by Brick
“Please, just let her get her doll,” I begged.
I didn’t know why she wanted that damn doll at that moment, but I would give her anything to ease the fear I knew she felt.
The leader jerked his head toward the other man. “Go get the damn doll.”
“I want the one in my chair by the window,” she demanded.
“Fucking brat,” he spat out.
The other guy disappeared down the hall, then came back with a black doll. The doll was almost Lyric’s size and height with Afro puffs to match the style she often wore on her head. It was a doll her father had brought back from one of his work trips before.
Lyric took the doll, then nestled herself against my chest. She kept moving every so often. I thought it was because she was agitated, but then she placed something cool and steel-like in my hand when the men weren’t looking. When I realized what it was, I gawked down at my baby.
She whispered, “Daddy says if you’re always ready, Mommy, you never have to get re-pre-um-prepared. And in case of a mer-gen-cee, break the glass,” she finished, pointing at the chandelier lights above us.
In my hand was a small gun. Had to be a Glock 19 Gen 4 as it fit into my hands perfectly. Marcel had taught me about the smaller handguns women sometimes use when their hands were as small as mine. The fact that my daughter had this gun stored in one of her dolls angered me and made me thank God for a man as crazy as Marcel all at once.
“Break the glass, Mommy, and cover your eyes,” she kept whispering.
Lord, have mercy, what had Marcel been teaching our child? I clicked off the safety on the gun. I could tell the men were watching us now. Lyric had been whispering to me for a long while now.
“Yo, stop all that whispering and shit,” the leader yelled.
“Fuck you,” I spat back. I pulled the gun and shot the other man in the leg.
When the leader and the second man rushed for me, I shot into the chandelier.
“Cover your eyes, Mommy,” Lyric yelled.
I did so just as lightninglike flashes went off in the house. I heard popping and cackling. The chandelier rattled and fell to the floor. I put Lyric around my waist, got up, and made a beeline for my bedroom. While the men screamed and yelled behind me, I rushed into the closet, grabbed the black duffle bag on the floor, then pushed a panel on the wall. It slid open quickly, then slammed shut behind us. I rushed down the stairs and pushed the door open that led to the garage. I didn’t mean to, but I tossed Lyric haphazardly into the backseat, then climbed in front. She fell to the floor; hit her head on something.
The Charger was a push start, and since the proximity key was in the bag I grabbed, it took me no time to crank the car. I didn’t bother opening the garage door. I crashed the car right through the garage door and sped out.
Chapter Fourteen
Marcel
I’d like to acknowledge that my wife was right. I was crazy. My thought process on the protection of my family had me on levels that just weren’t attainable by the normal human being.
The choice I made in teaching my 3-year-old Lyric how to defend herself was not something easy for me to rationalize. My wife may not have known that. I agonized over it because I wasn’t raised like this. I had a normal-ass childhood. I grew up hearing Jazz, Blues, Classical, hip-hop. I grew up listening to my mom debate with my pops about political shit and law. At 3, I was playing with my building blocks and reading in Spanish because my mother integrated early childhood education in our home.
At 3 years old, I was watching my pops teach me how to play his trombone, the piano, and later taking me to capoeira classes taught by an ex-Black Panther/war vet. The perks of living in a diverse and culture-rich DC. So, teaching my precious and intelligent baby girl what she knew bothered me. I didn’t want to groom a child soldier, but I didn’t want my baby girl assed out in protecting herself as a child.
Therefore, I made a hard choice. Love me or hate me for it. There were toddlers all over the world who grow up learning skills that American kids learn how to do at 12 years old or not at all. Especially in a tribal mentality, so I made that choice. At 3, I knew how to protect myself somewhat if I ever got lost, and I wanted the same for my baby girl. So, yeah, I did it; hid a Glock specifically made for my wife in our baby girl’s stuffed doll, left the knowledge of throwing up a signal for me with my baby girl by having her tell her mother to shoot in certain places, and it saved my wife and daughter’s life.
