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I, Target (Part 5): I, Target, #5

I, Target (Part 5): I, Target, #5

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I, Target (Part 5): I, Target, #5

ratings:
4/5 (1 rating)
Length:
199 pages
3 hours
Publisher:
Released:
Dec 29, 2014
ISBN:
9781507083994
Format:
Book

Description

My name is Marko Santana and I have been killed many times.

You see, each time I am killed, my mind jumps into the killer’s body and I take over. It’s weird but simple: if someone kills me, I get their body.

So does that make me the ultimate crime-fighter? Maybe a cool body-snatcher kind of guy? Or nothing but a freakin’ brain parasite? Personally, I prefer to think of myself as the ultimate survivor—with a serious personality disorder.

I am not your father’s punch and run superhero. I am a problem in motion—and for better or worse, I am on the road to being seriously mental.

Join me on my quest for purpose and sanity as I journey through life in other people’s bodies. For these are the chronicles of one who feeds on killers—my killers. These are the chronicles of Marko Santana.

Born in Texas. Died all over.

I, Target is a 5-part series and each part must be read in order. I, Target (The Complete Series) is also available.

Warning: I, Target contains no cool graphics. But it does have wry humor, adult language, and starting in part 2 it contains some humorous adult sexual situations. So don’t say you weren’t warned.

Publisher:
Released:
Dec 29, 2014
ISBN:
9781507083994
Format:
Book

About the author


Related to I, Target (Part 5)

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I, Target (Part 5) - Bruce Rousseau

I,

TARGET

(Part 5)

By

Bruce Rousseau

Copyright © 2014 Bruce Rousseau

All rights reserved.

Dark Teal Press

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, products, brands, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, persons living or dead, businesses, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

BruceRousseau.com

Series Description

My name is Marko Santana and I have been killed many times.

You see, each time I am killed, my mind jumps into the killer’s body and I take over. It’s weird but simple: if someone kills me, I get their body.

So does that make me the ultimate crime-fighter? Maybe a cool body-snatcher kind of guy? Or nothing but a freakin’ brain parasite? Personally, I prefer to think of myself as the ultimate survivor—with a serious personality disorder.

I am not your father’s punch and run superhero. I am a problem in motion—and for better or worse, I am on the road to being seriously mental.

Join me on my quest for purpose and sanity as I journey through life in other people’s bodies. For these are the chronicles of one who feeds on killers—my killers. These are the chronicles of Marko Santana.

Born in Texas. Died all over.

To Carol

who transforms me

5.1 Body Count

I told Wolf to give up the chase. Jack was long gone by now, so Wolf aimed our stolen Harley back toward Austin.

Black clouds and rain threatened from the southeast. An incoming storm from the Gulf of Mexico. The approaching thunder and lightning echoed my mood.

As we rode, I tried to let Wolf know he did the best he could. I was tempted to give him some reassuring pets in my mind, but he would have eaten my hand.

Somehow Jack had figured out I was Marko, then killed my old girlfriend, Marie. Well, technically she was still alive, but there was only a frightened shred of her mind left in the back of her own brain. Jack was permanently in control of her body. And she was now sharing a mind filled with professional killers, and probably lots of brave people who thought they could just kill Jack outright. Jack’s mind was a tangled collection of spirits that he’d managed to swallow over the years. Stadium seating for hundreds of heroes, villains, and the innocents who just happened to have a body he wanted that day.

The world desperately needed one less Jack.

Jack, the massively twisted psychopath. Jack, the master body hijacker. Jack, the guy who killed off the friends and relatives of his latest body, just because he didn’t like loose ends. Jack, the guy who still wanted me to love him.

So did Jack think I was now going to hop into bed with him, just because he was now wearing my old girlfriend’s body? That thought really made my skin crawl. Jack laughing inside Marie’s head, while I got it on with Marie’s body? Damn, that was sick!

The Harley was drifting off the road. Hell, I needed to stop clenching up my gut and let Wolf ride this thing.

We pulled over on the freeway. I tucked in my kilt and tried to relax. But it was hard. I hated Jack with a passion—a passion I had to push down in my thoughts. Jack would die. Preferably by my hand. Preferably violently. And preferably today. End of subject.

So I took a deep breath and tried to calm my rage. But Wolf’s consciousness sneered at me, indicated I had no self control.

Right. Wolf was stone cold. And compared to him, I was downright hot-blooded. Fine. I got it. To take down Jack I’d need more Wolf in my head and less Marko.

Wolf got us back on the freeway, headed south to Rema’s. She needed to be warned, assuming she was still alive. And I needed to use her phone to warn Marie’s relatives. It crossed my mind that Peter might have some sort of Normal Protection program. Something like a rustic cabin in New Zealand. A place to protect normals who knew too much, and protect their loved ones.

