“Rolando DeSosa says you can’t leave the game alive. You still willing to die and sacrifice your family?” another of the assailants asked. He was trying his best to provoke Easy to relent, to say he would remain in the game.
Easy didn’t say a word.
Eric Junior hit his father again and again.
Easy’s body swayed from the constant blows, but he still didn’t lift his head or give the men the satisfaction of knowing they were hurting him.
“Fuck this whole family!” one of the men called out.
Then Easy heard the high-pitched screams of his youngest daughter.
“Daddy!” Brianna wailed from someplace distant at first. “Daddy, help me!” she screamed again, this time more high-pitched and frantic.
Easy opened his battered eyelids and fought to lift his head, turning it painfully toward the sounds of his youngest daughter’s voice. The sounds grew closer as the intruders dragged her by her hair to Easy’s location.
“I want my daddy!” Brianna belted out again.
Her voice caused a sharp pain in Easy’s chest. His breathing became labored as a surge of hot adrenaline suddenly coursed through his veins. It was the first time Easy had felt nervous since the entire ordeal had begun.
Easy had conditioned himself to believe that he would die in the game, so this wasn’t totally unexpected. But he’d never thought that his own son would betray him like this. That Eric Junior would watch as his own flesh and blood suffered at the hands of men who didn’t give a fuck about him or them.
Out of his severely swollen eyes, Easy could see his baby girl squirming and fighting with blood on her face.
“Now are you gonna change your mind? You gonna give DeSosa what he wants? This is your one last chance!” one of the men said.
Easy closed his eyes in anguish. He didn’t want to see them kill his baby girl. At that moment, his heart felt like it would explode—a mixture of pain and pure anger. He envisioned himself killing all of the intruders slowly, torturing them unmercifully, even his own son.
“I always knew you was a fuckin’ punk! You ain’t none of my fuckin’ father. You a pussy!” Eric Junior hollered in Easy’s face.
Easy knew if he said he would stay in the game, they would kill them all, anyway.
“Eric, please! Give them whatever they want . . . please,” Corine begged. “Eric, please! I’m begging you! Junior, why are you doing this?” Corine let out another bloodcurdling plea for help from her husband.
Even with his wife pleading with him and his daughter screaming, Easy didn’t budge. He refused to open his mouth. It wasn’t pride or selfishness; this moment was like living an art-of-war principle. The one rule he was going to live and die by was never to give in to the enemy when he knew they planned to kill him, anyway. In Easy’s eyes, that would be giving them double satisfaction.
“Eric!” Corine screamed again frantically, her mouth full of blood and her eyes pleading.
Nothing. No response from Easy.
“Take off her clothes,” one of the Hispanic men ordered.
Easy’s eyes popped open. He looked directly at his son. Eric Junior looked horrified. He hadn’t signed up for this.
Easy began fidgeting against the layers and layers of duct tape and rope that held him captive, his knees burning from the kneeling position they forced him in. He stared at his son, begging with his eyes. Easy remembered feeling this powerless when, as a child, he took beatings from his aunt’s drunken husband.
“Daddy!” Brianna let out another throaty gurgle, her ponytail swinging as she tried to get away from her captors.
The first man slapped her with so much force, she hit the floor like a rag doll.
Easy watched as one of the three men stood over her and began unzipping his pants. He bit down into his jaw, drawing his own blood. His blood was boiling in his veins, but still he didn’t say a word.
“You still playing hard-ass? Well, I’m about to show you real hard-ass,” the same Hispanic said. “Do it,” he ordered the other man in the room.
Eric Junior snapped out of his drug-induced haze. The drugs were wearing off a bit. “Hell naw! Y’all not gonna rape my fuckin’ baby sister!” he screamed.
“What!” One of the men whirled around and leveled the gun at Brianna, who let out an ear-shattering scream.
Eric Junior let off one shot, but it missed the Hispanic man and hit his sister instead.
