The Harbinger Break by Zachary Adams Read Free Book Online

long time ago–that feeling, that memory. The promotion was flattering at first, his salary had doubled. But the work–well… He wasn't the executioner, but he held the executioner's coattails off bloody floors.
       Inside his car, he marked on his report that Shane doesn't murder mindlessly, important in his line of work. The court would deal with the punishment for his crimes, but as for the FBE, Shane's genes were still an option. They wanted his genius mind, but they wanted it without the murderer's heart. And now that was still possible.
     
       Higgins's Honda Civic was spotted near a run-down Motel 6 the next morning, about six miles away. Parking his car an hour after the tip was called in, Summers stepped out into the afternoon sun and glanced around, thinking that if he were a criminal, this is where he would live.
       It was the perfect place to hide, an area untouched by modern civility. Run-down, drug-dealing, mold-crusted homes and balconies crammed with rotting furniture, stolen goods, drugs, black market paraphernalia, and the sounds of coughing and glass shattering which echoed endlessly through dark alleys.
       Summers put on his aviators, then checked and holstered his pistol. He pulled on the handle of his car door to ensure it was locked, and then began walking, looking for the silver Honda. In a nearby alleyway, two bums scratched scabs on their arms and licked their dry lips as he walked by.
       "Hey mama look here, it's the FBE!" the first said, skinny, wearing torn jeans and seemingly missing an eye.
       The woman, wearing brown sheets covered in white stains, stood as Summers passed by. "Hey bab', you's handsome. Why donchyu come back ova' here? I got some good genes!" she said. He ignored her, and she let out a dry choking laugh.
       "Ay Mama whatchyu tryin' to do? He don' want nun' that!" the first yelled back.
       At times like these, Summers hated his promotion. In fact, he always hated his promotion. He considered the morality of his work constantly. The "no cruel and unusual punishment" government asterisk floated like a bubble in the backs of involved minds. The argument was simple: a man's "manhood" verses a man's life. The whispering of his parents’ killer haunted him–in his opinion, taking the former was cruel, but taking the latter, a man's life, was evil. "It's so cold."
       Summers shuddered. He'd never forgiven his aunt for taking him to see that. It's why he'd accepted his promotion in the first place–he thought he'd be doing good, saving lives. The death penalty was never administered to those the FBE had taken care of. And because heinous crimes of that magnitude always warranted an FBE intervention, sentencing never resulted in capital punishment.
       The FBE only hired men as field agents, the thought process being that women couldn't objectively determine whether the crime fit the punishment. At least a man could imagine it, and if he was mentally stable, he'd shudder at the thought.
       Since the implementation of the program, there'd been a significant drop in crime, but still, Summers couldn't help feeling like that executioner with the syringe. He didn't take life, no, but he altered future lives. Innocent lives.
       A raggedy stumbling man with a harmonica saw Summers approaching. "Oh, hey fella, I wrote a song about the FBE!"
       He blew into his harmonica once, and then began singing, following Summers as he walked. "The FBE, they'll come for me, they'll stand right in my halls. They'll pay me to fuck some whores, or they'll cut off my balls!"
       The man smiled, holding out for a tip, but Summers frowned and kept walking. He might've laughed at that before he was the one doing it, back when he was an FBI agent, joking around with his colleagues about the FBE.
       His new work, filtering the collective human gene pool, was harsh and unforgiving. And it was just going to get harder. He'd heard rumors of new legislation being discussed