DEAD: Snapshot (Book 3): Liberty, South Carolina

by TW Brown

  They stopped at what looked like an old-fashioned well. It was about three feet high and circular. It even had a little wooden roof over it and a spool of rope with a bucket dangling just above the open hole. However, there was also a nylon cord that vanished into this well. It was tied to a stake that was driven into the ground.

  Jessie put on a pair of gloves and began hauling on the cord. His arms bulged at the effort. Whatever was at the other end of that line wasn’t light. It still took Brian a moment to realize what it was when the payload finally came in to view.

  The body fell to the ground with an unceremonious thud. Will stepped close and nudged it with his booted foot. It stirred and made weak coughing sounds. Brian tried to conceal everything he felt. Will might be a clueless idiot, but Jessie was another story entirely.

  “So?” Brian looked Jessie in the eyes. “You keep a nigger in the well…big deal.”

  “Time for you to join the organization, Chet,” Jessie said, producing a .22 pistol.

  Chet Atkins; that had been the name he chose as his cover. As a boy who grew up in Chicago, that sounded about as backwoods as he could imagine. Chet just felt like a good old boy’s name.

  “Okay.” Brian glanced at the body that was beginning to stir and make strangled pleas to be let go. “So what do you want me to do? Shoot the guy?” He was glad he hadn’t decided to add a laugh at the end of that question. Jessie wasn’t smiling.

  “If you’re with us, then this is no big deal.”

  “Of course,” Will piped up, he’d produced a six-shot revolver and was spinning it on his finger by the trigger guard, “you back out now and we have to go through the exit interview.” He laughed way too loudly at his own joke, no doubt thinking that he was being witty.

  “So I pop this guy, and then what?”

  “We go meet up with Bill and the rest. There is a meeting tonight,” Jessie said, thrusting the small handgun at Brian.

  Brian took the weapon and stepped up to the man sprawled at his feet. He was told to “infiltrate at all costs” when he was given this assignment. He knew that this would be buried by the department when he revealed it during the debrief. And it wasn’t like this group was being infiltrated to be taken in; there would be an order to eliminate with “extreme prejudice” at some point. That’s how the department stayed out of the news. After Waco, there had been an organizational shift in how extremists were dealt with in order to avoid media backlash. The department had learned that, even if you are dealing with nutcases that are willing to torch themselves and their followers, the government would be the scapegoat.

  Brian took the weapon and stepped up to the man. He quickly discerned that this was some poor, homeless wino. All the telltale signs of chronic alcohol abuse were present. There would be nobody looking for this guy. That didn’t make him feel any better about what he was supposed to do. He hoped desperately that, when he pulled the trigger, it would fire a blank or something. Somehow, he didn’t think that was likely. This group really hated people of color. Not just blacks, they were known to be involved in actions against illegal immigrants. Well, Brian didn’t think these guys cared if they were legal or not, just as long as they were Mexican.

  “Please—” the man rasped.

  Brian pulled the trigger. There was a soft pop. At first he thought he might’ve been wrong. Maybe it was only blanks. Then, the small hole in the man’s forehead began to ooze blood. The man rocked back and fell on his butt. He sat, legs splayed out in front of him for a few seconds. His hands came up to his face and pulled away. The man looked up at Brian, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

  A loud boom sounded, making Brian jump. He spun to see Will blowing across the barrel of his revolver in dramatic fashion.

  “Can’t stand to see ‘em suffer.” Will shrugged. “Just like putting down any sick animal.”

  “What the fuck is wrong with you!” Brian strode over to Will in three quick steps and slapped the big .357 out of the man’s hand. While he was upset at what he had just basically been forced to do, he had no way to get it out of his system; Will had provided the perfect diversion. “I was standing right there, you stupid bastard!”

  “It was an easy shot!” Will defended himself weakly. “My four-year-old kid coulda made that shot without comin’ anywhere close to you.”

