The Game Never Ends

by Zaire Crown

  In one motion the Range slowed, veered right and let one of the Tahoes pass on its left. Once in the lead, the Chevy sped up as if they were going to ram their way through the road block.

  But halfway down the street, the driver cut the wheel and hit the emergency brake. This sent the SUV into a skid as well as a slow ninety-degree spin. It was moving forward but turned sideways by the time it hit the spike strip, so rather than roll over the sharp pins, the tires swept the entire strip out of the road. The Chevy slid down the block while the Colombians sprinkled it with bullets. At the corner, the Tahoe slammed laterally into the parked vans with enough impact to push back their barricade.

  This cleared the path for the Range and its final escort. They hung a left at that corner and escaped along the intersecting street.

  The two remaining SUVs weaved their way through the downtown streets with the vans giving chase. It wasn’t long before all the shooting attracted the police whose sirens swelled in the distance.

  Vega’s men didn’t keep the group from reaching their destination. The Range and the Tahoe sped into Abel’s underground parking structure with squealing tires. Building security had obviously been alerted to the threat because they immediately lowered the railing to close off the garage once they entered.

  They screeched to a stop and the men hustled their queen out of the back seat. She stepped out wearing a tan business suit, big sunglasses, and a large stylish hat.

  Her team escorted her to the open elevator where Brandon waited with two of his own blue-shirt rent-a-cops.

  He extended a hand. “Reina, a pleasure to meet you in the flesh finally. Your reputation for being a shrewd businesswoman is well deserved.” He added with a smile, “As well as the stories of your stunning beauty.”

  She refused his hand. “You’ve been a tremendous help in removing any obstacles to securing this acquisition. My associates and I are extremely grateful.”

  “So grateful that you’ll remember me when you are sitting at The Table?” he asked with raised eyebrows. “And speaking of obstacles, I hear you faced a few trying to get here.”

  She was dismissive. “Nothing we didn’t anticipate. Apparently the hoodrat made a new friend—a low-level gun smuggler my family has history with. I plan to deal with that no sooner than our business here is concluded.”

  Brandon shrugged. “Then let’s conclude our business. Once the papers are signed there will be nothing the hoodrat or the smuggler can do.”

  She looked around to notice that the parking garage was empty for ten a.m. on a Wednesday.

  Brandon explained: “In anticipation of our deal, I closed the building to any inessential personnel. Any employee not important to completing the deal or keeping the lights on and toilets flushing is enjoying a mandatory vacation day.”

  The two boarded the executive elevator; he pressed for the top floor where the legal teams waited with the final paperwork. She had two of her guards come along, left the others outside to defend the garage.

  While they rode up, Brandon boasted that the Abel tower was essentially a seventy-story fortress. The building was in total lockdown. Ninety-eight percent of the staff had the day off but security was doubled. Armed men in blue shirts were posted at every entrance and exit with pictures of Tuesday. More roamed the building on foot or cruised the perimeter and subterranean garage in patrol cars.

  She loudly sucked her teeth as if unimpressed. “Have your men coordinate with mine. Tell them to sweep every floor, starting with the top, and work their way down.”

  Brandon looked confused. “I understand your caution but—”

  She cut him off. “Do you know the difference between a leader and a shepherd?”

  He assumed the question was rhetorical.

  “A leader stands out front and demands to be followed. A shepherd skillfully guides and pushes the flock from the rear—it’s why Jesus is called the Good Shepherd.”

  Brandon figured her point was somewhere in the making.

  “The hoodrat is more clever than we gave her credit for. Everything that happened on the freeway and the street was only for trimming my numbers. She wasn’t trying to keep me from getting to the meeting. I was being herded here.”

  She folded her hands behind her back, calmly stared up at the digital display that counted the floors. “Our enemies are already in the building.”

