He looked at his watch and sighed. He picked up his cell phone and began dialing the number, but before he could finish, he noticed a car speeding into the gas station. He felt for his weapon and smiled.
The car slowed and then stopped.
Brubaker spoke loudly so his wire transmission would be picked up. “He’s here,” he announced. He watched the huge hulk of a man climb out of the vehicle and approach his car.
“They didn’t tell me the bastard was this tall. No wonder,” Brubaker whispered to himself.
The man yanked open the passenger side door and slid into the seat. He didn’t acknowledge Brubaker’s presence.
“I’m Brad Brubaker. Nice to finally meet you,” Brubaker said, trying to ease the tension. When his greeting went unanswered, he continued nervously. “Joseph ‘Rock’ Barton. What do you prefer to be called? Rock, Joe, or Barton? Okay. Well, I will just call you Barton then,” Brubaker said, lowering his eyes.
The name said aloud made Rock cringe. That was the name he’d been called in the Marines and while he trained with the Agency to become an assassin. Hearing his name called brought back a flood of painful memories.
Rock knew he could take this little scrawny white boy out with a flick of his wrist, but he also knew there would be drastic consequences for his actions. He wasn’t going to escape the government unless he did as asked. This one last time.
“Well, here is the assignment,” Brubaker said, placing a picture on Rock’s lap.
Rock looked down at the photograph. He felt a sharp pain in his chest. He recognized the man in the picture. His face was etched in his mind already because, on a few occasions, he had seen the guy trying to talk to Candice. He swallowed hard.
“This guy killed a fifteen-year-old kid during a raid. We sent him undercover, thinking it would bring him some redemption. We thought we’d kill two birds with one stone and bring down the supplier for another drug dealer, named Carson. But this man went rogue. Missing meetings, acting violent, you name it, he has done it.” Brubaker tried to gauge Barton’s reaction.
Brubaker had been told to appeal to Rock by ensuring him that the intended target was a threat to society, but he didn’t know Rock had already viewed this man as a threat to Candice as well.
“This guy here killed a kid named Corey Jackson, and we still don’t have his motive,” Brubaker lied without even blinking.
Rock knew that to be an outright lie. He was familiar with this game of chess and was no pawn to be played with. He knew who had killed Corey “Razor” Jackson.
“So we want his death to appear as a line of duty, you know, so nobody questions shit. Line of duty always works well. They say that’s how his father died. Hate to do that to his poor mother, but this guy is armed and dangerous. You know he threatened his own wife and kids? We’ve got plenty of neighbors who will corroborate that,” Brubaker maintained, trying hard to justify the government’s actions.
Rock nodded his understanding. He was shaking from the effort it took to suppress his cough. No longer able to contain himself, he erupted into a fit of coughing.
Brubaker, well aware of Rock’s condition, didn’t seem too startled by the outburst. It was part of the reason he had been chosen for this job. “You all right there?” he asked, feigning concern.
Rock used a small handkerchief to wipe away the blood that had escaped his mouth. Even the medication wasn’t working these days. He grunted in the affirmative.
“Here is the money. They raised the stakes this time. Seems like they want to pay you more than those hood pennies Hardaway was paying you,” Brad said, tossing a tightly wrapped manila envelope onto Rock’s lap.
The envelope landed on top of the picture of Rock’s newest mark. Rock looked hesitantly down at the items. He slipped on his black gloves, removed the items from his lap, rubbed the door handle of Brad’s car clean before exiting the vehicle. He didn’t want his fingerprints left behind on anything that could incriminate him.
Brubaker looked at Rock like he was crazy, but inside he was smiling. Thanks to a deal that Joseph Barton had made with the Agency years ago, Brubaker’s plan to get rid of Avon Tucker was going to work. No more bumps in the road for Brad Brubaker. He would finally get the career that Avon Tucker had denied him after the fatal shooting accident years ago.
