Discipline

by Marc Avery

Genres: Suspense

Synopsis

Two homicide detectives track a brazen killer who’s dropping bodies at historical Philadelphia landmarks in this action-packed crime thriller.

Giuseppe “Discipline” Cain is a cold-hearted, calculated, and resentful murderer who turns Philadelphia into his own personal killing ground. As the death toll rises, city officials and the police department clamor to calm the fears of the citizens about this brazen serial killer. When an elected official’s family member is found dead, no one in the city is safe.

Detective Aaden Bravo is a highly decorated officer with a legendary clearance rate. Detective Christian Bennett is flashy, reckless, and a serial womanizer. After Christian’s transfer to the Philadelphia Police Department’s homicide division, these two starkly contrasting officers are forced to work together. Despite their disdain for each other, Aaden and Christian’s skill sets complement each other. While Aaden is all about the job and Christian is all about the women, their next case is all about survival.

Will they succumb to the pressure of maintaining their partnership, or can they cast aside their differences and stay alive long enough to bring Discipline to justice?

Release date: May 27, 2025

Publisher: Black Odyssey Media

Print pages: 288

Sample

Prologue

2006

Giuseppe

Giuseppe Cain’s twelve-year-old body trembled, and his stomach tightened with fear, sending a charge of nervous energy through his arms and legs. The smell of cheap whiskey and stale cigarettes stung his nose as he stood in the tiny apartment bathroom. The cold linoleum floor beneath his feet was cracked and stained. His before-school routine of a shower and breakfast was interrupted by the disturbing sight of his father, Curtis Cain’s pale, naked, and lifeless body lying in front of the filthy toilet. His father’s neck was twisted at an impossible angle—one of his legs had gotten tangled in the moldy shower curtain, and one of his hands was curled into a fist.

Like a broken action figure, he lay on the ground a crumpled mess. A slight indentation in the skin below his hairline showed where he’d hit his head. Dried blood was on his forehead and in his closely cropped black hair. His half-lidded eyes stared blankly at nothing, and his lips were blue like the surface of a frozen lake. Empty syringes, burnt-out cigarette butts, and blackened cotton buds littered the countertop and sink. The room was an addict’s drug cornucopia. 

Giuseppe’s mind and body warred with each other. On one side of the tug-of-war rope, his instincts pointed to the door, and he wanted nothing more than to run back to the safety and shelter of his bedroom, away from the horror in front of him. On the other side, his brain screamed for him not to leave. Somehow, if he stayed in the bathroom, he could help his father wake up.

When Giuseppe’s body and mind became in sync again, he approached his father with caution. Each footstep he took was a fragile one, layered in raw emotion, grief, and bravery. With a shaking hand and frayed nerves, he reached out to touch the dead man’s shoulder. The flesh was cool and clammy under his fingertips, and it would never be warm again. Giuseppe saw the syringe jutting out of his father’s forearm, which was filled with fresh bruises and older scars that had long ago healed. The needle piercing his father’s discolored skin was an ugly declaration of the addiction that had killed him. “Daddy, get up.” Giuseppe grabbed his father’s shoulders and shook them forcefully.

“Daddy, I’m scared. Please get up,” he said softly. His voice reverberated throughout the room, and tears streamed down his face.

Giuseppe expected his old man to respond the way he always had, “Yes, little one.”

When his father didn’t respond to his plea, he stumbled back, mired in disbelief, no longer wanting to be near the body. The finality of the situation clicked in his brain. How could the man with whom he shared similar boyish facial features and mannerisms be gone? It didn’t make sense to Giuseppe, who had never seen the addict side of his father. This couldn’t be the same man who told him to never do drugs. Now, he could never ask him why he would hurt himself on purpose. Why would he leave him and his mother alone in the world? 

Needing to get away from his father’s corpse, he sprinted through the hall in search of his mother, bare feet slapping against the threadbare carpet. The dingy yellow paint on the walls was peeling off in some places, revealing the drywall underneath. When Giuseppe reached his parents’ room, he figured he would find his mother. She would reassure him everything would be okay.

Anytime he was unsure about something she would say, “This might not make sense now, but eventually it will.” Instead of finding her and being comforted by her reassuring words, he found the bedroom in total disarray. Dim lighting accentuated the grime and filth around him. Rumpled bedsheets covered the floor like dead leaves in autumn. The air smelled like old leather, and it looked like someone had ransacked the space. His mother was nowhere to be found. Warning bells were ringing in his head. 

His heart pounded as he went back the way he’d come, past the bathroom and his bedroom, through the narrow hall, and into the cluttered living room. The sound of the bells in his head was getting louder. Empty bowls, plates, cups, silverware, old newspapers, and dirty clothes were scattered throughout the room. His nostrils filled with the scent of day-old Chinese food, mixed in with body odor. He followed his nose through the living room and saw his mother.   