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Brandon had made that call by the time they reached the top floor. He thought it was impossible for Tuesday to be inside the building with all the security in place, but did so to placate his guest. He ordered teams to start sweeping each floor. He even moved the signing from the easily accessible conference room into the CEO’s office because it was more secure. He posted four men outside the door.

  Inside she, Brandon, and three lawyers hovered over the desk he had taken over from Tuesday when he assumed control. Upon it was a stack of legal documents two feet high. They sped through it while the trio told them where to sign or initial.

  Brandon’s phone rang just as he was scribbling his name for what could’ve been the hundredth time. The caller ID read “unavailable,” but he answered to the sound of a woman’s voice. He touched his associate’s arm to let her know it was Tuesday on the line.

  “Where are you? Reina thinks you’re in the building.”

  “I’m not even in the state. I would’ve loved to be there in person but had more important business elsewhere so you’ll just have to settle for a conference call.”

  He said, “You’re too late. I’m signing the final paperwork as we speak that transfers ownership of the company, the building and the majority share of the stock. It’s over.”

  She sounded calm. “You sure ’bout that?”

  He said, “In the ghetto you’re a queen, but you never had the mind to play on this level. Here wars are fought in the boardroom, not in the streets.”

  “I was blind to a lot of things. It took Danielle of all people to understand exactly how you were stealing from the company, setting me up to take the fall.”

  He smirked into the phone. “Sounds like you’re trying to get me to admit to something.”

  Tuesday said, “It’s also because of Danielle that the big ass stack of papers you and your friend just signed don’t amount to shit.”

  Brandon placed his signature on the line where the lawyer indicated. “You sound desperate and pathetic.”

  “You couldn’t take the company or the stock majority from me because it was never mine. You were the one who explained how the moment we declared Marcus King dead the company immediately fell into the trust.”

  He countered: “I also explained that as the girls’ legal guardian, you were the custodian of the trust which gave you powers over it. But you signed those powers over to me—which I thank you for, if I haven’t already.”

  “Here’s where it gets tricky. I did sign it over to you, but I didn’t.”

  Brandon scrambled to pore through the drawers in his desk. After a rushed search, he located the file and thumbed the pages until he found the trust agreement.

  He said, “Nice try but I’m looking at your signature right here. All perfectly legal.”

  “Look closer. I almost missed it myself but Dani didn’t. I guess I can thank you for giving Shaun a digital copy of the agreement to keep on her computer.”

  It took Brandon a full minute of scanning the document before he understood what she meant. He ran his hand over his gray curly hair.

  She said, “Tabitha King was the CEO of Abel and on papers Tabitha King is the girls’ legal guardian. But Marcus, whether accidentally or on purpose, made Tuesday Knight the custodian. I signed the wrong name, which technically means I didn’t sign.”

  “Bullshit!” he spat, even though the proof was right before his eyes. At the top of the document TUESDAY KNIGHT was typed in all caps as overseer of the trust; however, Tabitha King was inked at the bottom in Tuesday’s sloppy script.

  She taunted him.
“I might not know much about corporate law, but I know that one person can’t give away something that belongs to somebody else. I might as well have signed Mickey Mouse.”

  His business partner had been watching his conversation with growing agitation. Brandon waved a finger to indicate that nothing was wrong.

  “If this was your great master plan then I am hilariously disappointed. You really think I’m gonna let the wrong name on a few sheets of paper stop me from collecting a three-hundred-million-dollar check?”

  Tuesday said, “Some wars are fought in the boardroom but the rules are the same for fighting in the street. When a nigga pull a gun, that change everythang.”

  Suddenly the phones chirped on all three members of Brandon’s legal team. Without checking them the trio of suits opened their briefcases to reveal semi-automatic M-11s.

  The lady seemed less surprised than Brandon. “You walked us into this simple trap. The real lawyers are dead or in the Bahamas.”

  One of the suited gunmen took the phone from Brandon’s ear. He placed it on the desk and switched it to speaker.

