God Luv Us E-Book

Josiah Starr

• Herausgeber: Spirit of 1811 Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Achim Jeffers faces his most challenging mission. He’s a black man caught in a deadly vice. One misstep, and hard prison time is certain.

His sworn adversaries in the FBI are in utter panic. They are begging Achim, a Counter-Racist hitman, to provide them with his expert assistance. The FBI has good reason to be so frightful. A twisted European assassin has been hired to take out a high value target in the United States. Infamous for his brutality and White Supremacist fervor, this faceless assassin is simply known as “The Tarpon”. Everything about the man and his deadly methods, are clouded in mystery. “The Tarpon” is intent on spilling blood in New Orleans. His goal is to serve the black citizens of the city, death on a cold plate. Aware of “The Tarpon’s” cruelty, yet weary of the FBI’s true intentions, Achim is forced to take a big risk in order to protect the Black Community he loves so much. He begrudgingly joins forces with the FBI and enters a global race to stop the crazed racist before he completes his grisly task.

Join the manhunt and experience the intense combat as Achim Jeffers and The Tarpon trade blows, in this sequel to Josiah Starr's underground hit novel “War of The Heart”.

Leseprobe

God Loves Us

An Achim Jeffers Novel

By

Josiah Jay Starr

2nd Novel in the Achim Jeffers Series

Spirit of 1811 Publishing, LLC

New Orleans, Louisiana

www.spiritof1811publishing.com

“Our Story. Our Family.”

God Loves Us

An Achim Jeffers Novel

By: Josiah Jay Starr

Spirit of 1811 Publishing, LLC

Alliance of Independent Author Member

Spirit of 1811 Publishing

New Orleans, Louisiana

www.spiritof1811publishing.com

Copyright © 2022 by Spirit of 1811 Publishing

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022913325

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-953102-08-9

Hardback ISBN: 978-1-953102-09-6

eBook ISBN: 978-1-953102-10-2

Audiobook ISBN: 978-1-953102-11-9

Editors: Kimberly Rose

Cover Art: michaelstar

This is a work of fiction. Any semblance between original characters and real persons, living or dead, is coincidental. The author in no way represents the companies, corporations, businesses or brands mentioned in this book. The likeness of historical/famous figures have been used fictitiously; the author does not speak for or represent these people. All opinions expressed in this book are the author’s or fictional.

Dedicated to my beloved homie Derek Johnson.

Until we meet again cousin.

And when we do, have that Sega Genesis controller ready.

Contents

Chapter One – Strong Bullfrogs In Juffair

Chapter Two – Beauty Of The Cape

Chapter Three – Dangerous Homefront

Chapter Four – The Snowy Town

Chapter Five – Ghosts Of The Business District

Chapter Six – Strange Sea Stories

Chapter Seven – Puget Sound Trickers

Chapter Eight – Cold Sunny Deserts

Chapter Nine – Bloody Pelicans

Chapter Ten – You Can’t Stop The Pain

Chapter Eleven – Jaguars & Tigers

Epilogue – The Coup

Chapter One

Strong Bullfrogs In Juffair

J

essica has started to lend a quiet voice to her inner complaints. After our New Year’s Day party, I sensed that the uncertainty of our relationship has begun to wear her down. From the moment her pregnancy test came back positive. I knew her support for my career at Robert Charles would start to falter. Now, her co-existence with my duties as a counter-racist hitman have morphed into something more akin to simmering animosity. Our loving relationship has devolved into a contentious cold war. Jessica now hates what this career demands of me, while I was all too committed to performing this labor of love.

I wouldn’t need a damn fortune teller to predict this outcome. This was heading towards me having to choose between God’s path, and the black woman I loved dearly. Early on, Jessica told me she believed in us. When we first started, she made me feel like she supported this mission the Lord had chosen for me. Back then, she was a rider and was more than down for the cause. Nowadays, it isn’t hard to catch her anxious spirit whenever I mention Robert Charles.

Annoyed with Jessica’s snarky email, I tossed the cellphone onto the table before loosening my bow tie. Having to deal with her silent insecurities was beyond frustrating. Searching for some sort of mental reprieve, I grabbed the sweaty cocktail glass and forced down more than a few swallows. After all, I was in a damn bar, and there is no better place in the world to try and push away life’s tribulations.

My eyes probed the darkness of the cocktail lounge, aching for any distraction I could find. Yet, my attempts to occupy my mind were futile. The loneliness of the bar forced me to watch three drunk Arab men awkwardly dance to old school hip hop. Here in Bahrain, my only company happened to be my scolding hookah bowl and this melted drink.

This entire bar was way too cheesy, with its nineties style strobe light and long panel mirrors hanging from the ceiling. The whole layout felt like it was pulled out of a corny P. Diddy music video. Even in a deeply pious country like Bahrain, everyone wanted the swag of Black Americans. All over the world, it was fun to imitate Black Americans while not actually getting treated like a Black American. Frustrated by their phony appreciation, I took a small puff of my grape mint hookah, and blew the anger out of my lungs.

Despite Jessica’s childish tirades, I constantly had to remind myself that this was her first pregnancy. The sudden turbulence of life can become overwhelming once the impending responsibilities of parenthood take root. Yet, a shot of luck has been stirred into our double expresso. Thankfully, I’ve had the opportunity to experience this wild journey of parenthood once before, so it’s my duty to guide Jessica as best as I can.

