“Why?”
Father Anderson stood inside the quiet church, turning the envelope over in his hand as he considered everything he knew about Mr.
Brown.
No matter how he examined the situation, he couldn’t understand why an elderly man who normally avoided unnecessary trouble would deliberately target a violent street gang.
Something significant must have happened around the time they last met.
Mr.
Brown had emerged from a nearby apartment building that morning, but the building wasn’t his home.
Given the old veteran’s principles, he would never interfere in someone else’s affairs without a compelling reason.
Whatever had driven him to investigate the Vance Street Crew had to be deeply personal.
Anderson slipped the thick envelope into his coat.
He lacked too much information to reach a conclusion, and Mr.
Brown had clearly made his choice before coming to the church.
For the moment, Anderson decided to respect that decision.
Outside, Mr.
Brown walked slowly through the aging streets of Tremont.
He glanced back once at St.
Michael the Archangel Church before continuing toward the neighborhood’s neglected industrial district.
His face remained calm, and both hands rested inside his coat pockets.
“Cough…”
A dry cough shook his frail body.
Mr.
Brown suffered from advanced emphysema.
Years of damaged lungs made strenuous activity dangerous, and even a short period of exertion could leave him struggling with chest tightness and suffocation.
In a severe episode, he could lose consciousness or simply stop breathing.
“Cough…cough.”
His breath became shallow, but his steps never changed.
He continued at the same slow, deliberate pace until the church disappeared behind the surrounding buildings.
By late afternoon, Mr.
Brown reached the old underpass near the drainage tunnels.
Laughter echoed between the stained concrete walls.
“Look at this guy!”
“Come on, don’t be cheap!”
The Vance Street Crew had turned the isolated section of the neighborhood into their territory.
There were no working security cameras near the tunnels, and the surrounding buildings had been abandoned or occupied by people too frightened to speak.
That made the area perfect for extortion, drug sales, and violence.
Mr.
Brown stopped beneath the shadow of a nearby building and watched.
The same young men who had mocked Father Anderson were surrounding a frightened couple near the tunnel entrance.
They laughed while blocking the path, treating the situation like harmless entertainment.
“Is that your girlfriend?” one of them asked.
“She’s pretty.”
Another held out his hand.
“Relax.
We’re only collecting a toll.”
The young man stepped closer to the woman.
“You wouldn’t want something unfortunate to happen, would you?”
Mr.
Brown’s breathing quickened.
He pressed one hand against his chest and turned toward a narrow side passage before anyone noticed him.
At the end of the alley stood an old apartment building with a damaged service entrance.
He unlocked the door and went inside.
The apartment had once belonged to his closest friend, a former comrade who had served beside him decades earlier.
Now it looked like a condemned drug house.
Empty bottles, food wrappers, broken furniture, and discarded clothing covered the living room floor.
Graffiti had been sprayed across the walls, while the couch had been ruined by filth and human waste.
The gang had destroyed the place in less than two days.
Mr.
Brown stepped carefully over the garbage and entered the bedroom.
The conditions inside were even worse.
The blankets were stained, the mattress had been cut open, and drug paraphernalia covered a small table near the wall.
The gang had turned his dead friend’s home into another place to use and distribute narcotics.
Mr.
Brown’s eyes grew colder.
He crossed the room and stopped beside the broken window.
After pulling the torn curtain partly closed, he positioned himself where he could observe the underpass without being easily seen.
As he watched the gang continue harassing the couple, memories from their final conversation returned.
“Brown, I’m scared.”
His friend had been sitting in this same room, visibly trembling.
Mr.
Brown had stared at him in surprise.
“What happened?”
“I’ve been scared for months.
They put dog waste in my mailbox.
One time, they threw it at my face.”
The old man had looked toward the shattered window.
“They come here at night and scream insults.
They break things.
They know I live alone.”
Then he had reached into his coat and removed an old military bayonet.
“I can’t take it anymore.”
Mr.
Brown had immediately tried to calm him.
“Put that away.
Call the police and report everything.”
His friend had laughed bitterly.
“I’ve called them more times than I can remember.
They take statements, drive around for ten minutes, and leave.”
He had looked down at the bayonet.
“You know it doesn’t change anything.”
Mr.