  “Then maybe he should be here!”

  “Enough!” Jessie barked. “Will, hand me your gun.”

  “But—” the man tried to protest.

  “Chet did what he needed to do in order to be accepted. You didn’t have any right poaching his kill.” Jessie walked up to the much smaller man and held out one big hand.

  Will handed over the revolver, his eyes downcast like a scolded dog. Jessie stuffed it in to one pocket and turned his attention back to Brian. “You just cost me twenty bucks.”

  “Huh?”

  “I bet that you were a fed,” Jessie said with a shrug.

  “And what made you think that?”

  “First it was just an impression, but then you seemed to be too tailor-made for our organization.”

  “I don’t follow.” Brian did his best to look confused. Yes, he was going to have to be very careful around Jessie.

  “You have a few things on your criminal record, nothing major, but all involving incidents with niggers or spics, not so much else as a speeding ticket. It was just a bit suspicious. And you know what they say…if something is too good to be true.”

  “And now?” Brian asked, careful to watch the bigger man’s eyes.

  “Now you’re in…and I’ll still be watchin’ ya.”

  There was a long silence. Will continued to sulk from his reprimand and, therefore, had nothing to offer. Brian was suddenly certain that he was going to have to kill this former SEAL. He just hoped it wasn’t going to be a hand-to-hand situation. He was confident in his martial arts skills, but he was equally certain that this man was better.

  “So,” Jessie finally broke the uncomfortable silence, “let’s go meet the boss and see what has his panties so bunched up.”

  ***

  Sacramento, California—Russell “Trix” Clay sat at the recording studio’s massive mixing console. The girl on the other side was proving that there wasn’t a voice in existence that Auto-Tune couldn’t fix. She kept looking out at him through the glass between each verse and giving him a “thumbs-up” gesture with the accompanying look that begged for approval. On cue, she finished another verse and flashed him the look and the gesture. Russell plastered on his biggest grin and popped his own thumbs up in return.

  He had to admit, this was so much easier than porn. He’d spent most of the 80s making cheap video tapes and pimping. Now, he could make a demo for some no-talent girl who thought she was the next Madonna or Janet Jackson, get a few weeks of having his dick sucked, and then move on to the next potential “star”.

  The blond in the studio was simply the latest in a string. She was eighteen, or at least claimed to be, and had the five hundred bucks for the price of the “Rising Star” package. That was another thing…the bitches were paying him to suck his dick. Of course, they thought they were paying for studio time and a promotional package; and he always gave them a CD of their session when he was finished with them and ready to move on to the next one.

  The generic sample track faded out and the girl pulled off her headphones. Russell flipped the switch to open the intercom. “That was great, Sheila.”

  “You’re supposed to call me “Sheba Street” when I’m in the studio, remember?” The girl had an even worse talking voice than she did a singing voice if that were possible. “You said that if it helped me get into the vibe, you would refer to me by my new stage name in the studio.”

  “Sorry, Sheba.” Russell made at least a minimal attempt to sound like he meant it. That was okay, tonight he was gonna take it out on her ass…literally. “So maybe you should run through the song again, but this time try to put some anger in the hook.”<
br />
  “You think I need to sound more gangsta?”

  God, Russell thought, nobody said that word anymore, did they? Well, nobody but suburban white kids who thought that saying it made them one. Most of these kids would actually shit themselves if they came face-to-face with a real Hard-timer.

  Just then, the door to the studio opened. It was his so-called business partner, Tremont Epps. Tremont played the role of record label executive when it was Russell’s turn to be the studio producer. They switched roles every month or so depending on how long they wanted to bang the new prospect; and that of course depended on which “Star” package the girl bought.

  “Trixie,” the man came in and flopped down into the other leather seat, “I been calling your cell all day.”

  “Yeah, well you know I turn it off when I’m in here, Tre,” Russell pronounced it like “tree” because he knew it pissed Tremont off. He wanted it pronounced “tray”.

