Years passed like pages turning in someone else's book. The countryside became home. The Vinsons became family. The day their mother—our new mother—gave birth to her own child and signed the adoption papers, I officially became Samuel Johnson-Vinson. I kept the Johnson last name. Not because I loved it. Not because of any sentimental bullshit. I kept it so that when people eventually heard the name Johnson attached to something good, something righteous, something that actually mattered, it wouldn't belong to that piece of shit who fathered me and then destroyed us. I'd rewrite it in blood if I had to.
The police never dug deeper. We were kids. Traumatized. The story we told was clean enough: he attacked, we fought back, he died. No one asked about the cigarette ashes I'd poured into the whiskey bottle. No one needed to know how cold my hands were when I did it. Case closed.
Mathew Roberto Vinson and I went to the same school. Same classes. Same lunch table. He dreamed big—wanted to be the kind of detective the world would name buildings after. I wanted something simpler and uglier: to hunt the ones who slipped through the cracks. The ones the law forgot. The ones who laughed while others bled.
We shook hands one night under the stars behind the barn.
"We won't separate," he said.
"Never," I answered.
"We'll change the world. Or at least the parts we can reach. Our people. Our country."
We trained like animals. Studied law until our eyes bled. Took every impossible case the department threw at us. Cold files with zero evidence. Months of dead ends. Some broke easy. Most didn't. We learned how to read silence, how to smell lies, how to follow money when it tried to hide.
Then came the case that cracked something inside me.
Black male. Gang ties. Raped two fourteen-year-old girls. Murdered a twenty-six-weeks-pregnant woman and two men. Each time the defense screamed "mental illness." Each time the court bought it. No jail. No real consequences. Just another slap on the wrist and a pat on the head.
I watched the families in the gallery. Watched the father of one of the girls stand up, fists shaking, tears streaming, ready to lunge across the bar. I felt it too—the exact same heat in my veins. And when that smiling piece of shit looked back at the gallery, when he smirked like he'd won again…
I saw red.
I was halfway out of my seat, already picturing the shotgun barrel pressed against his asshole, already hearing the trigger click, when Mathew's hand clamped down on my shoulder like iron.
"Not here," he whispered. "Not like this."
He was shaking too. Furious. But he had a plan.
Weeks later.
"Order in the court."
The gavel cracked like thunder.
Judge Voss—gray hair, eyes like chipped flint—turned to the defendant.
"In light of supplemental materials presented by the prosecution—materials this court has verified as authentic—the prior finding of not guilty by reason of insanity is vacated. New forensic psychological analysis, corroborated by hospital records and witness affidavits, demonstrates that your claims of mental defect were fraudulent. You knew exactly what you were doing each time: the rapes of the two minor victims, aged fourteen; the murder of a woman twenty-six weeks pregnant at the time of her death—the fetus she carried."
The gallery sucked in air. Someone sobbed.
"You are hereby found guilty on all counts: two counts of aggravated sexual assault on a minor, three counts of first-degree murder with aggravating factors. This court sentences you to life without the possibility of parole, consecutive terms, no mercy."
The defendant—Carver—finally lost the smirk.
Voss wasn't finished.
"Given the heinous nature of these crimes and your history of evasion, federal authorities have coordinated extradition. You will serve your sentence not in state custody, but transferred immediately to La Sabaneta Penitentiary in Maracay, Venezuela—under international agreement for high-risk offenders. That facility is reserved for the world's most violent. Reports from human rights observers detail rampant gang control, where new arrivals like you face immediate subjugation: beatings that break bones without killing, isolation in cells where the walls weep sewage, and worse—systematic sexual assaults by inmate enforcers, torture with improvised tools that leave men begging for the death you denied your victims. No appeals, no transfers. You enter as prey, and you stay that way."
Carver lunged against his cuffs, snarling. "You can't! This is America! I got rights!"
Voss didn't even blink. "Remand the defendant. U.S. Marshals will handle transport. Court adjourned."
As they dragged him out kicking and screaming, I caught Mathew's eye from across the aisle. No words. Just a single nod.
Outside in the hallway, sunlight poured through the windows like it was trying to pretend the world was clean. I leaned against the glass, feeling the warmth on my face, but inside it was still winter.