Brown eventually convinced him not to act.
Before leaving that morning, his friend promised that he would stay inside and avoid the gang.
That promise lasted only until nightfall.
His body was found near the drainage tunnel several hours later.
He had been severely beaten, and multiple stab wounds covered his chest and abdomen.
The police arrested several members of the Vance Street Crew because they regularly gathered near the location.
Without witnesses, surveillance footage, or physical evidence tying them to the murder, all of them were released within hours.
No one had cared enough to investigate further.
His friend had been old, poor, and alone.
To the city, he was only another dead man in a dangerous neighborhood.
To Mr.
Brown, he had been family.
“Ahem.”
The memory triggered another coughing fit, but the old veteran never looked away from the gang.
Patience had kept him alive during war.
He knew how to observe a target, learn its habits, and wait until the correct moment presented itself.
The sun gradually sank behind the buildings.
One by one, the gang members began leaving the underpass.
They exchanged handshakes, bumped shoulders, and separated into smaller groups.
A thin young man broke away from the others and headed toward the apartment building alone.
Mr.
Brown recognized him.
Willie.
“The time has come.”
He reached inside his coat and removed a compact SIG Sauer P365-380 fitted with a suppressor.
The small pistol’s manageable recoil made it suitable for someone whose age and illness limited his strength.
Mr.
Brown checked the weapon with calm, practiced movements.
His hands didn’t tremble.
Despite his failing body, the habits drilled into him during military service remained intact.
He might not have the stamina to fight a young man, but he didn’t intend to give Willie an opportunity to fight back.
Footsteps entered the building.
Mr.
Brown moved toward the apartment door and waited.
When Willie reached the hallway, Mr.
Brown opened the door.
Both men stopped.
Willie looked at the elderly stranger with confusion before his expression turned hostile.
“What are you staring at?”
Mr.
Brown said nothing.
Willie stepped closer.
“You lost, old man?
This is our building.
Get out.”
Mr.
Brown smoothly raised the pistol.
Willie’s eyes widened.
His right hand immediately moved toward his waistband, but he had already surrendered the initiative.
Mr.
Brown pulled the trigger.
The suppressed gunshot cracked through the narrow hallway.
The first round struck Willie’s right hand, knocking it away from the weapon hidden beneath his shirt.
“Ah!”
Willie staggered and clutched his injured hand.
Mr.
Brown adjusted his aim and fired again.
The second round struck Willie in the chest.
“You…”
The young man stared at him in disbelief.
His knees weakened, and he began collapsing toward the floor.
Mr.
Brown fired a third time.
The final bullet struck Willie’s forehead.
His body hit the hallway with a heavy thud.
For several seconds, Mr.
Brown remained perfectly still, keeping the pistol trained on the motionless figure.
Only after confirming that Willie was dead did he lower the weapon.
His face showed neither satisfaction nor panic.
He returned the pistol to his coat and removed a pair of thin gloves from another pocket.
After putting them on, he quietly closed the apartment door behind him.
No one appeared in the hallway.
Mr.
Brown approached the body and looked down at Willie’s frozen expression.
He didn’t know which specific gang member had stabbed his friend.
It no longer mattered.
Every member of the Vance Street Crew had participated in the harassment.
They had protected one another, intimidated witnesses, and treated the neighborhood as their private hunting ground.
To Mr.
Brown, they were all accomplices.
He slowly bent down, struggling slightly as his damaged lungs tightened.
After rolling the body onto its back, he searched Willie’s pockets and clothing.
Mr.
Brown found a Colt M1911 tucked into his waistband, along with a small packet of white powder, a wallet, cash, and several other items.
Everything was stained with blood.
He removed an ordinary black grocery bag from his coat and placed the objects inside.
The sight would have seemed almost absurd—an elderly man using a shopping bag to collect a dead gangster’s weapon and drugs.
Mr.
Brown didn’t care.
He studied Willie’s face one last time before forcing himself upright.
The movement left him breathing heavily, but his eyes remained steady.
“The first one.”
Carrying the plastic bag, he walked toward the rear exit at the end of the hall.
His pace was slow and unremarkable, making him look like nothing more than a tired old man returning from the store.
Behind him, Willie’s body remained on the floor.
Mr.
Brown had begun his trial.