I was stuck in traffic when my Galaxy note tablet was dinging with alerts. At first, I didn’t think anything of it. Thought that Brina had tripped the security by accident as she sometimes did when in a rush to leave the house. Nothing in my 27, almost 28 years of life would have had me speculating that Lyric’s and her lives were in jeopardy. Nothing.
After marrying Brina, I had taken the steps in my life to continue to learn my craft and keep it separate from family. That meant from my mentorship with other professional killers and military soldiers, I learned to move all my business out of the state I lived in. Any offers that came my way continued to be from a secure line, and I made sure to keep my identity hidden. If I could not keep my identity hidden, I made sure to alter it in some way. As a professional killer, my name was Iago, a dig at my wife’s father, or Mr. Charles Usher, a twist on my name.
Nothing more, nothing less.
When people reached out to me, it happened in multiple ways; the main one was when a potential client uttered that they wished something could be handled. This always and only happened in my close circles I worked in around the political officials. It was then I stalked them and studied them. If I felt that they needed real help, they would receive a business card with my untraceable number. They call. I go over the rules, and then we hang up. Afterward, they email or leave me a message of coordinates, and then the rest is on me. Whatever they needed fixed would be fixed.
Often though, word of mouth spread my expert work. I explain all of this because I’m making a point. Yes, I probably had enemies. They usually were people who wanted me dead due to my associations or because of some political shit. If anyone else was after me, it was personal and on some vendetta, and since no one knew me personally in my killing game anymore, except for a select few, then those select few were always watched by me.
Yeah, so, the fact that my crib kept going off had me curious. Reaching into the seat next to me, I tilted my tablet to take a look while my ride moved through the snail traffic. Everything appeared okay, but when another trigger was hit, I knew the alerts weren’t accidental. Dropping it, I glanced up and saw an exit ahead. Motherfuckers were blocking me, so I took to the side medium, then hit the exit going down. Whipping around, I took an alternate route until I made it home.
My home was a big, beautiful house sitting back on some land for security purposes and so that my daughter could have room to play outside. I point that out because, before riding up on it, I sat parked, hidden by some massive trees scoping my home. If the threat was worse than some burglars, I needed to know. Every camera in my home was being shut off; wires snipped to keep me from being alerted. Whoever these motherfuckers were, were smart.
However, they weren’t too smart; they underestimated my 3-year-old. As soon as I was hit with the chandelier alert, my cameras that were positioned in the trees ticked on and zoomed throughout the house flipping to night scope. At that same time, the sound of my smoke grenades and sensor grenades popped off.
A deep scowl formed on my face while watching my tablet. I scoped my home counting the threat. There appeared to be four men, each one shouting, covering their mouths, and looking around. I did not see my wife or Lyric, and that bothered me deeply until the familiar sound of our Charger blasting through our land out of the gates past me drew my attention. Turning in my seat, I saw it was Sabrina with a frightened but serious look in her eyes.
Pride had me nodding at my wife in respect but had me worried. From my angle, I could not make out if Lyric was with her, and I coul
dn’t call the burner that was in the Charger because I wanted Sabrina to get as far away as possible. All I could do at that point was get out of my car, switch out of my clothes, grab my weapons, and hope. Staying in the lines of our trees, I kept the gas mask I had on secured around my face and goggles.
Motherfuckers wanted to try me? Come for my family? Clearly, they didn’t know who they were coming for. However, I was more than happy to give them my introduction. Taking my time, I wrapped around to the front of my house to gauge if there were more men, and there weren’t. Guess it was time to act a fool.
Walking to the front, I pushed open the front door and walked in, looking around. I heard nonstop coughing and shouts while I moved through the smoke. In the middle of our home was a huge foyer. Unstrapping some guns, I placed them on a table, then moved on with my shotgun.
“I can’t see! I can’t find that bitch either!” I heard shouted.
How strong that voice barked allowed me to gather that dude was in a room over, the living room. Shards of glass were everywhere, and I smiled. Glancing up at the celling, I saw the shattered chandelier. I continued moving, dropping low to grab a piece of glass and walk up on to the one that shouted.