The wind felt good in my face. But the storm was moving in fast. The start of hurricane season in the Gulf. Good. But the last thing I needed now was rain.

So right on cue, it started to rain.

Damn. We were riding the stolen Harley on the freeway. Seventy mph drops pelted and stung my face. I thought we should get under the nearest overpass to wait out the rain. Wolf thought that was a good way to be noticed by cops, and it was a real pansy move. The Harley could take the rain. Dread, my current body, could take the rain, too. So toughen up, Marko.

But Wolf did switch to the frontage road. Lower speed and more options if we got tagged by a trooper.

Fine. Let Wolf do the riding. I’d just settle back and figure things out. Wolf could handle the moment to moment tactical situation, while I rolled out the mental map and laid out our strategy. We made a good team. Right, Wolf?

He snarled.

Right. We needed a plan—my job. So what did we have in the positive column?

Nothing came to mind.

Okay, then what were the negatives?

The subject of Jack and Marie only filled me with rage and that didn’t help Wolf ride the motorcycle. So I avoided that subject. What else was a problem?

It was raining. Check.

We were on a freshly stolen black and red Harley. Check.

I was in a damn kilt with no underwear. Check.

I was in the body of Dread, the biker guy who’d recently put a sizable hole in Tommy the Nevada dirt realtor and all around family killer. Check.

Actually, Dread was probably the one that did the actual killing and disposing of bodies for his boss, Tommy.

And that Nevada chauffeur was a witness to Dread blowing away Tommy, so somewhere there was a wanted poster with my new face on it. Check.

What else?

Anyone who knew me as Marko, or who knew Marie, were in danger of being exterminated by Jack and his crew. At the top of that list was Rema, my mother, and Marie’s family. But maybe Jack would start with Marie’s friends and family because Jack was wearing her body. Jack would exterminate Marie’s connections first—his no loose ends policy. But my family and friends already thought I was dead, so they weren’t exactly loose ends that needed removal. Right?

What else?

Jack wouldn’t go insanely vindictive, would he? The sick bastard wouldn’t jump into my mother just to get me to love him, would he? I could picture Jack jumping into my loved ones, one at a time, until I caved in and became his personal boy toy.

Too many bad thoughts. I couldn’t think about Jack right now. Focus on other things, Marko.

I needed clothes. Real clothes, not this weird Highlander costume.

I needed to dump this hot motorcycle before the cops found me with it.

And I needed to get a new skin. Dread was wanted for murder in Nevada and it was only a matter of time before they found me.

Like it or not, maybe I needed to contact Peter and Sonya again, even if they were busy fighting evil. Maybe I should also see what Brenda and The Black were up to, assuming they hadn’t fled back to Europe.

Yeah. I needed to find out who was dead, and who was still alive and willing to help me. And it started with Rema.

Wolf wasn’t impressed. It was a shitty plan and I was a slow thinker. Jack would expect me to head back to Rema’s. Besides, Rema was probably already toast. We needed a better plan—one with a higher probability of survival.

No. I didn’t care if this was a damn trap for me. Rema deserved to be warned. I wasn’t about to abandon her. If there was trouble, Wolf and I could handle it. And Dread’s biker body looked like it could take a beating and still hit hard.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, the Harley rumbled with a low growl as I cruised slowly through Rema’s neighborhood. I snaked a path around flooded sections of street. Jack’s crew could be anywhere—waiting for me to check on Rema. The rain had stopped but was still threatening, almost holding its breath.

I was drenched in my boots and the tartan kilt from a clan I never knew. My puffy white shirt clung to Dread’s stocky biker body, and his violent rat and death tattoos showed through the wet fabric—a menacing omen.

A few kids watched as I passed. I throttled the engine a time or two. It was a good show. An over-the-top hard-ass tooling around for trouble in a mostly black neighborhood. A better show than the last time I rolled in—Pops on a blinged out girl’s bike.

So, yeah. I was rolling trouble. Because when a totally pissed jumper comes calling, abandon hope all who stand in his way.

I rolled up to Rema’s house expecting to find the front door smashed in and Rema’s blood spattered everywhere. But from the street, all was quiet except for an ominous white panel van parked in the driveway. It said Hairball Plumbing and sported a big grinning Cheshire cat logo.

Damn. Jack’s cleaners were here already. Probably led by Doc, Jack’s pit bull of a hit man.

Not good. If they only wanted Rema dead, they’d have been quick and gone.

And if I’d caught them in the act? Well, I’d just rolled up on a rumbling Harley, so they’d be waiting for me inside. Not good.

Martoni and Nameless thought it was the perfect time to run like hell. Either way, Rema was toast. Besides, we could find another sidekick later.

