he caught up with the blond man and propelled himself forward. His right arm drew a short semicircle and connected with the man’s left kidney. Following the steps of the dance he had repeated so many times, Travis took one half-step to the left to allow the body to fall and followed through with a massive uppercut with his left hand to the jaw.
For a moment Travis thought that the force of his own uppercut was going to lift him off the ground as it missed the blond man’s head. Right after the kidney punch that was supposed to bring the victim to his knees, the man spun around and ducked the uppercut with a grace of a panther. His cold blue eyes looked straight at Travis and to Travis’s dismay had no trace of pain nor fear.
Puzzled and concerned, but unwilling to surrender, Travis threw two quick slap hooks with his left to distract the opponent, then spun around and put his entire weight into a ruthless right hook aiming for the man’s temple. It was all in vain; the blond man simply stepped back, avoiding the first two probing shots, blocked the right hook with his left shoulder, then his own right hand shot out with a speed that almost didn’t seem human. It hit Travis squarely in the chest and sent him tumbling to the ground.
He felt as if he was hit by a truck. His chest was a pool of boiling hot pain, vision blurred, and the taste of blood lingered in his mouth. Travis slowly picked himself up off the ground. Looking at the strange man calmly observing him with those cold blue eyes, Travis felt immense rage consuming him. He retrieved a gravity knife from a hidden pocket and, ignoring the pain from his broken ribs, threw himself at the man. He wanted nothing more than to drive the knife deep into the man’s chest. His adversary casually caught the knife with his left hand while his right sprang to Travis’s throat and crushed his windpipe in an iron grip.
“What are you?” Travis managed to whisper.
The man wouldn’t answer.
As he dangled in blond man’s hands, slowly losing consciousness, his eyes caught a little silver pin on the lapel of the man’s jacket that depicted three stars in a straight line. Somehow, right before the darkness took over, Travis found himself wondering what that meant.
Mike Connelly was getting impatient. The clock on the dashboard of his town car read 2:15pm. The flight that he’d been waiting for, at LaGuardia Airport, was supposed to land an hour ago. The orders came directly from Mr. Engel, which was rather unusual, but Mike wasn’t happy with the assignment. He loathed babysitting clients, he didn’t like his boss, and more than anything he hated the weather. The February sky was overcast with dark clouds pregnant with snow, and gusts of brutally cold wind were pushing loose pages of newspapers and small garbage along the road. Having spent half of his career in a tropical climate, he was having a hard time reacquainting himself with New York’s weather.