Brubaker was almost giddy with excitement and could hardly contain himself. All he had to do now was sit back and wait for the chips to fall in place. All of his efforts and assignments that made Avon look like a crazy undercover rogue were coming together. He couldn’t wait to be back in the good graces of the DEA and among the top brass again. He even thought he might get promoted to assistant special agent in charge.
Broady had been sitting at his brother’s desk in the back office of Club Skyye, getting high for hours. He felt just as powerful as Junior now. He turned Junior’s swivel chair around when he heard the footsteps behind him, his eyes low from the drugs in his system.
“What? You came to give me a lecture? I know, I know. I shouldn’t fight with my girlfriend and bring attention to myself,” he droned, chuckling.
He didn’t get a response.
“Ain’t nobody here but us now. How you know I was here, anyway?” He laughed again.
His comment was met with silence.
Broady tried to stand up, but instead staggered backwards.
Suddenly, there was a gun pointed in his face.
He flopped back into the chair. “What the fuck you gon’ do with that?” He grinned lazily, too high to acknowledge the danger.
The gun came down on his skull, and his skin split open.
Broady squealed, lifting his hand to the side of his head. The gush of blood threatened to blow his high. Broady’s vision blurred. “What the fuck is you doin’? I had a fight with her, that’s all. I left her alone after that,” he slurred, planting his hands on the table, trying to brace himself to stand upright.
Another blow from the handle of the handgun sent him reeling back into the chair, his monstrous weight tipping it backwards.
Broady landed on the floor, the back of his head cracking on the hard marble tiles. He lay there dazed for a few minutes before attempting to stand up, but his bulky body slipped back down each time he tried. The combination of drugs and hits to the head rendered him immobile. His entire body felt as if it were made of lead.
He screamed as a sharp pain shot through the top of his hand when a pair of hard-soled shoes pressed down on it.
Suddenly a black-gloved hand applied pressure to the center of his throat, finding his jugular notch.
Broady wheezed, his eyes bulging. His hand began to bleed as the sharp shoe heel pierced through his skin. “Pa—ple—as—e,” he begged. Vomit crept up his esophagus with nowhere to go, since his airway was blocked.
Finally, the pressure on his neck relented.
Broady gagged, trying to fully catch his breath.
This time, the gun cut across his jawbone. Wham!
Broady slumped to the floor. Blood ran from his head, over his chin, and down his left arm.
“What did you say before you did it?” a muffled voice asked, the gun at Broady’s temple.
Broady’s eyes went wide. He grunted in pain as he received a kick in his thick side. “What? Whatchu talkin’ about? It . . . it wa—wasn’t me,” he rasped.
“Liar!” the voice growled.
Broady coughed, his head feeling like it would explode. He had two large white-meat gashes in his head, and his jaw felt shattered in more than one place.
A heavy foot rose and fell on his windpipe.
“When you inflicted the torture, were there screams?”
Broady’s body bucked. He tried to defend himself but was powerless against his aggressor.
Another stomp rendered him motionless before the handle of the .40-caliber weapon connected with his face again. Blood and small bits of flesh adhered to the end of the gun.
“You are a fucking monster that the world can
do without! Your little girlfriend, yeah, she’s dead,” the person cackled.
“Noooo!” Broady gasped, not able to get enough air into his mouth to utter any other words. He didn’t know Shana was dead. He had hit and choked her but left her as soon as he felt himself losing control. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes.
“How should I kill you?”
The gun leveled over him now, Broady closed his eyes and resigned himself to death.
“Open your eyes, motherfucker! You need to feel the fear. You need to see it coming.”
When Broady refused to open his eyes, he was hit again, this time on the bridge of his nose, and a gush of blood erupted from his nose like a volcano. He began coughing and gagging. Blood was leaking down into his inflamed esophagus.
“Shooting you would be too easy. I think I’ll watch while you drown in your own blood.” Broady’s assailant smirked.
Broady felt a foot apply pressure to his chest. His head moved wildly as he tried to catch his breath. He gurgled blood, and his body convulsed.
Then two shots rang out, and Broady’s body went completely still.