Diane Cain sat cross-legged on the couch, her head tilted back, eyes opened wide, and staring at the chipped white ceiling. The drugs that flowed through her veins had left blemishes on her body and distorted her natural beauty. A single line of deep red blood ran from her nose, down her lips, and onto her pale skin. Her deep brown hair was matted against her head, and her arms were splayed at her sides. The thin cotton nightgown she wore was unbuttoned in the front. One side drooped and exposed her ample right breast.

On the glass coffee table in front of her was a bowl of white powder that glittered like a diamond in a bed of charcoal. A rolled-up dollar bill was stuck inside the pile of cocaine like a straw. Next to the bowl was an ashtray full of crushed cigarette butts and a half-eaten carton of shrimp and broccoli. 

Giuseppe went over and touched his mother’s arm like he had done with his father. Her skin had the same cool and clammy feel. Unfortunately, he’d seen enough movies on television to know his mother was dead, too. First, his father harmed himself and now this.

“Not you, too, Momma. Not you, too.”  

His chest knotted with emotion, and he let out a rumbling deep and guttural roar like a wild animal. He scrambled to the kitchen and grabbed the house phone off the counter. Dialing 911, Giuseppe collapsed on the floor in desperation and waited for a voice—any voice—to tell him this was all a dream, it wasn’t real, and it wasn’t happening to him.

A female operator answered the call. “Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?” 

Between sobs and sniffles, Giuseppe tried to steady his voice but sputtered out a response. “My parents are dead. I don’t know what to do. Please help me.”

The dispatcher’s voice was warm, calm, and soothing. “What’s your name, sir?” 

He closed his eyes. “My name is Giuseppe Cain.”

“Okay, Giuseppe. Can you explain to me what happened?”

“I found my father laying in the bathroom, and…” Giuseppe choked back the words. 

“It’s okay. Take your time, Giuseppe.”

He took a deep breath. “I found my father laying in the bathroom, and when I touched him, he felt cold. When I called his name, he didn’t say nothin’ back. After I saw the drugs and the needle in his arm, I knew he was dead. It was the same with my mother. Once I touched her arm and saw the drugs, I knew she was gone, too. They’re both dead, and I don’t know what to do.” 

The 911 operator kept her voice professional when she asked, “And you’re a hundred percent sure they aren’t breathing?”

The weight of his parents’ deaths felt like an elephant was sitting on his chest cutting off his air supply. “I’m sure they ain’t breathing. They dead.”

“Did you check their pulse?”

He sniffled again. “I don’t know how to do that.”

“It’s okay, Giuseppe. One more question: Is there anybody else in the house besides you, your mother, and your father?”

“No, ma’am. It’s just us—my mom, my dad, and me.” 

Her voice was sincere, gentle, and caring. “Try and stay calm as best you can. I promise everything is going to be just fine. We’ve tracked your location, and help is on the way. Stay on the line with me until the police and paramedics arrive, okay?”

“Alright. I will stay on the line.” Giuseppe put the phone on speaker and set it down next to him on the floor. Within minutes, he heard wailing ambulance sirens in front of his apartment building. Soon, there was a loud knock at his door. “Be there in a second.” He pried himself away from the kitchen floor long enough to get up and stumble back into the living room. When he opened the front door, the hallway smelled like rubbing alcohol. Once he saw the paramedics dressed in bright neon-yellow jackets, face masks, and latex gloves with two stretchers, his worst fears were confirmed. This was really happening, he wasn’t dreaming, and his parents weren’t coming back. He was all alone.

He heard his mother’s calming voice say, “This might not make sense now, but eventually it will.”

Chapter 1

2018

Discipline

Discipline stepped into his massive walk-in closet and kneeled on the polished hardwood floor. He typed in a four-digit code and grabbed the black nine-millimeter semi-automatic handgun out of an electronic lockbox. As he put the weapon inside the leather holster beneath his hand-stitched wool blazer, his cell phone vibrated on the nightstand with a text message alert. He went and grabbed the cell phone and unlocked the screen with a numerical password. After he looked at the text that read, Come on, man. I’m downstairs. He stuffed the phone in his pants pocket, sprayed himself with cedarwood cologne, and put on Oxford dress shoes. 

Before he left the bedroom, a fried chicken commercial caught his eye on the sixty-five-inch flat-screen television. Seeing his foster mother, Samantha Carter’s favorite fast-food restaurant triggered memories of her, their relationship, and his traumatizing childhood. 

Once his biological parents overdosed on cocaine inside their apartment, he became distrustful of people and their real intentions.

He built a calloused wall of defense around himself as a result of this trauma and used violence as a defense mechanism. 