  “Man, you ain’t been seein’ what’s going down in Seattle.”

  “They finally get an expansion team to replace the Sonics?”

  “No, man, they’s riotin’,” Tremont said with a big smile that showed of his gold front tooth.

  “The fuck you mean? You mean rioting as in a bunch of stupid white folks wearing bandanas on their faces and spray painting that stupid anarchy symbol on the fronts of banks, or you talking South Central?”

  “I don’t think they got enough bruthas up north to pull the real deal, but they got it bangin’ up there.” Tremont fished out his phone and his fingers flew as he navigated the screens until he found what he was looking for. “Check this shit out.” He handed the phone to Russell.

  The footage was shaky, and it took Russell a minute to realize what he was seeing. The video finished and then restarted on a loop. This time, Russell paid closer attention. Sure enough, there it was again. To the left in the picture, a uniformed police officer went to the floor under a pile of young brothers. There was a muffled ‘pop’ and one of the youngsters was looking at the gun in his hand like he’d never seen it before. There was an instant where all those around him stood there shocked, then they all started pounding the shooter on the back and cheering. Russell looked even closer and saw the small dark pool forming on the polished floor.

  “Little man shot a cop?” Russell handed the phone back. “Where did you get the video?”

  “It’s on every channel right now,” Tremont replied. “But I wouldn’t have come for just that.” He flipped through a few more screens and handed the phone back to Russell. The footage was almost all the same in that it was mobs of black men and women on the streets. They were standing their ground against tear gas canisters and rubber bullets. Windows were being smashed, cars tipped or lit on fire, and a lot of yelling and screaming.

  Russell watched a few clips before handing the phone back to Tremont. He sat there silently for a moment until an annoying buzz snapped his attention back. He looked up to see Sheila glaring at him with a hand on one hip. As soon as his eyes met hers, she pressed the intercom buzzer again.

  “I thought I was gonna do the hook thingy again sounding angry,” the girl snapped in a poor impersonation of an angry black woman that just came off sounding uneducated and spoiled.

  “Just talking with a guy from the recording label,” Russell said out of habit.

  “He’s from the label?” the girl shrieked, proving that her voice could in fact get more annoying.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh. Em. Gee. I’m sorry…I’ll wait. You two talk or whatever you need to do…did he hear my demo? Is he gonna—”

  Russell clicked off the intercom and turned back to Tremont. “We’re set up for a riot here.”

  “But the riot is there,” Tremont said, tapping the screen of his phone. “And I bet you they ain’t got nothing in the way of riot preparation like South Central and the LAPD. We might have to drive a few hours, but it’s still about the message, right?”

  Russell sat quietly again. They’d had this planned out for over two decades. In that time, probably half their numbers had filtered out. All that were left were the hardcore believers. There would be some logistics to work out, but Tremont had a point. They’d planned to go heads-up with a police force that was trained in riot response. Seattle might have some crude plans in place, but nothing to deal with what he had in mind.

  “Get me street maps. Google should have the pictures we need,” Russell finally said. “Call the whole group, tell them I want everybody packed and at my house in six hours. If anybody has family in Seattle, we need to know.”

  “Actually,” Tremont looked a bit sheepish, “I already called everybody. We can be ready to roll in an hour. I told ya I’ve been trying to call you all day.”

  Russell felt a bit of that old anger surge. It must’ve shown in his eyes because Tremont scooted back in his chair.

  “I wasn’t going over you, brother.” Tremont raised his hands in defense. “It’s just that you ain’t been taking any interest in the cause much lately. You been busy—”

  “Nailing stupid white girls,” Russell finished the thought. “No, you’re right, Tremont. I guess I got lazy. It’s just so easy to do when you start running a game that keeps you in cash and pussy.”

  “You still want to wait ‘til tonight?” Tremont asked. “I can call the brothers and tell ‘em.”