Springing up, I hooked my arm around the masked goon’s face. These were some amateurs, and I was curious to see who they were, but I had business to take care of. The familiar struggle of a dude such as him fighting against my hold sent me into my void. I squeezed tightly and ripped off the mask.
“Inhale, motherfucker, inhale,” is all I said watching my target’s eyes struggle.
Because of how I held him, he couldn’t move to get behind my hold. All it did was cause me to squeeze tighter and wait it out. After a few, I carefully dragged him by his neck toward the door of our patio. Swinging it open, I pulled him out, felt him reach out fighting for life, fighting by gripping the doorway to stop me from dragging him.
I gave a deep chuckle as I squeezed. “That’s all right. I didn’t want any blood on the carpet.”
That is all I said as I jabbed the shard of glass into my target. The first puncture was difficult because of how he fought me, but once that glass slide through his flesh, then everything came together. In and out, I stabbed, listening to him shout as his blood sprayed everywhere. His arms flailed around in a whirling manner. I slammed my elbow down into his face to stop him from screaming, then slid the glass across his neck cutting deep.
Dropping him, I stepped over him and looked down while pulling off my mask. “Since it wasn’t clear who you were dealing with, let me introduce myself. They call me Marcel Raymond. Your life has just been terminated.”
Tapping him with my foot, I smirked at the dead fish-eye stare of my target. I noticed that I didn’t know him. He was a short, stocky, white guy with bug eyes. No identifying tattoo was on his neck or face, so I shrugged and walked back into the living room.
I noticed while walking back inside that it was silent, which meant that my cover had been blown. I guess that it was time to ante up my game. Heading through the corridor of my kitchen, I kept to the wall and took quiet steps while scoping my area.
No one in the kitchen, so I wrapped around back to the front, stopping near the foyer. Shifting my shotgun, I gave a displeased sigh and looked around as I walked in, more like strolled in. “Why must you motherfuckers make my ass act the fuck up? Not only in my own home but in front of my neighbors? I know they hear this shit, but damn, you really want to meet my special breed of beast, huh?” Releasing the shell, I continued walking. “So be it.”
Rounding the corner, I stared upstairs and around. They were somewhere, and I was going to find them.
“You wanted me? I know you did, so don’t be pussy, as in the cat. Come at me. Daddy’s home, bitches!” I yelled, taking two stairs at a time.
Making sure to glance behind me, I saw a masked man appear in the middle of the foyer. I turned and then let off a round of my shotgun. Buckshot slammed into my target’s legs as his bullet grazed my shoulder. Hopping over the banister of the stairway, I rolled, then grabbed the guns I had on the table. Letting off a round, I used my shotgun to stand, then ran after the masked man.
“Where you going? Don’t you want me? I’m right here, nigga,” I shouted following.
This was a distraction, which is why I stopped running and turned to walk. “Where’s the leader? I counted four of you. There’s now three; well, two and half, so what up?”
The whizzing of a bullet grazing my thigh had me keeping near the walls again. I glanced outside and chuckled. One was outside, bet.
“Marcel, we’ve been waiting. Glad that you’re here, nigga!” I heard shouted from outside.
A smirk lined my face as I took my time moving through the house. “No doubt. Glad to grace you all with my presence, so what up?”
“You know the deal,” the guy said shouting.
The harsh crunch of boots on glass drew my attention. From where I was in the back of the house, I knew several men were coming my way. There was no way to go after them. The only thing I could do was wait. As I did, I saw shadows flicker by, and I knew what to do. Dropping low, I ran. Bullets rang out, showering around me, but I was quicker than one of the gunmen. I landed a fist in one man’s face as he stuck his head around the corner to see if he’d shot me. I took my shotgun and slammed it into the face of the second man, then got up.
Breathing hard, I blocked a fist coming for me. Turning, I shot off my Glock and watched the bullet connect with the man’s face. His friend rushed me and slammed me to the floor. Several punches slammed into my rib cage causing nothing but blinding pain. I twisted, tried to turn, and gasped when a fist hit my chest.