Pops thought we should just walk away from all this crazy nonsense. Set up a quiet little farm somewhere. Keep a low profile. Enjoy Dread’s spry body.

Spry?

There was way too much chatter going on in my head. Mainly, I wanted to focus on what Wolf thought.

Well, how about it, Wolf? Time for some tactics.

Wolf stepped off the Harley and walked over to the plumbing van. Locked, and we couldn’t see inside. Now what?

Wolf went to one of the van’s front tires, unscrewed the valve stem cap, found a tiny pebble to stick in the cap, and screwed it back on. Air hissed out of the tire. He did the same thing to another tire.

Then we moved quickly around to a side door of Rema’s house and tried it. Good, it was unlocked. Were we going in? No. Wolf picked up a rusty garden trowel and an old gardening glove and decided to check out the backyard.

Odd tactics, but I knew better than to ask questions.

No hot pink racing bike, so Jack wasn’t here. Just the usual shrubs Texans stick in the backyard hoping they might live through hot summers with strict water rationing. There was a back door, so Wolf decided to check it.

Locked. And for some reason Wolf decided he’d go in that way. Seriously? Pick the hardest way in? So sad to see an awesome killer reduced to being mentally challenged.

Wolf sneered and thought I was the one who was a pinhead. Do the unexpected. Live longer.

Yeah? And the old gardening glove made a good weapon?

Using a gloved fist, he smashed the glass on the back door, reached in, and unlocked it. Rema was going to be pissed about that. Before I knew it, we were in the kitchen, he’d dropped the trowel, and we had a big kitchen knife in one hand and a frying pan in the other.

Rounding the corner, we caught sight of Rema tied and gagged in a living room chair. Her wide eyes kinda indicated we were all totally screwed.

A guy I’d never seen before, jumped into the living room and fired a stun gun at me—dart on a wire. Wolf reacted and the barb bounced off the frying pan.

Cool. I grabbed a mental beer and pulled up a seat with my passengers. Wolf was a blur of action. For some reason, he dropped the frying pan and picked up a kitchen chair.

The second stun gun dart hit the airborne chair as the chair promptly smashed into the guy. Crap, I’d blinked and missed Wolf’s throw.

Good thinking, Wolf. Kitchen chairs made good weapons.

Wolf was in motion again, this time it seemed like he was going to use the knife to quickly kill the guy. I vetoed that because I didn’t need more blood on my hands, and because there was a remote chance the guy was a jumper. No way I’d ever want to kill a jumper and wind up as one of his passengers.

So Wolf picked up the frying pan and used it with extreme prejudice. One bone cracking blow to the skull and the guy was neutralized until EMS could get him to a hospital.

The blow to the head seemed excessive. Wolf thought the knife would have caused less pain. And I should shut up and let him handle this.

Fine.

I noticed we were back in the kitchen. Funny how being a passenger in my own mind was a lot like riding in the back of a car—glimpsing the world in snapshots as life streamed by.

We glanced around the corner again. Rema was still tied to a chair in the middle of the living room, eyes wide. But now there was a man behind her, crouching, holding a gun to her head. Rema was trying to talk around the gag. The words were unintelligible, but the gist added up to, Get the hell out of here!

Most of my passengers liked that idea. Then we recognized the guy holding the gun to her head. Doc.

Oh, shit.

But I wasn’t leaving, and Wolf sure as hell wasn’t going anywhere. Doc was Wolf’s idea of a worthy opponent. I reminded Wolf we were in Dread’s body, not his, so we might be outgunned. Wolf indicated that Dread was sturdy enough to get the job done.

Doc snapped us out of it. Give it up, Marko. He said that like I was a little piss-ant kid who drove a taxi. He tapped the side of Rema’s head with his gun. No one has to die here.

Did I believe him? Wolf? What was Doc like?

Wolf thought Doc could only be trusted to leave a bloody mess.

Yeah, kinda what I was thinking, too.

Doc seemed impatient. Waiting won’t make it any better for this fat bitch. He bit hard into Rema’s ear. She screamed.

That’s it! I let go of my mental steering wheel. Wolf had complete control. Kill!

Things got a little surreal as Wolf picked up Rema’s new kitchen table, held it like a shield, and we charged like a fucking badass at Doc and Rema. Doc got off two quick shots, low, maybe to clip us in the legs, but the solid wood table ate the bullets.

Rema, her chair, and Doc ate the heavy table.

Wolf pulled us out of the rubble and started pounding Doc. There was

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  • (4/5)
    This was a really cool title that was easy to jump into. I had a few times while reading it where I had gaps between reading time, and each time I started re-reading, I was able to figure out where I was and what was going on. I,Target had a fun perspective and a wide range of characters and locations. Hopefully this story makes it onto a TV executives desk someday cause it would make a very addictive show. Rousseau is a name I will keep in my favorites list.