  Tuesday’s voice crackled with distortion. “You were so eager to get this deal done that you didn’t pay attention to the men handling the paperwork. I’m willing to bet you didn’t pay attention to what you just signed either.”

  Another of the fake lawyers pulled out a document hidden within the large stack they just signed. He passed it to Brandon and allowed him to study it.

  Brandon snorted when he realized he had put his name to a typed confession that detailed how he had aided in the disappearance of Marcus King, embezzled Abel funds, burned down her home and killed two men during the staged kidnapping.

  He laughed out loud. “You really think this weak shit is gonna hold up in court?”

  “Don’t need to ’cause yo’ ass ain’t ’bout to see a judge.”

  The third gunman opened the office door. The massive man who stood on the other side was dressed head-to-toe in black. All four guards Brandon had posted there were sprawled at his feet unconscious in awkward poses.

  Brandon’s eyes went wide when Silence stepped inside and closed the door. He tried to keep Tuesday from hearing the fear in his voice: “How does a massacre in the CEO’s office send everything back to normal at Abel?”

  “It’s not gonna be a massacre. Show ’em the other thing.”

  The second suit brought Brandon’s attention to something else he had signed in haste, a letter in his own handwriting.

  Tuesday explained: “You said you were tired of playing the role of Brandon King so here’s how it ends. The note along with the confession tells the story of a brilliant man and successful entrepreneur momentarily so blinded by greed and jealousy that he betrayed his own son. His conscience convicted him much worse than a jury would have.”

  Brandon scanned what was supposed to be his suicide note. He stroked his head nervously. “Nobody’s gonna believe I killed myself in the middle of the biggest deal of my life. And in front of La Guapa? You didn’t think this through Tuesday.”

  She fired back: “Naw nigga! You didn’t think shit through when you betrayed the fam. I’m still CEO ’round this bitch, and effective immediately, yo’ ass is terminated. Please show this bitch out my building.”

  One of the gunmen went through a short series of quick hand gestures that Silence received with a slow nod.

  The mute man flexed his gloved fingers, then walked over to Brandon who tried to pull a pistol concealed under his jacket. The goon easily deflected Brandon’s arm as he squeezed off a shot, twisted it behind Brandon’s back like a chicken wing, and made him drop the gun.

  The first suit opened the sliding door while Silence pushed a dancing and hop-scotching Brandon towards the balcony.

  Brandon yelled, “I should’ve killed you bitch!”

  Tuesday said, “You ain’t the first to make that mistake.”

  With a mighty heave Silence tossed his thin body over the railing like a bag of garbage. Brandon flailed like an uncoordinated swimmer. His screams echoed as he dropped seventy stories.

  Afterward all their attention was turned to the lady. She just stood by the desk calmly as Silence stepped back in from the balcony.

  She hovered over the phone. “So what happens now? Did I just sign a suicide note too?”

  “You already know what’s ’bout to happen,” Tuesday said through the speaker. “The only question is, are you gonna be okay with it, Rose?”

  Chapter Fifty-three

  At Villa Bella, Reina was at dinner in the formal dining room. The staff served a fantastic rendition of cabrito, goat roasted over open flame. She ate modestly although everything was to her liking. She and Roselyn rarely dined together as her twin sister was more into vegan dishes with soy replacing the real carne that accompanied authentic Mexican cuisine.

  Her phone sat on the table receiving more attention than her plate. She was supposed to get a text as soon as the papers were signed. The phone mocked her with its silence and repeated calls had gone unanswered.

  Brandon had assured her that their lawyers would have the Abel deal finalized before noon. Within two months she and her partners planned to be moving several metric tons of product. Their newly-acquired fleet of shipping freighters would sail right around the president’s border wall, and soon the profits would bring the Rodriguez family back to full strength.

  Only it was after eight p.m., and she still hadn’t heard from Brandon or Roselyn.

  Reina typically kept two sets of plans in her head. One for how things should go and the other for how they shouldn’t.

