Guillotine Squad
Chronicles of the Guillotine Squad — Book 1
BEWARE. The street rules in Philly have changed. Deadly consequences await savage criminals who operate above the law and target the innocent. When the legal system fails, the Guillotine Squad comes calling and they don’t play fair in the sandbox.
Mason Stack defines his own justice, exacts punishment, and has no qualms with killing. An ex-professional boxer, he operates a gym with MMA champion, and crime-fighting partner Natasha Kozlova. Heading up the squad is retired Philadelphia homicide detective Sean McGuire–his twenty-five years on the force and broken body fueling his need to rain fire on the wicked. It’s time to take the dogs off the leash.
Felipe ‘Flip’ Rivera never figured he’d live to be a teenager in the Badlands of North Philadelphia. His baby sister didn’t—cut down by a bullet four days shy of her thirteenth birthday. Felipe hustles dope in Fairhill for drug lord Dante Dixon because he makes more money in one day than a week anywhere else. Dante has plans for Felipe. “Keep your mind right, Flip, and I won’t have to clip your wings—maybe even slide you up the food chain to block captain.” But Felipe knows the bullet that took his sister came from Dante’s gun and has a different plan. Revenge. He has nothing to lose and his new friend, Mason, is fearless and seems like someone he can trust…
Prologue
There are 206 bones in the human body. More than 25% occupy the hands and wrists.
Crushing those 54 bones was his singular focus.
As he raised the hammer above his shoulder and brought it down in a smooth arc toward the target, he thought, steady—let the tool do its job.
It was precision work, requiring an understanding of mass, acceleration, kinetic energy and an unwavering commitment to achieve the goal and not be distracted. Preparation and practice were key. Walnut shells, ice cubes and finally cow bone, had all been used to perfect the necessary technique and master cadence and control. Too much force and the skin would rupture—blood gushing from the gaps in the flesh—leaving little to recognize as a hand.
He had experimented with hammers of varying weight. 5lbs proved too heavy—needing only to be dropped from a height of 18 inches and in that free fall, with no need for added momentum, control was lost. 2lbs or less required too much manual acceleration and the result was strikes that were sometimes off target and of inconsistent force. The key was pinpoint accuracy and impact that only crushed the bone within—just before laying the tissue flat and obliterated. The Estwing, Sure Strike, 3lb sledge proved to be the tool of choice. It had sufficient heft but still required just enough muscular assistance to merge seamlessly with linear momentum.
There were muffled screams and gurgling noises coming from under the duct tape but he wasn’t listening. He was dialed into the rhythm of the hammer strike—to the dull, crunching, thud that came as each metacarpal and phalange shattered, transformed to tiny bits, almost liquified within the skin.
And when this tenderizing of meat process was completed—there would be no healing beyond a solid mass. No more manual dexterity—no synchronization—no fine motor control. Stumps with fingers still attached but of little use.
“Listen to my words, carefully,” he whispered into his ear. “I know what you are. Tonight, your marker came due and from now on you won’t be using your hands to beat your wife. But, if someday, somehow, you figure out a new way to torture her and make her suffer—no matter how cleverly you think you might disguise the method or terrorize her into to hiding her bruises—I will know—and I’ll come back—only this time I won’t break bones—I’ll chop your fucking dick off and you’ll beg for death.”
His victim’s head was tied down and turned away but he could see his eyes strain to blink through the steady flow of tears that dripped and pooled with the mucus from his nose onto the butcher-block table. He had heard those words but would forever wish he could forget. He would remember them for every day of his remaining life—while having to be dressed and washed and fed. The humiliation he would feel when his ass was wiped by a stranger, would serve to remind him of his deformed and useless hands and of the promise made by his reaper to return.
© Max Calder