After cycling through boys homes and juvenile detention centers, Samantha adopted Discipline two days before his sixteenth birthday. Because she couldn’t conceive children of her own, it was an honor she chose him over every other option she’d had. It made him feel wanted.

At first, Samantha saw Discipline as too serious and standoffish, but over time, she began to see his personality shine through with his love of the Philadelphia 76ers and Stephen King novels. It wasn’t uncommon for them to watch the Sixers play or discuss King’s latest opus. She appealed to his intellectual side and didn’t ridicule or talk down to him. She was one of a kind. 

With most people, Discipline kept his guard up like a shield. When it came to Samantha, though, he was warm and inviting. Before too long, she affectionately gave him the nickname “Discipline” because of his patience and stoic personality.

The day he was released into her custody, she grabbed him by the hand and said, “It’s time to go home where I will protect you.”

No more abusive staff members, antagonistic teenagers, group showers, or bland food. Most importantly, no more feeling lonely, scared, and isolated. He was happy to have a home to go to and someone who thought enough of him to take him in. 

The thought of their last conversation was bittersweet. He appreciated and respected her wisdom, but he hated he could no longer receive her blessings. The memory was vivid because it was the last time he’d spoken to her before she died in the hospital. He was sentenced to a year in jail for a first-degree misdemeanor of simple assault. Per state laws, their conversations were capped at ten minutes. He found this out the hard way by going over the limit, and the phone shut off without warning. Since then, he’d kept a mental timer in his head, always knowing when their time was approaching. 

The letters were nice, but the phone calls kept him sane. They kept him connected to her and the outside world. She developed chronic knee pain, and he didn’t want her traveling back and forth to come and visit him. So, they agreed to communicate over the phone. Nothing was better than her visiting in person, but he would take what he could get.

The conversation started like all their other ones.

“Do you know how much I love you, son?” she asked, her voice soft and comforting.

“Yes, Sam. I love you, too.” He couldn’t stop smiling whenever they were on the phone.

He sent her a letter explaining why he’d gotten into a physical altercation with a group of inmates, and he needed to hear her voice more than ever.

“Listen, I know it’s tough in there—I could never understand what it’s like to be stripped of your freedom—but I don’t want you to be discouraged either. Before you know it, you’ll be home soon,” Samantha said with optimism.

“It’s hell in here.” He sighed heavily. “In a perfect world, I could go about my business and stay out of the way. Every week, I gotta remind somebody about who I am.” 

Although she wasn’t from the streets, she had no problem interpreting his slang. She’d raised him to be a gentleman and told him to protect himself at all costs.

“Promise me you won’t put yourself in danger like that again,” she said earnestly. “You know if somebody puts their hands on you, then they gotta put their hands on me, too. And I know you don’t want anyone putting their hands on me, right?”

A smirk spread across Discipline’s face. “No. I would never allow someone to disrespect you. Because, if they put their hands on you, then I gotta put my hands on them. Now, that’s a never-ending cycle of us putting our hands on people.”

Now it was Samantha’s time to laugh. Since their phone time was almost over, Discipline decided to wrap up the conversation.

“Thank you for always being there when I need you. I love you and I appreciate you.”

“I love you too, baby,” she replied warmly. “All I want is for you to live the life you want. I understand the allure of the streets. A man has to be a man, and I won’t stand in the way of that. Just be safe in whatever you do. You’re my king, and don’t you ever forget it.”

“I’ll be safe, and I won’t forget. Now, please get some rest, and I’ll call you next week.”

Their next conversation never came. Instead, Discipline was blindsided by the news of her death.

He shook the memory away, relieved this time thinking of Samantha made him smile. He went into the kitchen, grabbed an energy drink out of the two-door refrigerator, and left his two-bedroom condominium. He took the elevator to the lobby. Downstairs, he finished the energy drink and discarded the can in the trash. Outside, a deep violet painted the night sky, illuminated by thousands of stars.

Discipline’s South Philadelphia neighborhood had no trash or broken glass on the sidewalks or in the street. People weren’t hanging on the corners, and everyone seemed to know each other. It was a long way from his run-down childhood apartment in the rough, worn Kensington area with the out-of-order elevator, prostitutes, and the constant flow of drug addicts—not too far from where the Kensington Strangler caught and murdered his victims. The area had been ravished by drugs, crime, impoverishment, and prostitution. Sometimes thinking about his old crumbling neighborhood gave him post-traumatic stress disorder, and he would momentarily forget how far he’d come. Living in such a toxic environment made him enjoy the perks of having money. 

Once he escaped the ills of poverty and the neglectful foster care system, he saw money as a way to insulate himself from being downtrodden. It also helped to soften the blow of being an orphan and alone in the world. It wasn’t the end all be all, but it gave him something to hold on to. For him, it was enough. 