  She was so wrapped in her own thoughts that she hardly noticed dessert being brought in. The cute young chef wheeled out a cart with a large three-tier yellow cake.

  Reina frowned skeptically at its bizarre decoration. The cake was capped with candles and a macabre Barbie doll whose head had been replaced by a tiny skull. Feliz Dia de Muerte, La Guapa was written across the front in red icing.

  The newest member of her staff tried to rush back to the kitchen until she called after him. Reina noticed his nervous glance, shifty movements. His face was glazed with sweat. She cut her eyes to the cake then back to the chef. Without a word, they both bolted out of the room in opposite directions.

  She turned into the hall and threw herself to the floor. She expected a blast that would kick the doors off the hinges and drop the roof on her.

  But there was only a hollow pop. She peeked back inside to see that the cake had exploded but with hardly any power. Lemon frosting and crumbs splattered the walls but the room suffered no structural damage. This could’ve been the work of a child’s firework rather than lethal explosive.

  She climbed to her feet wondering if this was somebody’s idea of a joke, then she heard men outside yelling to each other in rapid-fire Spanish. This was followed by rapid-fire snaps that clearly weren’t fireworks.

  Suddenly a real explosion shook the foundation of the house. It echoed from somewhere in the rear, but the impact was strong enough to knock her off her feet.

  All the power winked off, sank everything into darkness. The pitch of a rural Texas night shone at the windows which told her that even the exterior lighting had been knocked out. When the backup generator didn’t immediately spring to life, Reina knew the bomb had been strategically placed.

  She got to her feet and took a moment to steady herself. Her ears rang, she was dizzy, her vision shifted the world in and out of focus.

  The white walls offered a meager amount of ambient light so she staggered forward dazed and half-blinded, touching them for support. She needed to get to her room or maybe an exit.

  She turned into the main hall and ran into the huge silhouette of a man. He was a faceless shadow like something from a horror movie. She backed away, put up her hands in defense.

  “La Guapa, estas bien?”

  His voice caused her to let out a breath she’d held since bumping into him.

  Before Reina cou
ld speak, he confirmed what she already knew: “Colombians breached the house. At least twenty men, heavily armed. Not many of us are still alive.”

  Reina told him about the traitorous chef and they both surmised that he had helped the intruders get inside.

  “Get me out and I’ll suck your dick on a pile of money.”

  He wasted no time with a response. He led the way holding a weapon that looked fully-automatic. She held on to his shoulder and allowed herself to be guided.

  She trailed him down the hall but he held her back at the entrance to the foyer. His hand gesture indicated that there were men standing between them and the front door. He crouched, took aim from around the corner. Reina flinched when he let out three short bursts from his rifle. When he urged her forward again, she saw the shapes of two bodies on her hardwood floor.

  Warm light brightened the windows at the front of the house but only because the three of the house vehicles were engulfed in flames. There would be no escape from the front door.

  He pulled Reina back the other way, towards the rear via the main hall. They passed through the dining room where the scent of cordite and brown sugar mingled in the air.

  They encountered another gunman in the short hall that connected the dining room to the kitchen. He was crouched against the wall concealed by darkness. The blood that pooled underneath him proved that he was already shot. Reina spotted him first and froze at the sight of his gun.

  He had her in his sights, but hesitated and retrained the gun on her escort. A moment too late though, because a quick rat-a-tat from her protector slumped him against a curio table, knocking over the ceramic Virgin Mary.

  He waved Reina back and put a finger to his lips before he crept to the nearest corner. He peeked around but apparently didn’t like what he saw. He returned and gave a slow head shake.

  “Guapa, I have to get you somewhere safe. Hide you until I can come back for you.”

  Reina agreed. She led him to what she knew to be the safest place in the house. After a few turns, she was at the hidden door to her father’s office. She undid the latch and stepped inside to the pitch black windowless room.