Testing (Hector)



Beau Johnson by Beau Johnson

Sheila stood naked in front of the full-length mirror and admired the view. As she slowly slid her hand down her defined abs she caught something in her peripheral. She turned and faced the floor to ceiling window. A drone hovered outside, not three feet from the glass. And now, she’d just given someone a full frontal shot.

“Shit! Alex, the drone is back,” she called to her boyfriend.

She dove into the walk-in closet and began pulling on clothes. Alex ran in with binoculars.

“Where is the fucker?”

“South window, go.”

Alex locked on the drone. With his free hand, he slid his phone from his pocket and took a quick photo. The drone arced up and away from the house then descended south into the canyon. He tracked it to a red-tiled roof mansion below with an oval shaped pool. Sheila joined him.

“Laptop, Google earth, quick.”

“Already on it,” she said.

“Find our place then radiate out,” Alex said.

“Like you need to tell me that,” she snapped. “Ok, got it, trade ya.”

Alex showed her the house. Sheila went back to the computer and zoomed in. She got the address and plugged it into the WAZE app. Before closing up, she saw a wooden sign attached to the mailbox: The Jackons

“WAZE says six minutes—move!”

“Can I help you?”

“Are you Mr. Jackson?”

“I’m Richard Jackson what can I do for you?”

“Recognize this Richard?” Alex held up the drone photo.

“Yes, it’s–”

Sheila stepped forward and punched Mr. Jackson squarely in the nose. He fell hard on his tailbone. “What the hell?”

“Fucking peeping Tom,” Sheila said stepping into the home.

 “This is the third time,” she said. Alex pulled her back.

Richard regained his feet and put his hand to his bloody nose.

“I’m calling the cops, I’ve had it with you punk drug dealers.”

Alex mouthed, “How does he know?” to Sheila.

“Yeah I know how you afford that big place—whole God damn neighborhood knows,” he said heading toward his cell phone on the large granite topped island. Alex leapt into action and shoved him hard in the back. Mr. Jackson’s head struck the edge of the counter. He slumped to the floor and lay still.

“Pussy passed out,” Alex said.

Sheila checked for a pulse. “Nope, neck’s snapped, he’s gone.”

They were silent a moment.

“Fuck ‘im. Let’s go,” Alex said.

“What the fuck?” Cried a dark haired teen as he descended the stairs. He pulled his ear-buds out with one hand and carried a drone controller in the other. He shoved Alex aside and checked on the body.

“You dicks,” he shouted.

You’re the one’s been spying on me?” Sheila asked.

“I sure as shit ain’t watching him,” he said, glaring at Alex.

“This is what you call consequences, kid,” Alex said. “Let’s go, babe.”

“He’s a witness,” Sheila said.

“He’s a kid that’s seen what we’re capable of,” Alex sneered. “Ain’t that right kid?” Alex headed for the door.

Sheila walked up to the kid. She had three inches in height on him.

“He’s not fucking around,” she said, snatching the drone controller and stomping on it.

“Bitch,” the teen said to her, which got him a stiff slap across the face.


After the drug dealers left, the kid opened his laptop. He uploaded the drone video to Facebook, Youtube, and a short edit to Instagram, tag line: These fucks killed my dad. Turn on the news in the next hour…

Next. he uploaded the security footage from his Nest III home security system and sent it to the L.A.P.D. with a note attached: My name is Caleb Jackson. These two drug-dealing dicks just killed my dad. Press play. He attached his cell number at the end. His phone rang eight minutes later.


“Caleb Jackson?”


“This is detective Sam Briggs with the L.A.P.D. we received your video. Are you hurt?”


“Are you still in the home?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Stay put, we’re on our way.”

“Do you want their address? The killers?”

“Already have it. We know who they are. Units on route.”

Beau Johnson is a Canadian writer.