The other man lifted his gun menacingly. “Oh, you had a change of heart just like your punk-ass father?” He grabbed Eric Junior by the neck.
“Oh God!” Corine cried out. One of her kids was shot and lay bleeding to death, and she was about to watch the other die.
Easy rocked back and forth, his fist clenched so tight, he was sure the bones in his knuckles would burst through the skin.
The most evil of the Hispanic men dragged Eric Junior over to his mother. “Shoot her! Shoot her in the face!” the man demanded.
Eric Junior was crying, his mind muddled and his vision fuzzy.
The man grabbed his arm and hoisted it up. He pulled the hammer back on the gun that rested against Eric Junior’s head. “Kill her now!” he whispered harshly in Eric Junior’s ear.
Eric pulled the trigger without even thinking, and his mother’s body slumped forward.
The other man used a knife and cut away the material of her dress, leaving her naked, to further degrade her. “Now you will kill your father,” he said, dragging Eric Junior over to Easy.
Easy didn’t look up. He hung his head.
Eric Junior was bawling now. “Dad, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for all of this to happen,” he cried.
“Junior,” Easy said softly.
Eric Junior blinked back tears.
Before he could open his eyes, in that split second, another of the Hispanic intruders emptied a magazine into the back of Easy’s head.
Eric Junior began to scream.
“Now you will kill yourself,” the man holding him hostage said.
With his heart racing, Eric Junior lifted the handgun he’d been given earlier to use against his family and shot his brains out. His blood splattered against one of the intruders’ clothing; his body fell right at the entrance to the living room.
The men exited the living room via the hallway. One of the men reached back and pulled the door closed with a bloody hand. There was a car waiting out front for them.
Candice doubled over as if she had been punched in the stomach. Uncle Rock’s story had shaken the very foundation of her life.
“But why?” she cried out. “Why?” She needed to rationalize the events of her past before she could move forward with her life.
“Your father made a deal with the government, and there was no turning back. Rolando DeSosa worked for the CIA, and so did I. They used your father, and they weren’t finished with him when he decided he wanted out of the game. I found out about the government’s plan and convinced him to leave the game. Easy trusted me. It was partly my fault that he and your family died,” Uncle Rock lamented.
“But why would Eric Junior turn on him?” Candice asked.
“Because . . . they had taken him. Snatched him off the streets and gave him the same mind-altering drugs they gave us after ’Nam. Once they put that stuff in your system, your mind would be so fried, you would do anything, including kill your own flesh and blood,” Uncle Rock explained, knowing from firsthand experience.
“You had pictures. . . . There were news reports,” Candice cried, still refusing to move her gun from Junior’s head.
“They were all media feeds. I only kept them because I thought it was so fucked up. I wanted to track and see if the government would eventually kill these supposed murder suspects. They would have to do it to cover up the fact that any DNA tests they ran at the crime scene would come up negative.”
Uncle Rock’s explanation made sense, but Candice still didn’t want to believe it.
“So who the fuck killed Razor, Broa
dy, and Shana?” Tuck grumbled. Rock had pulled Tuck up off the ground but still had a gorilla grip on his arm. He knew not to fuck with the old man.
Uncle Rock was silent.
“Phil killed them,” Junior answered.
“All of you are fuckin’ wrong, wrong, wrong,” a voice called out.
They all turned their attention toward the entrance of the abandoned warehouse as Brad Brubaker stepped out of it. The black-tinted car was a prop. He’d set it up that way, using a remote control “bait car” with dummies inside. He knew Junior would be coming to meet the connect—the government’s man.
Candice pulled her gun from Junior’s head and pointed it at the unknown white man, and Uncle Rock did the same.
Junior finally managed with his one good hand to get his gun from his waistband.
Tuck was speechless, but he bent down and snatched his small handgun from his ankle rig. He squinted his eyes into tiny dashes. “You motherfucker!” he screamed. “You were working with them all along!”
