Chapter 36: Kin Slaying

It was an event that would come to be known as the August 13th massacre, or in the more imaginative circles as the Guns of August. The massacre itself only lasted a handful of minutes at the most, and when it was over twenty bodies would lay dead in the street or in the restaurant itself, their bodies filled with bullets that were both familiar to forensic investigators, and those that simply bewildered them. While many would come to suspect that Danny Greene had orchestrated the killings, he would never be arrested and no public official would ever name him as a suspect.

What was most important about this day was that it marked the end of the most violent and bloody mob war New York had ever seen. Even more devastating than the Castellammarese War in the early thirties, or the Danny Greene War in the late thirties. The result of its conclusion would be the restructuring of organized crime, the collapse of the Italian Commission, and the complete reversal in the dominance of the Italian mafia.

But all of that will become mere backdrop from here on out, a reference point to remind us of which reality the ka-tet is now in, much like the blue dollar bills that are used as currency. From this war an urban myth takes root in the zeitgeist, that of a green armored giant who roams the streets of Manhattan. A man who cannot die. There will be several more supposed sightings of him as the years progress. People claiming to see him on a roof top or the occasional senile old woman who claims that he saved her from being mugged. Even a few documentaries will be made and his actual existence will be debated, until eventually he is relegated to the same classification as the Mothman, Big Foot, and the New Jersey Devil. He will be a myth, nothing more, and most will claim that he was never more than the product of an overactive imagination.

But we, we know the truth. We know that he was there, and in some ways we were there also. We were there to witness John choose between family, and the twim of a man who had been as a brother to him. We shall see all.

…

The grenade shook the building with a tremulous roar as it exploded, the table which Greene had been hiding under flying apart as if it had been nothing more than a loose bundle of twigs, plaster falling from the ceiling as fine white powder, sprinkling onto Johnson's black hair giving it a salt and pepper appearance. The springs in Johnson's muscles uncoiled the moment after the blast, and he ran. It was perhaps twenty feet from where he was to the door, and bullets crashed through what remained of the glass as the men with the Tommy guns adjusted their fire towards him. He shot three times with his Colt and managed to hit one of the gunners in the neck. The gunner was not dead, but was bleeding profusely and was perhaps mortally wounded. He did have enough breath in him to yell at the driver, and the Plymouth he was in sped off, the other following in hot pursuit.

Johnson grinned even as he sprinted. The two most immediate threats had fled, and he saw no sight of the green behemoth. His mind was just beginning to entertain the notion that he just might get out of this mess alive, when a shotgun along with the gauntleted hands that wielded it appeared out of thin air right at the doorway.

The shotgun bellowed, breathing fire and lead like an enraged dragon, piercing Johnson's chest and hurling him backwards onto the floor.

Sweat flooded into his eyes, causing them to sting, and strangely this irritation was more pressing to him then the spray of rounds from the single shot gun shell that had just missed his heart. A sensation in his right hand told him that he was still holding his gun, and Johnson attempted to raise it, only to have his hand crushed by an armored boot.

Avery Junior Johnson looked up and saw his own dying reflection in the orange visor, its gaze as blank and pitiless as the desert sun. It was the very definition of pragmatic brutality.

John pumped another round into the shotgun, leveled the barrel at Johnson's head, and fired.

…

Greene groaned as he pushed what had used to be the table top off of him, a shard of what had once been a table leg digging into his bag like a dull dagger. As he stood up he brushed the plaster and rouge splinters off of his clothes. One of the splinters dug into his thumb as he performed the act and drew blood, a small trickle running down and beading up at the base of his knuckle before dripping off of him like a tear drop and splashing onto the floor to mingle with the blood of the other bosses. Upon seeing that he was otherwise uninjured after a brief self inspection the Irishman stood up straighter, stretching out his back and hearing the dry pops of exploding popcorn kernels as he joints cracked.

Good to see my luck is still holding out, he thought. He looked over at the Spartan who was slowly putting the shotgun on his back, the weapon being held there by no visible mechanism. Greene supposed it was magnets. He could not help but be impressed at how intimidating the Spartan looked, and how unreadable he was, the Master Chief staring down at the body of what had once been Avery Johnson.

Greene strode over to him. "Are you going to take a picture?"