An idling white beat-up Ford Taurus with its engine purring softly sat parallel parked in front of his building. A homicide detective who looked like a cologne ad model named Joseph Armstrong sat behind the wheel smoking a cigarette.

“Please tell me you’re ready to go and get this money,” Armstrong said with the enthusiasm of a motivational speaker, taking a long pull on his cigarette. 

When Discipline got in the passenger side of the car, he rolled his window down to get rid of the cigarette smoke. He hated secondhand smoke and the smell getting trapped in his clothes, but he tolerated the minor inconvenience because of their two-year business relationship. He didn’t like Armstrong on a personal level, but he would never let his emotions get in the way of a business deal. 

He rubbed his hands together and cracked a devilish smile. “Of course I am. I’ve been thinking about it all day.”

Armstrong flicked his half-smoked cigarette out the window and ran his hand through his brown curly hair. “All right then. That’s what I wanna hear, so let’s make it happen.” After he checked his rear and side mirrors, he pulled off. 

For Discipline, dealing with a cop came with risks, but it came with a lot of rewards, too— more reward than risk. Being Armstrong’s personal bodyguard paid better than his previous job as nightclub security. 

The moment he saved Armstrong from being stabbed and robbed by a couple of hardheads at the nightclub he worked for, Armstrong took him under his wing, and they became close associates. So close, Armstrong offered him a job on the spot as his bodyguard and partner in crime. All he had to do was watch his back while he picked up or sold drugs. They were more business associates than friends, and that’s how Discipline carried their relationship. There was no need to make their connection into more than it really was. He only cared about the money and nothing else.

Business over everything. It was one of his favorite mottos. 

For their entire relationship, he viewed Armstrong as a meal ticket—one he intended to eat off until he made himself $500,000. So far during their partnership, he’d accumulated $450,000. After he got his remaining fifty, he didn’t need him anymore. All he cared about was hitting his goal.

As Armstrong drove through the newly gentrified Fishtown, the scenery changed from gastropubs, retro arcades, and art galleries to abandoned cars, seedy blocks, and dilapidated buildings.

They were parked in an abandoned lot for fifteen minutes before he voiced his displeasure about waiting longer than they needed to and spoke sharply. “Our meeting was at nine o’clock. Not nine o’five. Not nine ten. Not nine fifteen. Nine o’clock. Where are they, man? My patience is running thin, and I don’t like my time being wasted.” Discipline tapped an imaginary watch on his wrist, seething with impatience, and looked at Armstrong with cold eyes and a menacing scowl. 

“I’m sure something important held them up. Be patient, my friend. They’ll be here.” Armstrong patted his shoulder to calm him and smiled with confidence. 

Minutes later, a black GMC Acadia pulled into the lot with them, and its headlights slowly dimmed until it was cloaked in darkness. Two burly and expressionless men wearing cheap suits and scuffed shoes emerged from the vehicle. Large gun prints were visible through their suit jackets. The two men lumbered toward Discipline and Armstrong. One of them was holding a backpack.

“See what happens if you have a little patience? I told you they’d be here,” Armstrong said vehemently. Grinning, he nodded toward them.

Discipline shook his head. “About damn time they finally showed up.” 

He watched Armstrong reach into the glove compartment for a plastic storage bag of opioids and stuff them into his sweatpants pocket. After he and Armstrong hopped out the car, he glared at the two men. Because of his compact frame, feminine voice, French-braided hair, and Filipino-Canadian features, people mistook him for soft and unassuming. His thin mustache and delicate hands didn’t help matters either. At first glance, they couldn’t see the murderous look in his warm brown eyes or the threatening undertones in his demeanor. 

He and Armstrong were both shy of six feet and weighed under two hundred pounds. They were at a height and weight disadvantage with the men they were meeting with. Discipline was used to being the underdog and beating the odds in front of him. Despite a perceived vulnerability and disadvantage, he stood tall and confident by Armstrong’s side. Regardless of his small stature, he carried himself like King Kong.  

“Good evening, gentlemen. To be clear, when I set a time for us to meet, I fully expect you to respect and honor our time commitment. I got things to do and people to see, and your lack of punctuality has shifted my schedule in a way that I wasn’t anticipating. I’m going to say this once, and I won’t repeat myself. Don’t let this be an issue again, or I’m going to let my dog off the leash.” Armstrong gestured toward Discipline who grinned in anticipation.  

“My apologies, Joe. We ran into a bit of an issue. I’ll spare you the details, but trust and believe it won’t happen again. I give you my word,” one of them said apologetically.

Discipline smirked when they humbled themselves with an apology. 

“Things happen. I totally understand.” Armstrong nodded. “You got my money?” 

“Yeah, I got the money right here for you.” The man gr. . .