The Take Down

by Mark Anthony

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Also by Mark Anthony

  Copyright

  This book is dedicated to

  my brother Ronald.

  You’ll always be the big brother

  that I look up to!

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  There are always numerous people to thank, recognize, and acknowledge. Many people have impacted my life, in both positive and negative ways, and I thank you all from the bottom of my heart. You all know who you are. But to my wife, Sabine, I personally acknowledge you, and I honor you. Thank you for what we share, and as always, thank you for your true love and patience. I will always be a work in progress.

  CHAPTER ONE

  As I listened to the intense sounds of sex I couldn’t help but get turned on by it. It was times like these that made me absolutely love my job. As our men drew closer to the target, the sounds of some serious lovemaking continued to get even louder and more intense, and in the process I got more and more turned on to the point where my panties were actually a little moist from the excitement.

  I remember laughing and thinking to myself that whoever the chick was that was on the receiving end of the dick, either she was just the loud screamer type who scream during sex just for the sake of screaming, or she really just couldn’t handle the pounding that she was getting.

  All of our people on the team were now in the exact positions that they needed to be in and every one of the team members was deathly silent.

  “Oh my gawd!!!! OHHHH!!! UGHHH!!!”

  That was only part of the screaming sounds that we heard, and it almost became comical to everyone on the team. But no one dared laugh because in every sense of the word, if we laughed our lives could end.

  Mixed in with the moaning and screaming of the female, were the loud grunts and commands of the six-foot-four, two-hundred-and-eighty-pound target that we were after.

  “G-One to TOC … Do you think we should let them finish?” one of the G-Men whispered and asked me through his bone mic that rested on his jaw.

  “TOC to G-One … Have a heart, it’s almost four in the morning.… Let him cum and then you guys should go in.” I relayed those words to the earpiece listening devices that the entire team was wearing.

  I actually had some reasoning as to why I had said what I said. My reasoning was that our target would be much less of a threat if we nabbed him right after an orgasm. And if anything he would at least be in a better mood so to speak, as opposed to us nabbing him without him at least being able to finish what he had started with his little sex kitten.

  “Woooo!!! Woooo!!! Woooo!!! Ahhhh!!!”

  The chick just wouldn’t let up with the screaming … But I shouldn’t really criticize her because I was still getting turned on by it.

  “TOC to G-One … On second thought, we gotta get in there and save that broad. Obviously she can’t handle it,” I jokingly said to all of the men. I could hear the small sounds of laughter coming from the others on the team.

  I was positioned about five blocks away from where the raid was taking place. I was inside of the Tactical Operations Center, which was the most obscure-looking surveillance cargo van, watching and listening to every detail of the predawn raid that we were conducting.

  We were raiding the sprawling seven-thousand-square-foot Queens, New York home of hip-hop’s hottest record producer/record mogul/entrepreneur, who was known on the streets and in the music world as Horse. Yeah, his celebrity status had grown to the point where he was one of those infamous one-nickname celebrities, sort of like if you say “Suge” everyone would know that you were referring to Tupac’s former Death Row Records label head Marion “Suge” Knight.

  Horse, whose real name is Tyrone Hopkins, gained his notoriety, fortune, and prominence by producing hit records for some of the biggest stars in music, and not just rap music, but music across many genres. But unquestionably, his infamous reputation stems from the fact that he is the owner and CEO of Gun Clap Records.

  Tyrone “Horse” Hopkins has a very feared reputation and an imposing Hulk Hogan–like body to help further that feared reputation, not to mention the string of violence and murders in the rap music world which haven’t been proven but which have Horse and his Gun-Clap Records written all over them.

  Horse and all of his homeys across the country had been under surveillance by us, the FBI, for many months now. We also had his phones tapped and we basically knew his every move and all of his habits as well as those of his associates. We knew who visited him on a regular basis, we knew the school that his son went to, along with all of the after-school activities that his son was involved in. We even knew all there was to know about the nanny who helped take care of his son. And to really show you the depth and scope of our investigation, we knew the names of Horse’s own schoolteachers, dating back to the time he was in kindergarten!

  Quite frankly, when we wanted to go after someone such as Horse, we went after them with everything we had. And like terrorists who plan and plot and wait for years before they strike, we too had planned and plotted and waited for many months before we struck, and there was no better time than the present for us to make our move. We knew that if we moved on him when we did we would be catching Horse with his pants down, literally.

  “TOC to all units … Move in on three…”

  As if the broad who couldn’t handle the dick was listening to us, she chimed in right on cue and in perfect cadence so that we could time our entry.

  “Wooo!!!” she yelled.

  One thousand one, I counted.

  “Wooo!!!”

  One thousand two …

  “Wooo!!!”