John did not move, did not so much as twitch, but even his neutral voice could not fully hide the anguish lying underneath. "I knew him."

"Yeah?" Greene said. He bent down and began to rummage through one of Johnson's shirt pockets, tossing several ruined and blood stained cigars over his back. He managed to find one that was mostly intact and lit it with his own lighter, puffing out clouds of ashy smoke as John clenched his fists beside him. "From where?"

"Another life," John said with a tone of finality.

Greene shrugged his shoulders. "Dead now. Bit of a shame though. For a nigger he wasn't that bad."

John clenched his fists tighter, his jaw becoming so rigid that it threatened to shatter like glass.

"Now if you don't mind," Greene continued, pulling the cigar out of his mouth. "I'd like to get working on my alibi."

John's hand reached towards his hip, pulled out his pistol, and pointed it at Greene. "Arm or leg?"

Greene raised an eyebrow. "Surprise me."

John squeezed the trigger, and round going through Greene's left arm, the man stumbling backwards and grimacing in pain, but still managing to hold onto the cigar, the smoke now wrapping around his face with a gentle caress. John fired again, this time shattering Greene's right knee cap, and the Irishman toppled over.

"Surprise," John said dryly and without remorse.

Greene cursed as he put pressure on his leg with his right arm. "If I knew you had a sense of humor I wouldn't have given you the option," he said through gritted teeth, but as he looked up he saw that the Master Chief had left as swiftly as a thief in the night. "Hell," Greene said. "I think I might be starting to like him."

…

Jake grunted as he threw the two garbage bags into the empty dumpster and heard a metallic thud as the garbage hit the rusted out bottom. If he listened closely, and he was, Jake could hear the soft pitter patter of paws as a rat descended upon the bags, ready to gorge itself on the nightly feast. He was about to turn around and was mentally preparing himself for the long climb back up to his floor, both the garbage shoot and the elevators now out of order, when he stopped.

Even if he had not heard the heavy breathing of the man behind him, he still would have surely heard the heavy footsteps, and since he was able to hear both sounds Jake was able to guess as to who the man was. Slowly he reached for his service revolver which was tucked into his belt, when a familiar voice called out to him.

"Don't try it kid." Mahone raised his own revolver at Jake's back. "Turn around. Hands on your head," he said slowly.

Jake placed both hands on the back of his head and turned just as he was instructed. "Why didn't you just shoot me while my back was turned."

"Because," Mahone said with a sigh. "You deserve better than that." Even in the dark alleyway Jake could still see the regret in his partners eyes. "You're a good kid Jake. Would have made one hell of a cop."

"Then why are you doing this?" Jake said, and the calm in his voice was enough to unnerve Mahone, although not for long.

Mahone straightened up, steadying his aim. "I got my own kids, and this close to retiring…" He sighed again, but his gaze remained steady. "You made too much noise. If you had just let things go they would have left you alone."

Jake shook his head slowly. "They would have never left us alone."

"Maybe," his former partner said. "But you would have had a better chance than you do right now." He cocked the hammer back with his thumb. "Sorry kid."

Mahone never saw Jake move, the gunslinger's hands moving from on top of his head and pulling out his revolver before Mahone could even blink. Jake fired and the bullet struck Mahone's gun sending it flying out of his hand and causing pain to flare up in the fingers that were holding it. Mahone grabbed his hand and bent over, looking up at Jake. He can't be that fast. No one is that fast. Jake pointed the gun at Mahone's head and the man flinched.

The gunslinger considered his former partner for a moment, and then put his revolver back into his belt. "I knew the whole time," he said somewhat apologetically. "The first thing I did after Cortana was attacked was read your mind. I knew, but I wanted to give you a chance to do the right thing. I liked you." Mahone opened his eyes again, giving Jake a confused look. "But you proved me wrong," Jake continued, his expression now stern. "You have forgotten the face of your father." He breathed heavily, the only outward sign of the anger and betrayal he was feeling. "I'm not going to kill you." Jake motioned with his head at the darkness behind Mahone. "But I can't speak for him."

An armored hand clamped down on Mahone's shoulder, its grip filled with a rage that only a father can feel when someone has attempted to hurt their son. Mahone began to scream, his cries for help going unheeded as John pulled him back into the darkness.