During my first marriage, the harsh lessons of fatherhood taught me that underneath the bright glow of raising a child, sat a world of daunting realities. It's not just the many sleepless nights that come along with infants, it’s the fact that outside of your love and comfort awaits a world eager to misuse them. Foremost among them is the fact that no matter how much love I poured into my son, that love alone wasn’t enough to protect him from the sharp jaws of Systemic White Supremacy. The day my son was brutally executed by that White demon, a piece of my heart was forever wounded. I guess watching Jessica glow with the same inner life that my slain wife once had…has made me a bit more detached this time around.

The bloody experiences from my first family, have forced my spirit into this state of numbness. I find myself a little reluctant about blindly enjoying life’s moments. Deep down, I knew it was the horrifying presence of this numbness that was starting to worry her. Jessica would prefer that I smile and pretend it all away, but that isn’t who I am, at least not right now I’m not.

“Achim…are you sure you’re ready to do this again?” She asked.

“Why do you live in the past so much, baby?” Jessica would often demand.

Even from the comfort of this sofa inside of the Grand Juffair Hotel, my mind replayed her nervous voice, asking me those two pointed questions. The questions alone weren’t of a concern, instead it’s my cold answers to them. In all honesty, I didn’t know if I was ready to go through all this madness again. If our enemies found out that the Chief Counter-Racist hitman for Robert Charles, had a whole damn family…that fact alone would easily become a death sentence for everyone I loved. Years ago, I had failed as a black man. I failed to protect my first family and I’d be damned if I doomed Jessica to that very same fate.

“Excuse me, my dear. Would you like another drink sir?”

She was naturally attractive and extremely sexy as she pointed at my empty glass with her broad smile. Her eyes blazed through me, summoning my wonder to the godly beauty of our biblical ancestors. The tortured sounds of her rough English fighting through that heavy Ethiopian accent, tugged at my self-awareness. It was obvious that English was not this woman’s preferred language. Who knows where this East African lady learned her English? To survive in this world dominated by White Supremacists, black people needed to be resourceful.

After inspecting my empty glass, I handed it over to her before springing upwards towards her eager ear. Noticing me, she quickly leaned down and met me halfway. I felt her purposely rub her breasts up against my arm as I closed in, teasing me with a forbidden feel. Her eyes were ready to accommodate, so I knew it was best that I avoided them.

“Yes, I’ll take another drink, sister.” I spoke over the bar’s corny music.

“I’ll have a Blue Bullfrog, and please tell the bartender to go easy on the ice this time.”

With a half-understanding nod, she shot me a cute smile before scurrying away. As my waiter and the Arabic bartender talked, I saw the bar’s front door swing open. A small group of young white men walked inside the lounge. All of them were wearing stares that longed for excitement. Sporting dark dress pants and long sleeve shirts, they all flossed shiny necklaces and gold pinky rings. Unlike the more modestly dressed Arabs, each one of these corny looking white boys was loud and obnoxious. Even from my sofa, I could tell that these young men were all U.S. Marines, most likely stationed at the Navy’s 5th Fleet Command in Juffair.

The presence of U.S. Service Members in Bahrain is omnipresent and unmistakable. From the bubbly nightclubs, five-star restaurants, lavish jewelry shops and gourmet weekend brunches, Bahrain has an extremely active night life. Despite huge cultural and language differences, U.S. servicemembers eagerly spend their money everywhere. There is no doubt in my mind that this group of barely drinking age young men had come here to cure a spell of boredom. As the group found lounge chairs for themselves, the front door once again opened and my overanxious partner wallowed into the dark lounge. His light-yellow long sleeve shirt looked half wet, and his brown skin shined with sweat. With his hairy chin and unmanicured line up, I could tell that he hadn’t bothered to visit the barbershop I recommended to him. From the discomfort in his spirit, I knew my partner was rushing himself. When the door closed behind him, our eyes briefly met. It only took a millisecond to see the lack of poise blossoming within him. He was under pressure, and instead of meeting the challenge with confidence, Anthony was allowing self-doubt to grow its roots.

His lack of self-confidence was the main reason Aunt Rita and her Robert Charles counterparts demanded that I supervise this whole Bahrain operation. Several months earlier, Anthony had badly botched a lucrative hit in Oregon, allowing a murderous member of the Hound Boyz to escape his grasp and flee to Ukraine. Robert Charles has a reputation for delivering justice to our paying customers, so Anthony’s failure to kill the racist bastard was not just embarrassing, but it was bad for business. I personally believed Anthony’s Caribbean Island upbringing was failing him. He was superb at taking orders and executing a set plan, but when things got fluid, he tended to struggle. Making a snap decision in a critical moment was certainly not his calling card.

Robert Charles’ leadership believed Anthony needed more seasoning before he could operate independently. Jessica wasn’t thrilled that I was forced to go back out for field work again. My days as a boots on the ground assassin were supposed to be over, but Robert Charles thought it best to pull me out of moth balls until Anthony was ready for primetime.