Inwardly, I cursed as I worked myself away with my legs locking around my attacker’s waist, then slamming my fist up against his face. Blood was everywhere running down my face and dripping into my mouth. It caused this fight to become difficult, but it wasn’t stressful for me, because I was having a good time. Reaching out, both my assailant and I tried to grab our guns, but it was the window of opportunity where his weight shifted that allowed me to slam my knee up and push him off me.
Shifting in my position, I was on top now, and with me came my fists that slammed into his face. I clamped my hand over his nose and mouth, used my fingers to squeeze his trachea, then grinned when I snapped it and let go.
Dude gasped for air, and I watched. “So, again, you were after me? Damn, they could have sent professionals.”
Carefully standing, I walked away, grabbed my shotgun, then shot into the chest of my attacker. The sink was in front of me, which meant we had fought our way back into the kitchen. Thankful for that, I turned on the water, washed my face, then tied off the seeping blood running from my thigh and arm. So I had miscounted. I had one more to go after, and that bitch was outside.
I knew that if I wanted information that he needed to turn into my special “art piece,” so that was my aim when I walked down the hall from the kitchen, made a sharp turn, and opened the door to my studio. Moving to stand in front of a large art deco-styled painting of Harlem in the twenties, I hit the corner and watched it slide. Another panel shifted when I pressed my hand against it. After that, a row of weapons popped up. Grabbing an AK-47 and twin katanas, I headed out of the room and outside.
“Bring on who else you got,” I shouted, waiting.
“There’s only me and you, Marcel,” I heard which had me turning.
Staring, I glanced at a tall brotha with scars on his face. He climbed out of the car and gave a smile. As he opened his mouth, I swung my hands forward, and two small marbles rolled underneath the Escalade. The brotha put two and two together and made a run toward the front of the house. A few seconds later, the truck exploded. Fire lit up the darkening sky. I smiled at the fireworks, then heard a gun go off.
Running, I stepped back into the house and watched the brotha with the scar say, “Damn, they didn’t tell us what type of killer you were. You’re on some high-tech ninja shit, h
uh?”
A deep chuckle came from me, and I fired back, “Yeah, man, on my Bruce Leroy, but check it, who the fuck sent you?” More gunfire popped off. I kept dodging until I came face-to-face with that nigga again. “And who gave you the right to come in my house and put hands on my wife and child?”
“Now you know I can’t answer that,” I watched the leader of all this say.
A menacing smile spread across my face, and I nodded. “I was counting on that.”
Throwing my blade, I watched it soar forward. What I did was pretty much a distraction, and it worked well. It allowed me to shift my AK and let off some rounds until they hit dude. Shock lit up his eyes, but that went away fast as he shot off rounds at me. I hit the ground to dodge the bullets.
As I moved forward, I didn’t give a damn. All I wanted was to bleed this nigga out, for my wife and daughter. Rushing him, I tackled him to the ground, then struck him. Bone cracked under each punch until I got tired of that and reached for my blade to skewer his palm.
His shouts sounded, and I smirked. “I live far enough from others where you can scream all day long. Ain’t no one coming. I mean that explosion might draw attention, but we’ll see. I know people, and I can keep them away. So, tell me your name.”
Twisting the blade with my hand, my foot knocked on that dude’s face, and I waited. No reply came, and that annoyed me. He must have blacked out, which wasn’t good for me. I wanted to dig into him. But, shit, now I couldn’t. I had gotten too zealous in my attack. Glancing around, I removed my blade and picked dude up to carry him inside. Kicking open the door to my basement, I walked on, until I stood in front of a storage shelf. Shifting the shelf, a hall opened, and I walked through, turning, and then coming to another wall. Tripping it so it could open, I stood in an unused room, with a metal bed on it. Dropping dude on it, I strapped him to it, and then left him, going back upstairs.
It was time for me to clean up, and as I did so, I noticed that dude I had shot in the chest was still breathing. Happiness filled me. I picked him up as well and took him to that room, strapping him to another table I pulled out. Once done, I patted the face of the leader and waited.