  I felt sorry for her because most women don’t even reach the point of orgasm, so we women kind of treasure it when we actually reach it. And she sure did sound like she was about to cum, but hey, we had a job to do.

  One thousand three …

  “FBI!!! Get your hands in the air! I wanna see your hands!” one of the agents commanded after bursting into Horse’s bedroom.

  “What da fuck?” Horse hollered back, as he obviously was shocked by our unwanted presence.


  I could hear all that was going on inside the house but it took a minute for us to get the camera in position, the Court TV camera that filmed and documented the entire raid while simultaneously transmitting back to our surveillance van.

  “Get your hands in the fucking air and step away from the bed!!!”

  The camera was finally in place and again I couldn’t help but be amused and think about how this job had to be the best in the world. From the viewpoint of the camera, it looked as if Horse and his rap-video-looking cutie had just been doing it doggy-style when we barged in on them. Her back was facing Horse and she lay face-first on the king-size water bed with her hands outstretched in order to follow the commands of the gun-toting federal agents.

  Horse was sweaty and butt-ass naked with his knees on the bed and his bodybuilder chest facing the girl he had been screwing. And although he tried to talk tough, he made sure that he followed orders and kept his hands hoisted in the air where the agents could see them.

  “Everybody slowly step away from the bed and keep your hands in the air where we can see them!” the agents screamed.

  The petite, young-looking cutie spoke up.

  “Can I at least put some goddamn clothes on?” she stated as she got up from the bed, totally disrespecting all authority and proceeded to walk toward her clothes.

  One of the agents quickly grabbed her by the arm and slammed her up against the wall and handcuffed her as she screamed in pain.

  “You better get your fucking hands off of me!!! I swear to God I will kill you if you don’t get your hands off of me! Ahhh! These cuffs are too tight! Loosen these goddamn handcuffs, bitch!”

  All of us in the TOC couldn’t help but laugh as one of the other female agents who was sitting next to me said, “Jessica, would you listen to all of that mouth and attitude coming from that chick? A minute ago she was screaming for dear life as if someone was killing her ’cause she couldn’t handle the dick. Now she’s talking about she’ll kill somebody…”

  “Y’all don’t gotta be handling my girl all rough like that!” Horse barked. “Do y’all got a fucking warrant? Let me see some papers from a judge or something! Y’all can’t just walk up in my shit like this!”

  Not only did we have authorization to enter Horse’s home, but we had obtained that authorization some time ago. And that was how on a prior occasion we had installed listening and monitoring devices throughout the home; we had studied the alarm system so that we would know how to deactivate it upon entry.

  The biggest agent, in terms of physical size, that we had on our team grabbed Horse by the wrist and proceeded to handcuff him.

  “Jessica, damn, girrrl! Now I see why that broad was screaming and carrying on the way she was,” one of the other black female agents stated in her sista from the hood kind of tone.

  As Horse’s manhood came into full view on the screen, I replied, “Yeah girrrl, I see too! And I also see why the hell they call him Horse,” I added while slapping my coworker five.

  “TOC to all units … Hurry and put some clothes on the suspects,” one of the male supervising special agents in the TOC ordered.

  “G-One to TOC, copy.”

  I couldn’t believe how insecure these men that I worked with were. They didn’t rush to give an order for the cute rap-video-looking broad to be clothed. But as soon as they saw the size of Horse’s manhood they immediately started calling and ordering for the suspects to be clothed.

  “G-Five to all units … jackpot!”

  At the time I didn’t exactly understand what G-5 was talking about but apparently he was trying to convey that he had located what we knew was inside the home, that being a stash of cocaine, three pounds of marijuana, and more importantly a .45-caliber handgun, the same handgun that had been used in the murder of rival West Coast superstar rapper Frank Nitty.

  While we conducted the predawn raid on Horse’s home, we were also simultaneously conducting a raid on the Midtown offices of Gun Clap Records. During that raid we seized computers, file cabinets, pictures, telephones, and everything else that looked important.

  We wanted to send a powerful message to the entire hip-hop community, but more importantly we wanted to send a message to Horse and his silent partner Tyrell “Supreme” Morgan. And that message was this: the FBI is not to be fucked with ’cause we know how to shut shit down if we have to!

  CHAPTER TWO

  By the time the media got wind of the raids that we had conducted, there was a virtual media circus. So to accommodate the media, the assistant U.S. attorney decided to hold an 11 A.M. press conference to give the details of exactly what had transpired during the night of the raids and why. The press conference was packed wall to wall with cameramen, photographers, and news reporters as well as numerous law enforcement officials and personnel.

