Torn by the Code

by Eureka

  I stood up and walked to the kitchen by the stove where I turned on all of the gas burners and blew the flames out. I turned on the oven and blew the pilot light out too. Then I walked around the kitchen and found anything that was flammable and set all the items in the middle of the floor.

  When I walked back to Flex, I noticed the dude was still trying to crawl his way out the door. Flex had one of his hands under his chin as he stood watching the dude in his last-ditch effort to escape. With a sinister smirk, he aimed his gun at the dude’s right ankle and fired.

  “Shit, Flex, you could have blown us the fuck up!”

  “My bad, Dutch, but he was getting on my damn nerve with all that moaning and crying and shit,” he calmly said as if he hadn’t just shot the dude when he was already down.

  I finished throwing everything flammable on the floor. When I was set to walk out the back door and throw a match to this bitch, I could hear someone yelling in front of the house.

  “Wha di rass!” I clearly heard the voice now. It was Rasta yelling. “Where dem? Bridggy, why ya nah call me yet?”

  Flex and I hurried and hid on the side of the door, guns ready. When he came out of the front room, I came from around the wall. Our eyes locked in a deadly stare . . . mine full of rage and his full of fear.

  I pointed my gun dead center at his head. “So, muthafucka, you behind all this? Did you really think I wasn’t going to find your weak, whack ass? You’re heartless, bitch boy. Where the fuck is my son?” I hit him over the head with the butt of my gun.

  “Mi nah know. He was ’ere when mi left. Ask Bridggy. She gwan wit’ ’im,” he said, rubbing his head.

  The fact that he stood in front of me with this foolish look on his face made me want to bust his face wide open ’til the white meat showed. But, first, I had to find out where my son was. I thought about it for a second. “Okay, since you wan’ play, I’ll play your game, you fuckin’ bullah,” I said, mocking him in my broken Jamaican dialect.

  I shoved him toward the front door. I could hear Flex kicking the shit out of the dread still on the floor in the back. “You wan’ fuckery? Well, ya go get fuckery.” He attempted to swing his elbow back toward my face, but I ducked and popped him right on the head again with the butt of my gun.

  “Ah wah di blood clot!” he spat in his heavy Jamaican dialect after feeling the butt of the gun connect with his head again.

  I hit him hard enough to make it hurt, but not knock him out. He held the fresh gash on the back of his head and kept moving toward the front door.

  Flex met us at the front. “You go out; I got this,” I said. He headed toward the back of the house as he pulled out a lighter. All he had to do was ignite the lighter and run out the back door. I was already smelling the gas so I knew it wouldn’t take long for the house to explode.

  I rushed Rasta over to the other side of the street, pushing and shoving him all the way to where there was a huge black truck parked. I pushed him down to the ground and ducked for cover. I used the truck as a shield as I watched the flames start to come through the windows of the raggedy, old house. It didn’t take long for the windows to explode. Then the house ignited into flames. I heard screeching tires. It was Flex racing around the corner from the back of the house, doing about fifty miles per hour in his car.

  He stopped in front of me. When I rose to get Rasta and put him in the car, he kicked me in the leg, causing me to buckle to the ground while he took off running. I raised my gun to shoot him in the back, but Flex yelled out to me. “No!” I could see people were starting to come out to watch the house burn to the ground. I hopped up and jumped in the car before anyone noticed we were there. We rushed from the scene, but then circled back around to see if Rasta would show his face. For an hour we went up and down the surrounding blocks. We even parked the fucking truck and walked around going into restaurants, stores, even buildings that were open. But we came up empty.

  Fuck! I was so fucking close! This added to my anger. Now, Rasta will not only die by my hands, but he will also feel what he put my son through. I didn’t mention it to Flex, but the room where they kept him was awful. Boarded windows, filthy mattress on the floor, a smelly bucket in the corner of the room, and one plate covered with roaches. No water bottles on the floor, so I knew they wasn’t doing him right. This motherfucker is gonna pay!