Looking confused, he quietly found himself a seat near the well-lit bar and pulled out his cellphone. After watching him type away, I felt my own phone vibrate on the marble tabletop in front of me. Within two minutes, Anthony had already made two errors that were all too common among inexperienced operators. For one, I knew he had been trailing too close behind that group of white Marines. There was no logical reason for him to come into the bar right after they entered. That, coupled with his decision to sit at the bar, where everyone with two eyes could see him, pissed me off. Now, I felt the need to grab this situation before it spiraled beyond the scope of his limited capabilities.

“Is he already in here? I wanna make sure I didn’t miss him,” Anthony texted.

“Calm down. Remember, confidence is king.” I texted back. “Control the situation or the situation will control you.”

“First, get up and find a seat away from the bar. Do it before the waitress notices you and comes over to take your order,” I followed up.

Anthony took in my text messages, then dumped his phone into his pocket. He obediently rose from his seat and slowly made his way across the room to a corner set of lounge chairs. Now, he was in a much better vantage point to see everything happening around him. With a slight head nod, I acknowledged the prudence of his choice.

Moments later, the Ethiopian waitress arrived with my freshly squeezed Blue Bullfrog. Without hesitating, I took a test sip and tasted mixed alcohol faintly masked by a sweet blast of citrus. This was a grown man’s drink; light weights need not apply. You only needed one Blue Bullfrog to hold you over for the rest of the night, and that too was part of my plan. Before the waitress could leave, I handed her three U.S. twenty-dollar bills and told her to keep the change. I watched her brown eyes explode with happiness as she quickly calculated her tip. Visibly appreciative, she leaned down and teased my cheek with a respectful kiss before offering a flirty smile.

“Thank you, my brother. Thank you so much, my love,” she spit out in her rough sounding English.

“You are very kind and very handsome. I know you. You are a good man.”

“If you want another drink sir, just let me know, OK. I take care of you, OK,” she continued.

Pleased, the waitress winked before walking over to Anthony. As the two introduced themselves, the bar’s front door opened again, and I instinctively knew who was about to enter. Three elegantly dressed Eastern European whores walked inside. They were followed by a short white man with a long brown ponytail. The pale skin of the women instantly drew gazes from the sexually curious Arabic men in the bar. Brimming with the self-confidence that automatically came with their status as white women, the ladies of the night made their lounge entrance an eye-grabbing one. Behind them, the short white man began to dance clumsily to rap music. He struggled to stay on beat while walking, making him look like a damn goofball. All of them knew they were being watched, and they undoubtedly relished the attention.

The group walked over and sat among the young marines, allowing me to positively identify the white bastard, as our target. Jared Spillers was a high-priced scumbag lawyer from Northern Virginia. In Black circles, he was well-known for his trademark ponytail, brash legal approach and his reputation for representing some of America’s most loathsome White Nationalists. Due to his preferred clientele and the boat load of Anti-Black litigation he presented to the Supreme Court, Jared found himself on Robert Charles’s shit list. For years, we monitored Jared and kept tabs on all of his activities and associations.

Back in the United States, he was a man on the run. The state police in Virginia had a warrant out for his arrest. He was the lawyer for a White Extremist accused of hanging a black fourteen-year-old several years ago. Law Enforcement officials had discovered evidence that Jared knew the well-hidden whereabouts of their primary suspect, a White Identity Extremist named Trevor Hancock. Unwilling to surrender his client to the cops, Jared instead decided to blow off a federal subpoena and took an impromptu vacation to the Middle East. For weeks, he’s hid himself here in the Kingdom of Bahrain. Aside from drinking at bars and paying for whores, he usually keeps himself inside his plush hotel room.

Frustrated with the police’s reluctance to find Jared, the mourning family of the black teenager contacted Robert Charles. Once the family signed the check, Robert Charles executives assigned the task of locating Jared to Anthony and I. Our mission was to use all reasonable means to convince the man to reveal Trevor Hancock’s secret whereabouts. Due to Anthony’s prior screw up, this meant that I would have to leave my pregnant girlfriend in New Orleans, and take a long flight over to Bahrain.

Now, I was here in this dark lounge smoking hookah and drinking way too much, while Jessica was back home silently marinating in her insecurities. On the other end of the bar, Jared looked alive with joy as he bought drinks for everyone at his table. If you didn’t know the guy, it would be hard to imagine that this fun-loving white man was on the run for obstruction of justice.

I watched the drinks continue to flow as my waitress served them round after round. The young Marines’ voices got louder with each sip, challenging the DJ’s rave music. Jared’s expensive whores seemed to enjoy teasing the young Marines. More than a few times, I noticed the sly ladies cleverly teasing the horny soldiers with hand rubs and naughty stares. Even if white women weren’t my cup of tea, I had to at least admire how shrewdly these ladies operated.

Finally, the moment Anthony and I had waited for arrived. Jared rose up from his seat and his legs began to wobble. He awkwardly tried to keep his balance before his body tilted forward in a drunken stumble. Sensing this, one of the young soldiers reached out to catch Jared, but his useless attempt was way too late. Jared’s left knee crashed into the wooden lounge table, causing a wave of alcohol and ice to spill out beneath them.

“Fuck me!” he cursed.

“Hey waitress! Somebody made a mess over here, so you’re gonna need to mop this up and bring us more drinks.”