9:25 A.M., August 14th 1952 (Gregorian Calendar) Residency of Cortana Toren, Hell's Kitchen, New York, New York

Cortana picked up the book lying on the floor of Jack's bedroom, reminding herself to scold Jack about not keeping his room clean. The thought left her, however, when she noticed the title was 'The Romance of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table'. She did not remember buying him this book, although it was equally possible that Jake might have. Cortana turned the book over to look at the last page Jack had been reading, frowning at Jack's habit of folding the pages over to mark his place. Her eyes immediately fell to the illustration on the page.

It was a picture of two men clad in dark medieval armor dueling each other on top of a mound of corpses. The fallen knights that were both underneath them and surrounding them were enveloped in shadows, their wounded horses craning their necks to look up at the merciless cloud covered sky as they lay bleeding to death, broken shields and swords littering the blood soaked ground, while all about them reeled shadows of indignant birds. The still living man on the left was holding a lance, and had pierced his opponent through the abdomen. The other now mortally wounded knight continued to charge him, his armored boots digging into the ground as he push forward, the sword Excalibur swung high over his head as he prepared to hack into his enemy. Cortana read the caption.

HOW MORDRED WAS SLAIN BY ARTHUR, AND HOW BY HIM ARTHUR WAS HURT TO DEATH

…

The newspaper proclaimed with bold headlines the details of the bloody massacre that had occurred the night before. The paper itself was thin, consisting of only a few pages, the ink so fresh that it had been smeared by the hands of both the paperboy who had delivered it, and John who had bought it. The article itself mostly contained details of the mob war that had been waged over the past month, filler to disguise the minimum amount of information the reporters had to work with. If John had been an imaginative man he could have easily seen the author of this article grudgingly putting words to paper after being woken up by a phone call in the middle of the night, burning through cups of coffee as he rushed to make sure that the newspaper he worked for would be the first to report on the incident.

John was not concerned about that, had hardly even read the article. He focused instead on the picture of Johnson underneath the headline, a small portrait compared to the enlarged photos of the other five bosses. If the Master Chief had flipped the paper over he would have seen a picture of Danny Greene, the caption proclaiming him to be the only survivor. If the Spartan had bothered to buy any more papers in the days that followed, he might have read several letters to the editor that insisted a giant green alien, or perhaps a batman wannabe, had been present at the shootout.

The Master Chief did not care. All that mattered to him was Johnson's face, and the memory of him lying on the floor of the control room on the Halo above the Ark, placing Cortana's chip in his hands and telling John to never let her go. John tried to remind himself that the man he had encountered last night had not been his Johnson, but it did little to help.

He knew now that things would likely quiet down. That Greene, being the only survivor, would work to consolidate his power. The Irishman believed that once the bosses were dead the other mafia members, from the underbosses, to the caporegimes, to the soldiers, and right on down to the associates would become convinced that North Central could no longer guarantee their safety, and that they out of fear would go to Greene. Even though the Irishman was responsible for the attack, and obviously so, he was also the only thing standing between order and anarchy, and he would use that to his advantage. At least that was what Greene had told John, and the Chief believed him.

Johnson could not have done that, even if he could have been convinced to go against North Central. It was this simple horrible fact, the racially motivated reason as to why Johnson had to be killed, that made John look inwardly at himself with disgust.

Cortana entered the room quietly, and John heard a loud thunk as she threw something heavy into the trash. She came to him with soft footsteps, and he felt a hand against his cheek. John did not look at her, but did not resist as she put her arms around him, and the Master Chief laid his head against her chest.

Cortana kissed the top of his head, moving her fingers along his back in small circles, willing his mind to break free of the thoughts that were drowning him.

A knock on the door destroyed the moment. As John tried to get up to answer it Cortana pushed him down by the shoulders. "I'll get it," she said softly. Cortana walked to the door, preparing a sly remark to Jake and Jack who had gone up to the roof to play basketball, as to why they had forgotten their key. However, instead of being greeted by Jake's sky blue eyes or Jack's bombardier ones, she was instead greeted by a pair of hazel ones.

"Ma'am," Agent 1588 said to her. He nodded towards John who had stood up from the couch. "Master Chief, I apologize for us being late. The Tet Corporation is here to assist."