  “No, Tremont.” Russell shook his head. “It is time we live by our creed.”

  “The time is now,” both men recited together.

  Chapter 2

  Benny Richards pulled on his goggles and tugged the drawstrings for his hooded sweatshirt tight. He tapped his pocket to ensure all his “gear” was ready. Taking one last look at the television, he felt his heart race a bit. They were rioting downtown. He never missed a riot if he could help it. He might even see about upgrading to a better flat screen while he was out.

  Leaving his studio apartment, his phone buzzed. It was work. Like he was gonna come in to the copier shop today. Besides, if what he’d seen on television was correct, the copy store was likely to get some of the riot overflow. The windows were as good as broke. In fact, he smiled behind his bandana; maybe he would throw the first brick.

  Taking the stairs three at a time, he bounded down the four flights and out onto the street. Up the hill, he could see the smoke. He’d been in so many protests that he thought he might actually be getting immune to tear gas. He started up the hill at a fast walk. Running would only draw attention, and he wanted to get to the action before he had to deal with the police.

  As he neared, he could hear the soothing buzz of an angry crowd. He paused for a minute and scratched his head. For a moment he’d forgotten what this one was about. That’s right, he thought, some black kid got shot robbing a bank or something. He briefly considered the possibility that he might not be wanted at this little demonstration, but quickly dismissed it. People who are pissed love anybody willing to take their side, or in Benny’s case, at least acting like they are. Benny just wanted to break stuff. He could care less about the cause as long as there was some breaking and burning going on.

  He thumbed his iPod for some good thrash metal and resumed his fast walk to the scene of the mayhem. Just as he crested the hill, a group of ten or so black guys came into view.

  “Fuck the Seattle Police!” Benny yelled. He pulled the brick from his pocket—he always brought his first ‘throwing’ brick—and chucked it at the largest window in sight.

  The group stopped and seemed to have a quick meeting of the minds. Cool, Benny thought, I can clique up with some brothers. Better to run with a pack, plus, if the cops show, I won’t be as likely of a target.

  The group started walking his way and Benny thumbed down the volume on his iPod. “S’up, fellas?” They continued walking his direction, but there was something in their faces that caused Benny to pause. They looked…pissed. At him!

  Without warning, the group broke into a sprint. Benny stood stock still. His legs
refused to listen to the voice in his head that screamed for him to run. So this is what a deer in the headlights feels like, his inner-voice scoffed.

  The group hit him in a bum’s rush that sent Benny sprawling. He’d been in a few mosh pits. There was a cardinal rule; if you ever lost your footing, the first thing you do is cover your head. That didn’t help for long. As the kicks continued and things inside him broke or ruptured, Benny’s arms couldn’t stay wrapped around his head any longer. As he lost consciousness, his last thoughts were, What did I ever do to these guys?

  ***

  “…currently traffic is at a standstill on I-5 as protesters have started throwing firebombs at passing motorists. Chief of Police Michael Rhodes says that his men are working to restore order, but advises all citizens to stay clear of the City Center area as well as the stadium complex…”

  ***

  Grady Moses sat on the bench and took out his handkerchief. At eighty-seven, all this walking was getting a bit tiring. He watched a group of young brothers and sisters trot past.

  “Stay solid, Oh-Gee!” one of them shouted.

  Stupid kids, he thought as they disappeared around a corner. Today’s generation didn’t know diddly-squat about proper rioting. Hardly any buildings were burning, and he’d passed at least a dozen shops without a single busted window. Now Watts…that was a proper riot. These kids are just running around willy-nilly without really doing anything.

  Grady spied a golf ball-sized rock in the gutter and climbed wearily to his feet. It took him a few seconds of strained effort to bend that far over to pick it up, but eventually he held the stone in his hand. Looking around, he saw one of those overpriced coffee shops that sit on every corner in the city. White folks loved paying too much for a cup of coffee.