With panicked urgency, the Ethiopian waitress scrambled over, whipping out her long wash towel upon arriving. While the ladies of the night and their young thirsty subjects scurried away from the growing pool of liquor and ice, my humble African waitress obediently dove to her knees. With light chuckles, the group teased Jared with shaded smiles and hazy eyes. They all were much too inebriated to suffer within their own embarrassment. These were white people, and even on the Islamic Island of Bahrain, whiteness means living life without any notion of remorse or regret.

“Hurry up with the mop job. The floor doesn’t need to be perfect. Just pick up our glasses and go get our refills,” Jared vented.

Shaken by his abrasive tone, the waitress jumped up from the floor and nervously stared at him. Afraid to challenge him and risk getting herself deported, she attempted to say several words of pitiful English before dashing away with a mountain of fear. The group laughed as she departed, openly teasing her heavy accent and menial manner. Inside my soul, I could feel my black rage reaching its apex. If it had been part of our mission to kill Jared, I would have done so with an abundance of joy. A murderous fantasy of slitting his throat began to play out in my mind. It would be orgasmic to witness the life God had gifted this snow roach, get snatched away by my hand.

Jared clumsily unbuttoned his sleeves before turning around towards the bathroom. As he stepped forward, both of his knees buckled and he crumbled to the floor. Somehow he caught himself, bracing his fall with an extended arm. Everyone in the bar noticed his fall, and not one person bothered to help him to his feet.

“I’m fuckin alright! I just need to go take a piss….and then I’ll really get this party poppin!” He loudly proclaimed while waving his black card in the air.

In a cringe worthy display of misplaced bravado, Jared stood tall while everyone watched. He performed several drunken and offbeat dance moves before letting out a loud shout of personal satisfaction. Everyone in the bar, from the wealthy Arabs to the indentured Ethiopian servants, tried hard to suppress their soft chuckles as he stumbled towards the restroom. No matter how harmful their behavior, no one dared to correct these White Supremacists. It’s much too easy for others to simply make excuses for them or try to pretend away their misbehavior. Pissed at his pathetic display, I took my glass and finished off my drink with three large gulps.

Unfortunately for Jared Spillers, his White Privilege was about to meet Robert Charles. Within my world, White Privilege carries zero weight. After exhaling a long white cloud of smoke, I glanced over at a pensive Anthony, giving him the signal. Summoning his confidence, he rose from his seat and slowly walked passed my table after placing his empty beer bottle next to my glass. As the music blasted and Jared’s entourage poured out on the dance floor, Anthony slipped into the restroom unnoticed.

When the restroom door swung shut behind him, I immediately spotted the DJ. He was a shaggy looking Russian expat, with an insatiable taste for anything pertaining to Black American culture. Despite looking like he was in his early twenties, the Russian man loved to dress like a late-90’s rapper, sporting oversized pants and faded soccer jerseys. The DJ found my gaze and returned a bright smile while fading his corny rave music into the Three 6 Mafia’s song, Tear da Club Up. He increased the volume and the mounted speakers sent vibes of excitement pulsing throughout the bar. Instantly, everyone near the dance floor burst into action, letting out loud shouts as they performed pathetic renditions of popular Hip-Hop dances.

My plan appeared to be falling into place rather nicely, so it was time to get a move on. I took one last puff of the grape mint hookah before removing the plastic mouthpiece, dumping it into my pocket for safe keeping. Using a wet napkin, I wiped down my empty glass and Anthony’s beer bottle, erasing our fingerprints. My next pressing task was to secure the restroom. Looking over at the bar, I found my exhausted waitress and waved for her to come. With a genuine smile, she eagerly trotted over to me.

“My hookah bowl is all ash, so I’m about to head out,” I informed her.

Confused about my intentions, I watched her eyes widen as she innocently motioned towards her lips with a tightly balled fist. Amused by the awkward hand signal, I tried to contain my childish laughter, but failed. I couldn’t make out the sister’s English, but her eyes told me she was asking if I needed a refill. I laughed, shook my head and told her no, insisting that I was fine. Without hesitation she kneeled down, picking up the scorching hot bong with her bare hands before giving me a soft kiss goodbye.

With my waitress gone, I paced over to the DJ booth and examined his equipment. There were no stacks of vinyl records, just his thick laptop plugged into an old school mixer. His light blue eyes seemed to glow in the darkness of the bar, as his head wildly bounced to the beat. Pulling off his huge earphones, he reached over, offering me a handshake. I accommodated his request, but his uncaged excitement caused me to second guess our agreement.

On the back of his hand, I saw a crude tattoo of a scorpion outlined in blue and yellow ink. I recognized the prison artistry that was typical among all Russian members of organized crime. The Kingdom of Bahrain is overrun with a wide assortment of Eastern European trash. From the hotel owners, club managers, bouncers, bartenders, pimps, prostitutes and DJ’s, the shadowy presence of the criminal underworld is pervasive here. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out a small envelope and handed it to him. His eyes grew serious as he peeled back the flap and peered down at the stack of hundred-dollar bills tucked away inside.

“That’s the first half up front…. just like we agreed,” I clarified. “You’ll get the second half once I’m done.”

Visibly pleased, he leaned over, embracing me with a one-armed hug like we were besties. I felt the warmth of his vodka scented breath as he whispered into my ear with his heavy accent.

“When you’re done, you must come to my flat tonight. We will smoke a mountain of Kush and get fucked up, I promise you. Bring your partner too. I’ll have all the beautiful ladies ready for you both.”