  We finally gave up our search and headed back to the West Side. I wanted to see if my people over there had heard anything. I reached for my cell phone to contact them, but instead, my phone was vibrating. “Hello?”

  “Hey, mi got someting for ya,” the connect I had over in Kingston said as I answered the phone.

  “Yeah, what you got for me?”

  “Well, dem rude boi you be lookin’ for, ’im roots right where ya wan’ dem to be, but there is someting else, boss lady.”

  “Yeah, go ahead,” I said as we drove onto the highway.

  “Well, mi found out that Rasta not workin’ alone. He got some Yankee blood helping ’im, and dey say he helped set up the kidnap for ya son and dem murder of you and Mr. Flex.”

  “Did you get a name?”

  “Yeah, ’im name Fraught or someting like dat. Mi find out more from ’im roots we have on ice. We link when ya come, boss lady.” He disconnected the call.

  “I want to swing by my house. I haven’t been there in days, and I know Naheri is going to start to worry about me.”

  Flex didn’t respond. Instead, one side of his lip curled up from the mention of Naheri’s name. I knew Naheri was a good man, and some part of me did love him, but I could not give up Flex. I struggled with the decision I had to make on a daily. At some point, I would have to make things right, but first. I had to find my son.

  “Don’t do that, Flex.”

  “Don’t do what?” I could tell by his tone that he was not feeling me going to see my husband.

  “Don’t look like that and don’t answer me like that. The first order of business is finding our son. After that, we will handle us . . . and Naheri.”

  “Yeah, okay. Whatever you say, but be sure my son, our son, will know who I am soon.”

  Chapter 15

  I Can’t Stop, We Won’t Stop

  After driving in silence for what seemed like hours, Flex pulled up to the front of my house. I turned to him and said, “Look, let me figure this all out. I know this is one big mess, but let’s find Junior first, please. Then we can come to what will happen after that.” I wanted to get an understanding from him about where we stood at this moment. We couldn’t think about us when our seed was out there. Thinking about us would be selfish, and it sure as hell wouldn’t help the situation. “Right now, you have to understand that I can’t focus on us. I have to find my son. Our son.”

  I looked around as I opened the car door. I didn’t see Naheri’s car parked in the driveway, as usual. He should have been home by now. It was already six in the evening, and it was a regular workday. Something seemed off, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I didn’t even get the car door closed before Flex was pulling off, screeching his tires. I knew he was upset. Every time I mentioned my husband, home, or anything to do with my husband, he would act like a 2-year-old who didn’t get what he wanted. Over the years, I thought we had an understanding, but I guess when Junior got taken, and I confirmed that he was Flex’s seed, it became different. I remember once, before Junior was born when Flex didn’t talk to me about anything but business, and after I left his ass alone to calm down, he finally came to me to talk.

  “What’s going on with you? How come you only talk to me as if I’m just your boss? What the fuck is that about?”

  “I don’t know if I can do this. I can’t sit here and hide my feelings for you. I love you, Dutch. I can’t watch another man hold you, kiss you, show you off like you’re his world.”

  “Flex, when we linked again, I thought you understood my situation. I can’t just up and leave my life ’cause you came into town. Do you even think about how it wo
uld look? I could see the headlines now ‘Up-and-Coming Lawyer Finds Herself in a Love Triangle with the Town’s Prominent Doctor.’ Do you not see what I’m trying to build?”

  “So it’s about image now?”

  “Yes and no. Yes, my image can’t be tainted with all the side shit. I’m helping too. Remember when you stepped in and handled that cartel dude. Well, what happened? We had that shit all wrong, didn’t we? The cartel wanted to retain my services, right? And when I sat down with them, who was by my side? Was it not you watching their every move and making sure I was not getting pushed around or forced into something? And because of your knowledge of who was who and how they moved throughout the city, didn’t we lock down a huge ally which made your movements easier to run your guns and drugs through the city? I know, Flex. You are down for me and will do anything for me. But for us to continue getting this money and growing, you can’t act like this when you see me with him.