Brubaker laughed. “All of you have been pitted against each other. Can’t you see that?” he taunted.
“The story will be spun like this. Barton, you killed Corey Jackson so that little Hardaway here would keep her hands clean. Carson, you will look like you killed your own brother because of the war he started, and the girl, Broady’s girlfriend . . . Well, it will just look like she was a revenge kill. Don’t you see how we wanted it to look?” Brubaker laughed again, so pleased with himself.
“Now, none of you are leaving here alive. Not even you, Tucker,” Brubaker said with a sneer.
Brubaker had set up a team to handle this crazy standoff. He didn’t trust that Rock would take care of Tucker. When Brubaker had seen Rock’s condition, the CIA director’s plan didn’t sit right with him. Brubaker wasn’t going to take a chance and let his moment of triumph go up in smoke. Taking down all of them was the ideal scenario. Brad Brubaker could see his name etched in glass at DEA headquarters already.
“Take them down!” Brubaker screamed into a small black clip-on radio attached to the lapel of his suit jacket.
Everybody took cover.
Candice hit the dirt. Junior ducked behind the car. Tuck inched to the back of the car, staying low.
Rock, however, didn’t budge. “You can’t be that stupid,” he said, walking toward Brubaker with his gun leveled at him.
Brubaker’s face turned so white, it was almost transparent. “Take them out!” he screeched into the radio again.
“They’re not coming. They hired me for one last cleaner job, but it wasn’t for who you thought,” Rock said, a cough starting to well up in his chest.
“What the fuck are you saying, old man?” Brubaker said, his voice quivering.
“Did you think the government would laud you for being a traitor? Did you think they would promote you and respect you after you threw your own partner to the wolves, betraying him, lying on him, committing murders and putting them on him? Did you really think they would kill another federal agent to get him out of your way? Couldn’t you see, while you thought Tucker’s case was all one big red herring, that you were being duped?” Uncle Rock rattled off.
Brubaker shook his head in disbelief. He hadn’t even brought his weapon with him, because he was so confident that the DEA and CIA sniper teams would be ready to take down all of his pawns.
Rock advanced on him like an avenging angel.
“You—you can’t kill me,” Brubaker pleaded, his palms extended in supplication.
“I always complete a job when I’m paid to do it. I never renege on deals, especially with the government. Don’t you see where that got my best friend, Easy Hardaway? Don’t you see where that got you?” Rock asked, ready to unleash his full fury.
Rock placed both of his hands on his weapon, thumb over thumb, closed his weak eye, and let off a single shot that hit Brubaker in the center of his forehead. Brubaker’s body remained standing for a few seconds then dropped like a heavy sack of potatoes. The back of his skull burst open like an overfilled water balloon.
Candice, Junior, and Tuck watched the scene unfold, speechless.
Uncle Rock turned around and began walking back toward them.
Tuck gripped his gun tightly. He couldn’t be sure that Barton hadn’t been hired to also take him out.
Rock, coughing fiercely as blood dribbled from his lips, walked right past Tucker.
“Uncle Rock!” Candice cried out, moving toward him.
“Stay there!” Uncle Rock screamed, halting her steps.
“Yo, this is some straight-out-a-movie shit! All I wanna do is take my fuckin’ dough and get the fuck outta here! I can’t have my moms burying two sons!”
“Wait!” Uncle Rock yelled at him.
“Candy, what you read in my last will and testament was true. I am dying. I have cancer. I did love someone at one time, and that love bore a son. His name is Joseph Carson, but his mother called him Junior,” Uncle Rock said, leaning over to cough up more blood.
“What, nigga?” Junior barked, lifting his gun. Staring at Rock, Junior remembered him as the old dude hanging with Easy when Easy gave him a job. “You fuckin’ punk-ass bitch nigga! You let me go years without a father? Suffering at the hands of Broady’s fuckedup pops, watching my moms get her ass beat up. You watched me go fuckin’ hungry and have to steal from the store, and you ain’t do shit.” Junior choked on his words. He was a man, and he wasn’t going to let no tears fall, especially at no soap opera shit like this.