“I’ll even bring that pretty African waitress you’ve been flirting with,” he stated with a devious sparkle in his eye. “She gives good head and will please you for sure.”

“We can do a lot of business together my friend. We will make a good team. This is only the beginning, I promise you. Bahrain is our spot homie, together we can run this place. I promise you.”

I played him off with a phony laugh, giving him some dap before heading off towards the restroom. There was no way in hell I intended to stick around and smoke weed with this bastard. I’d be an idiot to trust a white criminal like him. The only thing this pale faced gangster could do for me was honor our damn agreement and make sure no one entered this restroom.

Despite my initial concerns, the Russians had done a great job spiking Jared’s drink. It took me a while to convince them that I wasn’t here to make trouble. A stack of cash mixed in with a few kilos of rare contraband from Columbia was enough to convince these white thugs to play along. I could tell that the DJ had done a little research on me after our initial meeting, which is why I gave him a fake name. The second time we met, he was more suspicious, so he made me promise that I wouldn’t kill anyone. Being a man of faith, I looked him in his blue eyes and made that promise, yet everything about that interaction caused me to second guess his real intentions.

I pushed open the restroom door and my nose was wildly punched by the sour smell of hot shit. Two toilet stall doors were shut, while the third hung wide open. In the first stall, I could see Anthony’s ugly dress shoes with his pants dangling down above them. In the stall next to him, I saw Jared’s fine leather shoes and heard him grunting heavily. The sounds of his loose stool splashing into the watery toilet, echoed throughout the restroom. Satisfied, I flipped the lock on the bathroom door, convinced that the Russian laxative had begun its work. Then I walked over to the sink and started washing my hands. Hearing the signal, Anthony flushed his toilet and exited the stall.

In his hand he held a long syringe, filled with a truth agent cooked up by a Robert Charles chemist. As I rubbed my fingers underneath the cold running water, I peered into the mirror and watched as Anthony gathered his strength before blasting open Jared’s stall door. In one quick motion, Anthony grabbed Jared’s long hair, jerking his head to one side and exposing his meaty neck. Before he could react, Anthony jammed the sharp needle into his neck and compressed the syringe. For a few seconds, he tried to scream, but the DJ’s loud music and my running water muted Jared’s whimpers for help.

Still holding him down, Anthony looked back at me wearing an adrenaline-induced smile, eagerly awaiting my approval. Without words, I shut off the water and dried my hands with several paper towels before wiping away my fingerprints. As I tossed the drenched towels into the trash bin, I felt my cellphone vibrate inside my pocket. Pulling it out, I looked at the screen and noticed it was Jessica. After silencing the phone, I slowly walked in front of the stall and stared down at a sleepy-eyed Jared. Seeing his once tense body go limp, I knew the truth agent had begun to run its course.

“You only have two options here” I explained. “The first option involves a lot of pain and certain death. The second option entails you giving my partner the answers he’s asking for.”

“If you choose option number two, none of your clients will necessarily know you helped us. You’ll just wake up in your bed tomorrow morning and your white associates won’t know a thing.”

“But if you’re silly enough to choose option number one….if you go that route…well God help you and your young daughter,” I conveyed.

Jared’s lazy eyes seemed to come alive when he heard me rattle off the school and home address of his thirteen-year-old daughter. In a loss for words, Anthony and I watched as tears ran down his blood red cheeks. He was in a bad spot, and he knew it.

“You’ve got two minutes, Anthony,” I instructed. “Get the address from him and clean up once your done.”

I unlocked the bathroom door and made my way through the dance floor to the bar’s entrance. Stepping outside, I was immediately greeted by the midnight heat of Bahrain. Instantly, I felt my skin began to sweat as the smothering humidity engulfed me. Grabbing my cellphone, I unlocked it and connected to the lounge’s Wi-Fi. After opening a browser, I logged onto 6zeros.net, a social media platform designed and built by friends of Robert Charles. After scrolling through the site’s discussion forums, I accessed a secure communications thread only available to those approved by Robert Charles. Clicking on Jessica’s username, I typed an instant message and hit the send button.

“Hey baby,” I sent.

“I see you’re still awake,” she sarcastically replied.

“Whatever you’re doing on your little vacation over there…. you need to finish it up and get back home right now.”

Looking at my watch, I noticed it was near mid-night in Bahrain, which would have made it around lunch time in New Orleans. After wiping sweat from my forehead, I unbuttoned my collar, preparing myself for Jessica’s rant.

“This will be our last night here,” I responded. “I should be heading to the airport real soon.”

“Well, when you land be ready to get right to work,” she cryptically wrote. “We both will be on the clock. We’ll need to follow up on some work we did for one of our favorite clients.”

“What happened, Jessica? Is everything alright?” I sent.

“Achim, just browse through the Cookout section on 6zeros when you get on the plane. That ought to be enough to get you up to speed before you land,” she replied.

Fully understanding her coded message, I sent Jessica a goodnight emoji and patiently waited for a response. She never sent it, so I placed my cellphone back inside my pocket before leaning up against the wall. When Jessica resigned from the NOPD, we both decided to open our own Private Investigation business. Aunt Rita supported the venture, providing us with a large loan which we used to purchase a small commercial office in downtown New Orleans. I fully believed in the idea, thinking it was the perfect cover. I could conceal most of my activities as an assassin, behind the legitimacy of being a P.I.