  “Flex, you have to look at the bigger picture. You can’t become a hothead ’cause you see me with my husband or screw your face up at the mention of him. Besides, if you start acting up, this will only make him suspicious of us, and that would mean only one thing. He would want to see us apart. Now, I know you wouldn’t want that, and you have to know I wouldn’t want that, either. So can you put all that shit to the side while we get this money? And one more thing . . . You can’t keep my dick away for too long.” I gave a nudge and a smirk while I reached for his manhood.

  “Dutch, I have one question. Do you love him or me? Answer me truthfully.”

  “What kind of question is that? I love you with all my heart.” I planted a long, wet kiss on his soft lips. After that day, he never showed his anger or dislike toward my husband or the situation.

  I snapped out of my trip down memory lane. I needed to finally fill my husband in on what had been going on with Junior. I didn’t see anything obviously out of place, but his car not being in the driveway was suspicious, so I proceeded to walk into the house cautiously.

  I put my keys down on the table in a bowl near the door. The pressure of everything hurt my head, and my feet felt even worse. The more I searched for my son, the harder it was for me to keep a grip on my sanity. I felt that at any moment, I could snap. Every place we searched came up empty. To think I was so close; then—boom!—my hope was snatched away in an instant. I thought back to when I had Rasta right in front of me. The only thing that kept me from pulling that trigger was that he had my son. I sure as hell didn’t believe that he didn’t know where he was. How could I be so stupid and give him the opportunity to get away from me? Now, he’s in the fucking wind! I sighed loudly.

  I walked over to my new best friend, my liquor cabinet. I drank now more than I ever used to. I always thought liquor and weed wouldn’t solve anything, but with all of this, I found myself leaning more toward the alcohol.

  “Ah, where do I start? How would he get the word that his family is seated at my table ready for the slaughter?” I asked aloud while I grabbed a short glass and headed to the fridge. I filled the glass with some ice and looked in the fridge to see if there was anything to munch on. There was nothing, and I mean nothing. I headed back to my liquor cabinet to pour my drink.

  I took a big gulp from my glass of Henny VSOP. It always calmed my nerves. I twirled the ice around in the glass to get it nice and cold. I took another drink, then another. I found myself in what seemed like seconds calmer and ready to handle business around the house.

  During all of it, I remembered that I’d neglected to pay a few utilities and finalize a few of my cases. I hadn’t been in my office for days, but the fact that I was a senior partner in the firm worked in my favor. I walked into my home office next to the kitchen and called one of my junior associates I knew that I could trust with the caseload I had. I needed her to take on a few of them that didn’t require me to be in the courtroom. I logged on to my computer and started to draft the email with the files she would need to handle the cases.

  “Hey, Courtney, do you think you can handle the McCavour case for me? And give the Frasier caseload to Peter. I don’t know how long I’ll be out of the office. A family emergency has come up that needs my undivided attention. I wanted to make sure every case was being handled by someone who would work like I do. Can you guys handle that?” I talked into the phone as I walked toward my kitchen.

  “Yes, Mrs. Dolvan. Is there anything else you need from us? We’re here; take as much time as you need.”

  “That’ll be all. Just make sure you do a good job on the Frasier case. The firm has a lot riding on this case. If there is something you can’t hammer out, please contact Shena Danil. She’s aware of each of those cases.” We finalized everything and ended the call.

  I walked back to the liquor cabinet and poured myself another drink, then headed upstairs to my bedroom. As I was walking up the staircase, it dawned on me . . . Why was the fridge empty? Usually, the maid would go shopping and have it filled to the max with all the shit we liked. It made me think, and I stood at the step for a moment. It was almost the weekend, and she’s not around on the weekend, so the fridge should be fully stocked. What the fuck? I let it go and continued up the steps. I walked past Junior’s bedroom, and something caught my eyes. I almost walked right by it, but I had spotted a pile of clothes on the floor of the room.

  “That damn maid! First, the fridge ain’t stocked, and now all these fucking clothes on the floor! What the fuck are we paying her for?” I placed my glass on top of the dresser close to the door and walked into the room to pick up the clothes. I was a little baffled because one of the shirts I picked up was the shirt Junior had on that night he was kidnapped. I knew it was the same shirt because I remember him begging me to let him wear it to the restaurant.