  What was ironic was that I was helping to engineer the investigation into Gun Clap Records, and yet I could not be present at the news conference to share in the glory and recognition. See, I was deep undercover and it was not the time to have my cover blown. There was still a whole lot of work to be done and this raid of Horse and his record label was only the tip of the iceberg.

  * * *

  As they say in the streets, my government name is Paula Winslow but my undercover name is Jessica Jackson. I’m a twenty-five-year-old African-American female FBI agent. My job is my life, and my life is my job. In fact, my undercover role is so real to me that it has gotten to the point where I instinctively don’t even respond to the name Paula anymore. All of my friends and coworkers call me Jessica or Jessie for short.

  Two years ago I was transferred to an FBI office in Manhattan. Prior to being transferred to New York City, I had spent my entire short career in the Midwest, St. Louis, Missouri to be exact. I had handled money laundering investigations, bank robberies, kidnappings, and all of the other types of investigations that the FBI conducts. From day one I loved my job, but the thing was I was in Missouri! The middle of nowhere and I wanted out of Missouri in the worst way. I hadn’t joined the FBI to be holed up in a bunch of small-ass hick towns in the Midwest.

  A lot of agents had joined the FBI because they wanted to make a mark. They wanted to make a difference in the world. For me, at the end of the day I could have cared less about making a mark or making a difference. I was motivated by one thing, and one thing only, and that was making money by any means necessary.

  Greed might be a better word to describe my obsessive ambitious motivations. If you were to open me up, what you would find is a hustler in every sense of the word. And my job as an FBI agent, well that was my hustle and I was determined to get rich off of it. I wanted to be that bitch that got rich even if it meant that I had to be corrupt in the process. To get rich off my FBI hustle I knew that I had to get my ass to either one of these three cities: New York, Los Angeles, or Miami. The problem with that was every FBI agent and their grandmother wanted to get transferred to a city like the Big Apple or Hollywood.

  Fortunately for me, as fate would have it, while I was still in St. Louis and with only two years of experience under my belt, my supervisors and superiors approached me and spoke to me about the possibility of transferring to New York and putting me on a very big case.

  “Paula,” my immediate supervisor said to me, “this investigation has the potential to be bigger than the Donnie Brasco investigation. Donnie Brasco helped put a dent in the mob, but what we have the potential to do is take down both hip-hop and the mob at the same time!”

  As I listened attentively to both my supervisor and his boss, my supervisor’s boss began to break down for me the background details of an investigation that the New York City office was currently undertaking. He explained that the FBI’s organized-crime unit had secretly infiltrated the Calvino crime family and during their investigation had been able to determine that the Calvinos had been supplying Tyrell “Supreme” Morgan with illegal narcotics since his release from federal prison in 1996. The Calvinos were Supreme�
�s connect, as they say in the streets.

  He went on to explain exactly who Supreme was, just how long Supreme’s rap sheet was, and how the FBI’s organized-crime unit had real good reason to believe that Supreme was able to illegally bankroll Gun Clap Records with money that Calvino soldiers needed to be laundered.

  My heart rate picked up. I was quickly becoming anxious with anticipation because this was sounding like a dream investigation that I knew I would be able to excel on. At the same time, I knew I would be able to somehow exploit the investigation to my financial gain.

  “Paula, feelers went out to all of the field offices across the country, specifically asking for a list of recommended female agents with the skill and ability to go to New York and take part in the organized-crime unit’s investigation that is already underway. More specifically, they’re looking for someone who would be able to infiltrate Gun Clap Records and get the concrete evidence that we need to more definitively tie the Calvinos dirty money to Gun Clap Records,” my supervisor’s boss concluded. “We need someone who can wear a wire and get close enough to Supreme or Horse and get them to incriminate themselves by admitting to the money-laundering suspicions on tape, and the Bureau’s feeling is that it won’t happen unless we bring in a female agent to get close to these two. It just won’t work with a male agent.”

  There was a brief pause where nobody said anything and I thought silently for a moment. I knew that my supervisors wouldn’t have even come to me if they didn’t believe in me and since I knew that obviously other female agents were being considered, I wanted to sell myself so that I could be the agent that was chosen for the assignment.

  “Jessica Jackson!” I blurted out.

  “Jessica Jackson?”

  “Yeah, that will be my undercover name … Paula Winslow will cease to exist.” I smiled as I overtly began selling my boss on a plan.

  I continued on, “Jessica Jackson … and the code name for my part of the undercover operation will be White Chocolate.”

  “Paula, you’re losing me,” my boss stated.

  “Listen, I don’t know what other candidates are on the list, but I’m your girl! I know the hip-hop world. My fiancé, the cop, he moonlights as a bodyguard for all of the top Midwest hip-hop artists, he promotes hip-hop events, and I…”