Ironically, our favorite client happened to be the Chief of Police, Superintendent Mark Spann. Better known publicly as Pokey, Mark Spann took over as Chief of NOPD after the White Nationalist scandal became public. I hadn’t known Pokey for long, but he seemed to be an honest cop, and not just the typical boot licking Boule types we normally see in high places. Pokey didn’t look the part at all. He was a big jolly brother from very humble beginnings. Yet, behind his overweight exterior, was a black man that could correctly read the streets. Having grown up in the bowels of the 7th Ward, he knew his people and understood their daily challenges.

He begged Jessica not to resign from the force. Given the situation he was inheriting at the NOPD, I could hardly blame him for not wanting her to leave. Pokey needed good cops and Jessica was one of his best and brightest, but neither of us trusted the situation. There was no way he could guarantee her safety in a police department that was still stained by corruption and overflowing with Race Soldiers with an axe to grind. From a distance, Jessica and I committed ourselves towards helping Pokey, but that help would have to come with a certain degree of detachment.

Whenever Pokey needed a trusted ally to investigate a sensitive NOPD issue or provide the unvarnished truth, Jessica and I got the call. For us, the pay was good, but the access to power was even better for Robert Charles. He had no idea who I really was and who I truly worked for, and I wanted to keep it that way. For now, he only needed to know that I was the co-owner of Silent Endeavors Investigative Services.

In the back of my mind, I was always worried about Pokey somehow catching wind of my ties to Robert Charles. For that very reason, my real job as a Counter-Racist Hitman had to remain hidden. As I scanned through the trending threads on 6zeros, I could only hope that my cover hadn’t been blown.

While my private worries pulled my attention away from the mission, the bar’s front entrance swung open. Heavy bass accompanied a nervous looking Anthony outside. He was rubbing his hands feverishly and even from a good distance away, I could smell his lemon-scented hand sanitizer. Several small red drops of blood were visible on his sleeve, and the crotch area of his brown dress pants was wet. Then I noticed the bleeding scratch below his left eye. Looking at my watch, it finally dawned on me that he was five minutes late.

“What the hell did you just do?” I instinctively asked.

“He woke up, Achim,” Anthony murmured in his Bahamian accent.

“The shot wore off. I had to inject him again to keep him quiet. Now he’s sitting in that stall unconscious and struggling to breathe.”

He pulled the vial out of his pocket and handed it over. Feeling its lack of weight, I immediately knew he had emptied it. Anthony had used the entire bottle on this damn guy. One injection was more than strong enough to put a grown man out for a whole day, yet Anthony had used the entire vial, which held three full shots. If Jared Spillers lived to see the sunrise in the morning, it would be a fuckin miracle. This was the kind of trouble our greedy Russian counterparts wanted to avoid. If pushed up against a wall, I knew they would rat us out to the Bahraini authorities, if they didn’t end up killing us themselves. It was time to execute a contingency plan. We both needed to get the hell out of dodge, and fast.

“Anthony, did you at least clean up?”

“Yeah, Achim. Everything’s sanitized,” he replied. “I wiped down everything I touched. That’s why I’m running late.”

“How about the address? Were you able to get it?” I followed up.

“Yes, Jared gave me the address before he passed out. Trevor Hancock is hiding in Buffalo….”

“Alright, you can fill me in later,” I loudly broke in. “We better get a move on.”

“First we go to my hotel,” I laid out.

“We’ll both change clothes and pick up my luggage. I have two plane tickets on standby. The earliest flight leaves at 1:30 AM. So if we hurry, we can fly outta here and probably be in Amsterdam before the medical examiners find your needle marks on Jared’s neck.”

I turned and slowly walked towards the parking lot, allowing Anthony to jet in front of me to unlock his doors. In total silence, Anthony drove us to the Gulf Hotel and we went straight to my room. Within eight minutes, we were walking out of the lobby wearing different attire and carrying my bags. As we pulled away from the hotel, I looked at my watch to check the time. It was now twenty minutes past midnight. The bar would be closing at 1AM and if the employees hadn’t already discovered Jared’s body, they would within the next ten minutes for sure. If Jared was indeed dead inside that stall, our Russian hosts will probably spill the beans and the Bahraini police will begin searching for us any minute now.

“Don’t speed or break any laws, but we really need to push it,” I advised. “The sooner we get through Bahraini Customs, the better.”

Anthony nodded and gripped the wheel. He pushed down on the accelerator and we coasted through the narrow streets of Bahrain. Within five minutes, we had arrived. The late-night emptiness of the local airport was to our ultimate advantage. Ten minutes after arriving, we ditched the rental car and checked into our flight. Fifteen minutes later, we both passed through security and turned in our visas to customs. Our contingency plan was well-thought-out, prudent and most importantly, working.

As we walked to our gate, my cellphone vibrated, so I pulled it out of my pocket. It was a call from our Russian friend. I ignored the call and proceeded on without a thought of answering. Minutes later, my phone once again erupted with noise, this time a long series of angry text messages. After opening the first two, I got his point and saw no need to continue reading his rant. Our Russian friend and his gangster bosses were rightfully pissed, but I didn’t give a damn.