  “Mommy, please, I always wear that uniform, and I’m home now!”

  I reminisced about the sound of his little voice. I kept the image of his handsome little face smiling and those eyes—his eyes, looking just like his father’s—in my head. I couldn’t help but give in when he flashed those puffy little cheeks.

  “Okay, li’l man, anything for you.”

  “I love you, Mommy.”

  That conversation stayed in my mind, especially those last words I heard my baby say. They rang in my head like a CD on repeat. It played over and over again.

  How did this get here? I was confused. I held the shirt up to inspect it more. I knew I had had a few sips, but this shirt is real. I looked closer and spotted some bloodstains on the bottom of it.

  I threw the shirt back on the floor, running down the hallway to search the house. “Naheri! Naheri, Junior!” I yelled from room to room. But there was no answer. There was no way this shirt just appeared out of nowhere. He was here. “Naheri!” I yelled out one more time in desperation. I ran back downstairs and grabbed my cell phone to call Flex.

  “You know who this is . . .”

  “Shit, his voicemail!” I cursed. I quickly hung up and called my husband, Naheri.

  “Hello? Hello? I can’t hear you, Elana, hello!” he yelled into the phone as if he couldn’t hear me.

  I heard him just fine. There was no choppiness on my end, and I could understand him perfectly. “Naheri! It’s me, Elana!” I yelled back into the phone right before the call dropped . . . or at least I thought the call dropped. I immediately dialed his number again, only to reach his voicemail on the first ring. I frantically ran through the house once again, searching every room, even under the beds. I knew he was here. There was no way that shirt would appear out of nowhere without him being here. When he was taken, his room was kept nice and neat, so why would there be clothes all over the floor?

  I rushed into my bedroom, taking rapid steps over toward our shared walk-in closet. When I stepped inside of it, there were hangers and clothes sprawled everywhere. . . and most of Naheri’s things where gone. “What the fuck!” I said as I stood there in confusion. I picked up my cell phone and tried dialing Naheri’s number again, on
ly to be met with the voicemail once more. Then I tried to call Flex again, but his phone went right to voicemail as well.

  “What the fuck! Both these muthafuckas have lost their minds!”

  I grabbed my keys and ran out the door. I hopped in my BMW and sped off, on my way to Naheri’s parents’ house. “Call the hell-laws,” I said aloud to my voice-activated dialing system.

  “Calling hell-laws,” the computerized voice chimed back as it dialed their house number.

  It rang for a while. “Shit, no answer!” I banged my hand on the steering wheel. Now, something seemed real off to me. Naheri’s clothes were missing. It was as if he left in a hurry. I knew he couldn’t possibly know what was going on. Could he? And now his parents weren’t answering.

  “Something is not right. I’ma get to the bottom of it, even if I got to kill every bottom-feeding-ass fool to get to it.”

  Chapter 16

  This Right Here Not What You Want

  “Yeah, yeah! I got it! Well, keep fucking looking!” I was more than frustrated and far beyond mad. I banged my fist on the dashboard. I called around and hit every block I could think of trying to find the bitch-made-ass nigga. “I’m not answering shit right now!” I shouted as Dutch’s number flashed on the screen of my cell phone. I was in no mood to even talk to her right now. The timing might be off, but hell, she had some decisions to make.

  I pulled over to the shop on Madison and Pulaski in the strip mall. I knew that if anyone knew anything, I would find it up there. I pulled into the lot and parked. As soon as I stepped out of the car, several local hustlers came running up.

  “CDs and movies!” they all yelled out in unison.

  “Naw, I’m good,” I said, shrugging them off. I was used to that back in the day. That was how they fed their families or their drug habit. Either way, they hustled for what they needed instead of stealing and robbing people . . . at least, most of them did. “Hey, Banks, is that you?” I called out to a scruffy-looking hustler. I could see some of his features underneath all the dirt and bags he had on him.