Chapter 1

I volunteered for the job.

Yeah, I really did.

On a sunny and pleasant early May afternoon, I was working as a Paramedic and got a call to a 6-year-old kid who was ‘having an asthma attack’. The boy was not breathing, unresponsive, nearly pulseless, and clearly CTD. (circling the drain)

None of the signs and symptoms matched what the mother initially told me, and I was soon frantically treating the kid in the back of a speeding Ambulance for hypovolemic shock.

Intubation, an IO line (thats an IV needle into the bone), and lots of intervention from a higher power ... and I got him to the small town ER alive. From there he was air lifted to the ‘big city’ hospital.

Later that day, after the boy was cooling in the morgue, we found out that the boyfriend had punched the kid in the abdomen in a fit of rage, fracturing his liver and causing an internal hemorrhage. And the mom LIED to protect the bastard.

‘Boyfriend’ didn’t fare well in town jail and was taken to the ER, and soon after to the county lockup.

Just after 1 AM my Ambulance was called to the county jail for an assault. And I ‘hoped’.

My hopes were answered.

As we drove ‘non-emergency’ to the ER, I sat and watched the badly beaten shitbag fighting to breathe, moaning in pain from multiple lacerations and contusions, and likely some broken ribs and bones. And I fought back the almost overpowering urge to administer something that would end his worthless life.

No, I didn’t kill him. And I didn’t let him die. I did my job and treated his injuries as best I could, then left him in the ER ... very much alive.

It was a couple weeks later when I was talking to one of our State Medical Examiners during an out of town transfer.

He commented on the little boy’s case and asked me how I could swallow my own desires and treat the worst kind of scum our society had to offer.

“I do my job. No more, no less.” I told him.

“Even though I would rather be starting those IV’s to administer lethal injections.” I laughed.

“The state is looking for guys to do that job.” He told me. “If you’re interested.”

“You get a salary, an assigned State vehicle, and a nice chunk of ‘bonus pay’ every time you perform an execution.”

I shook my head, “Nah. I’ll leave the dead to guys like you. I don’t even want to be a coroner. I’ll just keep on ‘ditch doctoring’ if it’s all the same.”

He handed me his card. “In case you change your mind.”

I slipped it into my wallet and bid him farewell.

Life went on. Until August rolled around.

The call was as shocking and gut wrenching as you can dream in your worst nightmares.

My longtime friend, Rose, and her two daughters had been killed.

No ... not killed ... MURDERED.

Brutally and sadistically.

Being ‘in the services’ got me a lot more information than some average person would get.

The story I was told changed me. Tore me up, mixed me around, and spit out someone else.

At 38, Rose was a single mom. She worked full time, scraped by, and had the sweetest personality. She was as close to a sister as I ever had, and we often joked about how she and I might have been a good match ... if I wasn’t such an asshole.

Her daughters, Kim (8) and Cindy (4) were the sweetest girls I ever met. Unlike my own two little hell bitches. (kidding) They loved me, were always excited to see me, and called me ‘Uncle Justin’.

I guess I need to explain about me.

No, just an overview will suffice, because that guy is dead now.

I’m Justin. 39, three times divorced, two kids I never get to see unless they want something, and working a $12 an hour 911 Ambulance job.

Former Army Medic, avid hunter and fisherman, competitive shooter. All of which I rarely get to do.

Anyway, back to Rose and the girls.

Benjamin ‘Big Benny’ Thompson was a lowlife scumbag. At 33, he’d never held an honest job a day in his life. He was supposed to be locked up as a ‘third striker’, but had turned State’s on his co-criminals and they let him out with only 14 months.