The Bahraini police force and U.S. Embassy Officials were crawling all over their bar and asking all sorts of questions. A White American citizen had been killed, so someone had to take the blame and that person wouldn’t be me. As I powered off my cellphone and boarded the plane, I felt secure enough to order a cup of coffee before we hit the runway. I kept my damn promise and I hadn’t personally killed anyone. The dead white American was all their problem now, not mine.

These European bastards are infamous for recruiting among the poor countries of Africa, flying young Ethiopian women into Bahrain and stealing their passports and visas. Once they have them, they withhold pay, sexually abuse them and control their ability to return home to safety. All of this is a human rights violation, and just another form of quasi-slavery. For me, this is a small taste of Black justice. The culture vulture DJ should count himself lucky that I allowed him to live.

“Achim, why does my ticket have such a long layover in Amsterdam?” Anthony asked from the seat behind me.

“Because I suspect someone might be looking for two black assassins traveling to the U.S.,” I answered. “It’s a precaution, just in case the Bahraini government is on to us.”

“If we split up, they will only arrest me. You can stay in Amsterdam and switch identities before traveling back home to finish this job.”

“Our customer has paid Robert Charles handsomely for our services. So, we need to be sure one of us makes it back stateside to deliver the results they paid for.”

Reaching into my carry-on bag, I pulled out a small leather pouch and handed it to him. Inside were government documents and a U.S. passport with another false identity. Along with the documents were instructions and a list of black owned safe houses in Amsterdam.

“Hang around Amsterdam for a day or so. After you catch up on some sleep and put food in your belly, fly to that address Jared gave you. When you locate Trevor Hancock, kill him. If any white collaborators try to help him escape, kill them too,” I instructed.

Without words, he took the pouch and buckled into his window seat. Within minutes, the lights in the cabin were dimmed and we were airborne. Once our plane lifted into the dark sky, I felt a sense of victory wash over me. Now my worries immediately returned to the crisis awaiting me in New Orleans.

At cruising altitude, I logged into the plane’s Wi-Fi service and searched through the local news back home. Most of the articles were benign, involving the typical fare about local politics, festivals and traffic issues. After scrolling down, I found a national news article that caught my attention. Clicking on the link, I was only able to read the banner before an embedded video began to play.

“Three Suspects Shot During Record-Breaking Drug Bust In Chalmette,” the headline read.

The video buffered momentarily before coming into focus. I immediately heard the ominous sounding voiceover by the local news anchor. As the footage played on, I noticed it was video of a crime scene. In the video, a long piece of police tape flapped in the wind as an NOPD police unit sat still with its bright lights blasting. The video then cut to images of spent bullet casings laying on a cracked sidewalk. Behind the police tape, I recognized the old brick warehouse as plain clothed detectives strolled out of its entrance carrying bundles of evidence bags. Then the image changed, displaying still photos of three Asian men. Underneath the pictures were their names and ages. All of the Asian men had been killed in a shootout with an NOPD SWAT team. The news anchor reported that several NOPD officers had been wounded, but their injuries were minor. The video cut to an interview and I immediately recognized Pokey’s wide face, as he stood tall in his freshly ironed uniform.

“Today, the NOPD has confiscated over 300 million dollars’ worth of opium. Removing these illegal drugs from our streets will go a long way towards cleaning up this city,” he proclaimed.

“This is a proud day for all of us in the NOPD. Our hearts and prayers go out to those SWAT team members who were wounded. Interacting with dangerous criminals is always risky. Our city is grateful for the dedication and selfless sacrifice of our law enforcement professionals.”

The video abruptly cut to paid advertisement, so I scrolled down and scanned the entire article. A few months ago, Pokey had asked Jessica and I to investigate activities at this very warehouse. Asian gangsters were pretending to use the warehouse to store seafood caught by Vietnamese commercial fisherman. While legitimately storing catch, the warehouse also acted as a storage facility for all kinds of illegal contraband that had been smuggled into the country via the Gulf of Mexico. Using the lawless Southwestern corridor of Louisiana, Asian fishermen would rendezvous with illegal Mexican Shrimpers to onload bales of opium before sailing back to New Orleans. The entire drug traffic pattern was extensive, and I believed it all originated from somewhere in Asia.

After receiving the evidence from our investigation, Pokey raided the warehouse and now three Asian men were dead. In the back of my mind, I couldn’t help but to think that somehow, he had made a grave mistake. Arresting Asian criminals and confiscating their dope was one thing but killing them in a botched raid attempt was completely another. All over the world, Asian gangsters are notoriously violent. This sort of bold enforcement action would certainly cause more violence in the future, especially if crooked NOPD officers were involved.

I powered down my cellphone and tried to catch a nap, but thoughts of Jessica trapped my fatigue. The oncoming effects of an impending hangover also kept me wide awake. All of the mixed alcohol in the Blue Bullfrog seemed like a good idea going down, but now, I found myself beginning to regret the decision. Aside from Pokey’s raid, I spent most of the flight staring into the darkness of the cabin, wondering if marrying Jessica was the safest thing for me to do right now. A big part of me wanted to marry her. There was no denying my love for this woman. Every time I looked into Jessica’s brown eyes, my soul moved. This relationship was beyond the simplicities of sexual attraction. Jessica added to me. Her quiet encouragement drove me to seek higher quarters, not just for myself, but for the both of us. Yet, the nightmare of witnessing my late wife’s bloody execution still haunted me. There would be no way I could guarantee her safety, especially if we were legally married.