Gun in hand, Candice placed the back of her wrist up to her mouth. She felt the urge to dry heave. She hadn’t seen anything so gruesome since she had found her family.
The sight of Broady’s body made her rush back to that day. Anger welled up inside of her, threatening to boil over. She had the urge to pump more bullets into his body just to satisfy her need for justice.
With a dead body lying in the middle of the office, Candice scrambled to get out of Club Skyye before anybody else arrived on the scene. Although her mind told her to run, her legs wouldn’t comply. Her heart galloped inside her chest, and her body burned. She was filled with so much anger. I can’t believe I’m late again!
Candice snapped out of it when she heard voices just outside the office door. She was frantic; she needed to get out fast. The rush of adrenaline, combined with the smell of Broady’s flesh, raw blood, and excrement splashed on the floor, was enough to send her stomach roiling.
“Fuck!” she whispered as the voices and footsteps grew closer. Looking for an escape route, she spotted a small door to the left of the office desk. She slipped her shoes off and twisted the doorknob, and the door popped open to a small bathroom.
Inside, Candice tried to get her breathing under control. She placed her hand over her mouth to keep any sound from coming out. There was no window in the bathroom, just a toilet and a sink. Not even a tub that she could lie down in and hide.
She gently placed her bag down on the floor and took her other gun out. She swallowed the lump of fear lodged at the base of her throat and placed her back flat against the wall opposite the door.
She looked into the small mirror to watch if the doorknob moved. She would start blasting before they even stepped through the door. Another lesson she’d learned from Uncle Rock.
Candice slid up against the wall closest to the office to listen to their conversation. Her life depended on it.
Tuck bent over and threw up the contents of his stomach. He tried to reach for his weapon, but the wave of nausea was too overpowering.
“Fuck!!” Junior growled. He couldn’t stop the tears from coming. He kneeled down beside his brother’s dead body. He lifted Broady’s battered head into his hands and rocked. “It’s my fault. I got you in this game. I shoulda left you alone with your dreams. I fucked up your life. I was angry, but I wasn’t gonna kill you, son.” Junior cried like a woman, his voice high and quivering.
Tuck was struck silent. All along he’d thought Junior himself wanted to off Broady. He was sure that business and keeping up his relationship with the uptown cats were more important to him than Broady’s life ever was.
“This nigga Phil is a dead man,” Junior growled, still holding Broady’s head tightly to his chest. “That nigga crossed the line.”
Tuck had just witnessed Junior on the hunt for Broady, talking a lot of shit about snapping his neck with his bare hands, yada yada. Now Junior wanted to kill Phil, even though he knew Broady’s death was a revenge kill for Phil’s little brother.
Tuck just shook his head. There was no use in fighting for a career that was completely slipping away now. He had no idea what to do now that his most important case had gone to shit, and his family now belonged to his traitor-ass coworker.
“C’mon, son. He is gone. We need to get going and call somebody,” Tuck said softly, placing his hand on Junior’s shoulder.
Junior looked up at Tuck.
“C’mon, you don’t want the cops to get to your moms first. You gotta be the one to break the news to her,” Tuck said, knowing that would get Junior to move.
Junior started pulling himself up off the floor, blood covering both of his arms and his hands.
“Stay right there, son. I’ll get you something to get that cleaned off before we bounce.” Tuck walked over to the small door next to where Broady’s body lay. He twisted the doorknob and pushed the door in.
Tuck looked up into the mirror in front of him, and his heart jumped into his throat. His ebony skin turned ashen white as he stared through the mirror at two guns pointed at him by the one woman he truly cared about.
He slammed the door back and turned around like he’d seen a ghost. Still holding on to the doorknob, his heart raced painfully against his sternum.
“What happened, son?” Junior asked, noticing Tuck’s facial expression.
“Too much blood in there, son,” Tuck huffed, thinking quick on his feet. “Let’s get the fuck outta here, nigga!”