For the first time in years, the blood under my boots felt like justice instead of just memory.
But justice is never clean. And it never lasts.
Time passed. Mathew and I kept doing what we did—hunting shadows, closing files, trying to believe the system could be forced to work.
Then Jethro Bonhomme happened. That black FUCKING MONKEY, a motherfucker from motherfuckers.
The day he walked into our house holding Emilia's hand, I felt every alarm in my body go off at once. I gave him the coldest stare I'd ever given anyone. Then I forced my face to soften, shook his hand, smiled the kind of smile that says: I will bury you if you hurt her.
Emilia glowed. Said they were going on a date.
I let her go. Because she was happy. Because she deserved happy.
Eight months. I checked on them. Discreetly. She seemed safe. They seemed… normal. Lovey-dovey. I started to relax.
Until the night I came home from a twenty-hour unsolved case, bone-tired, and the house was dark.
Emilia wasn't there.
I called. No answer.
No dot. No text. Nothing.
I called again. Again. Again.
My hands started shaking.
I dialed Mathew.
"Vinson, we have a problem."
Silence. Then his voice, sharp. "Sam, what's going on?! Tell me!!! It's the first time in years I hear you worried. Spill it!"
"Emilia… she didn't answer her phone."
"The fuck?!"
More silence.
Then: "Sam, I tracked her. Why the fuck is Emilia in the middle of the jungle?"
The world tilted.
I heard his engine roar to life.
"SAM, GRAB THE GUN. I'M CALLING BACKUP. GO! GO!!!"
I don't remember grabbing the keys. Don't remember starting the car. Don't remember the sirens. Just red. Just rage. Just Emilia telling me she was pregnant. Jethro swearing he'd take responsibility. Me almost caving his face in anyway.
Whoever touched her—I would become the skull-jacket vigilante I'd always threatened to be.
I sprinted through the trees. Kicked the door off its hinges.
And...
...
my knees gave out.
Emilia. Tied. Beaten. Raped.
The room spun. Sound vanished. I couldn't hear my own heartbeat.
I cut the ropes. Wrapped my jacket around her trembling body. Held her so tight I thought I might break her more. Tears—real tears—burned down my face for the first time since I was thirteen.
Mathew burst in behind me. Saw her. Screamed for ambulance.
It felt like years before they arrived.
In the hospital hallway I paced like a caged animal. Scratched my scalp until it bled. Jethro. It had to be Jethro.
I would CUT HIS DICK OFF. SHOVE IT DOWN HIS THROAT. MAKE HIM CHOKE ON IT!!!
The doctor finally came out.
"The babies are fine," he said quietly. "But… she was raped. By multiple persons. Simultaneously."
I punched the wall so hard the tiles cracked.
Screamed until my throat shredded.
Mathew appeared beside me, face pale.
"An ID card was found," he said. "Orenthal Bonhomme. Jethro's younger brother."
I lunged for the exit.
Mathew grabbed my arm. Hard.
"LET GO OF ME, VINSON!"
"You're not going anywhere without me," he growled. "And I will beat the shit out of you myself if you show a goddamn ounce of mercy to Jethro. Clear?"
I pulled my Glock. Headed for the car.
Mathew was already on the phone with HQ. Tracking a number. Listening.
Minutes later: a bar. Mexican and Russian mix. Notorious. Armed. Dangerous.
"HQ, this is Detective Vinson. I need all units at this location. Possible hostage situation related to earlier assault. They're armed. I repeat—they are armed. Wait for my command."
Sirens screamed. I floored it. Grabbed the Deagle from the glovebox. One shot. One kill.
"Sam, don't do anything—"
"Vinson! Don't!"
"Sam! I want him punished too—but not at the cost of losing you!"
"HE PUT MY SISTER IN THAT CONDITION!"
"SHE IS MY SISTER TOO!!!"
I glanced over. A single tear tracked down his cheek. First time I'd ever seen him cry. Even as kids. Even when he broke his arm falling off Thunder. Never a tear.
I looked back at the road.
"Sam," he said, voice cracking. "Right now, Emilia and I need you more than anything. Neither of us wants to lose you. So please…"
I didn't answer.
I just drove faster.
To Be Continued…