She failed to realize the gravity of my past and its tremendous effects on my present. The business of killing White Supremacists for Robert Charles had turned a lot of dangerous people into mortal enemies. For years, I had sustained myself in this lonely life by avoiding any and every attachment. Hell, as a hitman, emotional attachments are one of the first things I looked to expose in order to trap a target. Now, I was sitting in this cramped middle seat trying like hell to convince myself that I could survive in this line of work with a whole family.

The hours slowly melted away and our plane touched down on the runway. As we taxied to our terminal, the flight attendant turned on the bright cabin lights and my assaulted eyes screamed for cover. Glancing behind me, I saw a groggy looking Anthony unbuckling his seat belt. He had undoubtedly been beating himself up over the mission, thinking he had screwed up somehow. Waving my hand to get his attention, I motioned for him to lean closer.

“You did good,” I offered. “From here on out, you shouldn’t need me anymore. That was the best lesson I could have ever given you.”

“Always remember, a smart man merely plans for his success, but a genius has contingencies if things fall apart. You must find a way to give yourself a chance in every battle Anthony, just in case things don’t work out as planned. In our business, things never go the way you plan them. You need to bend events towards your will with foresight and bold action.”

The cabin door opened and we all filed out into the airport terminal. Following the signs, I made a left towards my next gate while Anthony turned right, heading to the customs area. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. No one was following me and security in the terminal was light. It was my guess that our Eastern European thugs hadn’t talked or that Jared had somehow, managed to survive. Either way, paying them could go a long way towards concealing our secret and making amends.

After buying a bottle of water and taking some Aspirin, I found a seat near my next gate. I took out my cellphone and logged into my international bank account. With a few finger swipes, the final half of my payment to our White European gangsters was transmitted, along with a final message.

“I took the liberty of adding two zeroes to your final invoice. I trust that this bonus might help subdue any anguish your admirable service may have caused you. Have a great life.”

With that, their payment of $1.00 was sent to them before I blocked their accounting string and transferred my remaining cash into a separate Robert Charles savings account. If they weren’t mad before this, they would surely be incensed by my trickiness now. But hey, fuck’em, at least I let them live.

My time at Amsterdam airport came to an end, so I boarded my plane. The plane flew me across the Atlantic Ocean with the rising sun chasing close behind. After a layover in Atlanta, I finally landed on the sweet soil of New Orleans. Seeing the magical city appear below me, sent familiar chills running down my spine. No matter where I traveled or how long I had been gone, for some strange reason, New Orleans just felt like home.

Walking downstairs to the lower level, I entered the baggage claim section and found her patiently waiting. She was wearing her Sunday’s best and her hair was twisted and held up with bobby pins. Her small belly bump barely protruded past her unbuttoned jacket. From the bulge on her right hip, I knew she had to be carrying her Springfield 911. Until I saw Jessica, I hadn’t realized how much I missed her. No matter how exhausted I felt, the awe-inspiring splendor of her brown eyes always seemed to give me a boost. I had only been gone a week, yet seeing her stand there in the full beauty of motherhood made the absence seem like ten years.

“Hey baby.” I offered while leaning in for a hug.

“Hurry up and get your bags so we can go,” she softly snapped.

I’d only been home a few minutes and Jessica was already blazing hot. Once her snarky words left her lips, I watched her face tense up as she turned her gaze away from me. She was pissed and we both knew why. Wounded by her reaction, part of me wanted to lash out at her, but I decided it was best to quietly take my lumps. Holding my tongue, I plucked my luggage from the conveyor belt, and we walked outside to our SUV in awkward silence.

As I loaded my bags into the trunk, Jessica gingerly slid behind the wheel. From her muted grunts of pain, I knew that her back and feet were bothering her. It had likely been a long night for Jessica, filled with painful cramps and bouts of nausea.

“Let me drive, baby,” I offered.

“No, I got it,” she answered. “Plus, we’re leaving here and going straight to church. Aunt Rita needs you to talk some sense into Pokey’s ambitious ass.”

“So, we’re going to church service right now.” I retorted.

“I’ve been flying all day and I’m not even dressed. Let me call Aunt Rita and tell her that I can go visit Pokey tomorrow after he gets off work.”

“No way, Achim. Aunt Rita wants this done today,” she declared.

“Pokey just shot a campaign ad for Governor Lewis that’s going to air during the Democratic Convention next summer.”

“Both the Governor and the DNC have gotten really chummy with Pokey, and there using this whole Asian opium bust to boost the Governor’s street cred in the black community.”

“Because of it, Pokey is getting all kinds of media exposure. Aunt Rita wants us to make sure he doesn’t find himself too close to these white politicians. She’s worried and she’s not in the mood to wait around, Achim.”

Jessica merged into highway traffic and we both went silent. I understood Aunt Rita’s concern. Governor Lewis happened to be a presidential front-runner and clearly intended to use Pokey’s status as a black police chief to boost his poll numbers among black voters. Although I had no beef with the man, Governor Lewis’s shrewd tactic had the potential to harm Robert Charles. When Democrat and Republican opponents perform opposition research on Pokey, my name would surely come up. That had to bother Aunt Rita, because it sure as hell worried me.