“They worked a nigga over like that? Same shit they did to Razor. Maybe my baby brother was right. Maybe I been tricked. That nigga Phil probably did all this shit. He probably sent that little fuckin’ blue card, talkin’ shit.”
“I don’t know, son, but we need to get out of here.” Tuck couldn’t take a chance on Junior asking to look inside the bathroom. Tuck was kicking himself. He should’ve known when Candice just appeared out of nowhere that something wasn’t right about her.
“A’ight, you right. I need to go see my moms.” Junior smeared the blood from his hands and arms onto the front of his pants.
“We can grab you a change of clothes and shit,” Tuck said, making small talk to keep Junior preoccupied. “You gonna have to get rid of that outfit, son.”
Junior exited the office first, and Tuck walked backward out the door behind him, more sick to his stomach now that he knew the identity of the real killer.
Chapter 12
Junior and Tuck filed out of the doors of Club Skyye onto the street, both disturbed by the turn of events. Tuck held his phone up to his ear with a shaky hand. He dialed 9-1-1 to report finding Broady’s body.
Junior pressed forward toward his parked car, preoccupied with thoughts of how he would give his mother the news. He didn’t think it mattered that she didn’t care for her youngest son, but he knew witnessing his mother’s pain was going to kill him inside. Her guilt over the way she’d treated Broady over the years would probably hurt her more than the knowledge of his death.
Tuck grabbed the door handle of Junior’s Benz and began to pull the door open. Suddenly, the sound of glass shattering cut through the air, and Junior’s windshield glass rained into the car’s interior.
Tuck sucked in his breath and snatched his hand back like he had touched fire. “What the fuck!”
Just then a bullet whizzed past his face. Instinctively, he dropped to the ground, taking cover behind the passenger side of the car. More bullets flew. This time one of the headlights popped.
“Oh shit! Junior, get down!” Tuck screamed, as the bullets flew overhead.
Junior ducked behind the open driver’s side door, and more bullets slammed into the side of the car, barely missing his head.
“What the fuck!” Tuck belted, crouching down with his gun in his hands. He didn’t know where the bullets were originating. It seemed to him like shots were being fired at both sides
of the car.
“Yo, son, can you see where they’re coming from?” Tuck asked as more bullets whizzed through the air.
“We gotta get the fuck outta here!” Junior screamed, taking a chance by lifting himself up and climbing into the car.
“Get down! Stay down!”
It was too late. Junior screamed out in agony. Then more bullets.
“Junior!”
Not knowing the source of the gunfire, Tuck decided he was going to just start shooting back. If he took care of his side of the car, that might stave off the shooters and buy them some time to get away. His mother would be devastated by another line-of-duty death, especially her only son’s.
Tuck reverted to the mind-set of Avon Tucker, DEA agent. Cover, cover, cover, scan, cover. He wasn’t trying to die in the middle of the street. He peered from behind the car’s front bumper and let off five rounds. The shots cut through the Manhattan air with no immediate destination. He just needed a distraction for the shooters.
“Get the fuck in the car! I’m hit!” Junior ordered, feeling a fire erupt in his arm.
Tuck tried his luck with opening the passenger side door. He was able to get in, but as soon as he did, he heard bullets hitting the car’s metal frame.
“Fuck! Drive, nigga!” he hollered at Junior.
“Agggh, son. I’m hit. I think it’s my shoulder! I can’t feel my hand!” Junior winced.
“Nigga, it’s either drive, or we gonna die right here in this fuckin’ car!” Tuck bellowed, the sound coming from some place deep.
Junior lifted his almost numb arm and cried out in excruciating pain.
“Drive!” Tuck screamed.
With bullets raining down on them, Junior gritted past the pain and wheeled the car out of the spot in front of the club. Both men were breathing so hard and fast, they threatened to steal all of the oxygen from the car.
The car’s tires screeched down the street as the back windshield exploded.
Tuck ducked, and Junior swerved in response to the last couple of shots that pierced the car before they made it off the block. Tuck swallowed hard, and Junior moaned. Neither man said a word at first, but silent assumptions were made.
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