Uncle Rock spat up more blood.
Junior growled, “I should kill your fuckin’ ass right here!”
Candice raised her gun. “I don’t think so. He saved your fuckin’ life today.”
“Candy, let him do it,” Uncle Rock rasped out. “Let him do it before they come for me.”
“What are you talkin’ about?” Candice asked.
“I’m dying anyway. Shoot me now. Don’t let them have the satisfaction.”
“No!” Candice screamed.
“All of you have to go. Get out of here! Run! It’s never over when you have information about the government.” Uncle Rock wheezed.
“You can go with me. I have the money, from, from Daddy.” Candice couldn’t stand losing her uncle Rock. Not now.
“Candy, you especially need to go. They will have a bounty on your head. You need to run.”
Before any of them could blink, Uncle Rock looked at Candy and let his gun hand drop to his leg. Then he fired a single shot.
Candice opened her mouth to scream, but it happened too fast.
“Noooo!”
Uncle Rock’s body dropped to the ground, but his eyes were still open. Blood leaked from his mouth, but he was still trying to talk.
Candice ran to him. She knew she had only ten seconds or less. Uncle Rock had taught her about this very moment. She bent down at his side and could see the blood soaking through his pant leg.
“Why!” Candice screamed, trying to apply pressure on uncle Rock’s wound.
“Be—because I—I love you,” Uncle Rock managed. Then his head lulled to the side, his eyes open and vacant.
“What the fuck!” Tuck huffed, bending down next to Candice.
She looked at him. Tears ran down her face in buckets. “He shot himself in the femoral artery,” she cried.
Tuck grabbed her around the shoulders. “There’s nothing you can do for him, Candy. He did it all for you.”
Junior walked over and stood over the man who had just confessed to being his father. He wasn’t going to shed a tear.
“Yo, Tuck, who the fuck are you?” Junior asked.
Tuck stood up, face-to-face with Junior. “I am Avon Tucker, a DEA agent that got set up by his own partner.”
Candice looked at him strangely, too overwhelmed with a mixture of emotions to be mad. They had both operated under false pretenses.
“So you were tryin’a take me down?” Junior asked.
“That was my assignmen
t, but it was all a fuckin’ joke. You’ve been working for the government, anyway,” Tuck told him.
A loud chopping sound could be heard overhead. The helicopters were hovering just above them.
“They’re coming. Barton warned us. We need to get out of here,” Tuck said urgently.
“What about Uncle Rock’s body?” Candice asked.
“They will make this one big crime scene. Once they do their investigation, they will contact his next of kin,” Tuck told her.
“Which is you,” Candice said to Junior.
The sound of the helicopters was louder than ever, and sirens could be heard in the distance. They all started to disperse like rats in an alley.
Candice went left, Junior went straight ahead, but Tuck remained back. He was the only one who didn’t have a ride. He watched Candice walk toward her car and disappear from the darkened street. Junior quickly got into his truck and peeled off.
Within five minutes Tuck was surrounded.
He lifted his hands in the air in surrender. “I am Avon Tucker, DEA agent,” he screamed out.
One of the black Impala doors swung open.
“Are you still a DEA agent, Avon Tucker?” Dana Carlisle called out.
Tuck smiled and put his hands down. Thank God for honest DEA agents like Carlisle.
Notes
Urban Books, LLC
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Hard Candy Copyright © 2011 Amaleka McCall
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior consent of the Publisher, except brief quotes used in reviews.
ISBN: 978-1-5998-3178-7
This is a work of fiction. Any references or similarities to actual events, real people, living, or dead, or to real locales are intended to give the novel a sense of reality. Any similarity in other names, characters, places, and incidents is entirely coincidental.
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