Prologue
-December 2015-
-Safehouse, South Bohan, Liberty City, New York-
-Late afternoon. Light snow-
Winter in Liberty City. Cold as a witch's tit. Cold as a gun. Its times like this, the cold brings out the inner demons in society. It brings out the loneliness in a person, the pain I have boring a hole inside my chest. Unable to feel pity, remorse, or fear for the people I once had respect for and considered as a family. The lies, the betrayal. It brings me to the boiling point.
The point of no return.
Without wasting time, I started loading the Benelli M3 Super 90 twelve-gauge shotgun with a mix of armor piercing shotgun slugs, and good ol' fashioned, standard buckshot. When I was finished, I took both small boxes and emptied the shells in my pocket. It was quite a bit, but good enough for the hell I was going to unleash. Afterward, I loaded up on several pistols. A Sig-Sauer P229 chambered in nine-millimeter. And two CZ-75 pistols chambered in .40 S&W hollow tipped rounds. With three clips for each handgun, it would have to do. I was going to be doing a lot of running and gunning.
Next, I grabbed my shoulder holster. It once belonged to my father, who was a cop when I was a kid. A detective in the narcotics division. It made me proud to be the son of a well known cop. It also broke my heart when he died on my thirteenth birthday. Why you ask? He was gunned down by a couple of small time hoods at a corner store robbery He was supposed to make it to my martial arts tournament that day but was swamped with paperwork. The last few words I heard him say before he left was that he was proud of me. I wanted to be just like father after hearing those words.
Now look at me; I'm pushing thirty one, a former hitman for the mob, and developed an addiction for painkillers. Mom and Dad would be so proud to see the man I became…no…the monster I am. No matter. I'll get them for you. And for you Rebecca…for what they did to you, I'm going to see they suffer. They have to. They need to.
Grabbing my leather jacket, I took a look of myself in the mirror. Here I was, standing at six feet tall, two hundred and eighty pounds of solid muscle, a small scar over my left cheek, dark green eyes, and a short black flat top haircut. Both of my ears were pierced and had a diamond stud earring. I had on black steel-toed boots to match the color of my cargo pants and solid colored polo shirt. Once I was done, I slipped on a pair of fingerless leather gloves. They were a little tight, but I didn't care. They've been helpful to me in a fistfight throughout the years. I looked at myself one last look at myself, mentally preparing myself for the war I was about to start.
No second chances.
No looking back.
I'm coming for you Joey Leone. You and your whole crew are good as dead.
My name is Elijah Ballard…but you can call me 8-Ball.
And this is my story.