Jackboi 2 E-Book

Darrell King

• Herausgeber: WS
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 156

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

Torin Adeyemi thought that he'd finally conquered the dark and addictive bloodlust that led to him committing a multitude of vigilante murders as 'Jack$boi', the savage serial killer, who struck terror in the hearts of Baltimore's inner-city criminals. But now the stakes are much higher ~~ruthless hustler/pimp, Lucien Valentino (see "Deadly Phine: A Tale Of Urban Terror" By Darrell King) and his delectable, but tainted callgirls have unleashed the lethal STD known as HIV5X upon an unsuspecting and vulnerable Baltimore as a part of a sinister and covert shadow government's(known as 'The Sentinels Of The Illuminati') genocidal agenda against blacks. HIV5X is a highly aggressive, extremely virulent Strain of AIDS, which has a 95% kill rate. As tens of dozens of poor, black and Latino Baltimoreans sicken and die each week from the terrifying pandemic, simultaneously a spate of spree killings and serial slayings begin popping up all across 'Charm City', a group who identify themselves as the "Jungle Katz" takes responsibility for the bloody murders and proudly announces both their admiration for and allegiance to Baltimore's vigilante slasher~~Jungle. With both the HIV5X infection and death rates mounting to dizzying proportions and the copycat murders connecting Jungle via his demented groupies and the always out of control Baltimore city police force up in arms, forces Torin Adeyemi to once again take to the nighttime city streets as his bloodthirsty alter ego. With his loving girlfriend Janay now six months pregnant with twins, Torin is reluctant to give in to his murderous addiction, however be can't nor won't fight the urge this time around, his beloved' Charm City has been turned upside down by a creep named Valentino and his contagious prostitutes who've had the awful gall to celebrate their sick, genocidal plans on various social media sites, not to mention the crazed 'Manson family' like Jungle Katz killing ghetto crooks in his name. Jungle has returned, and now it's simply a matter of time before both groups of evildoers pay the ultimate price!

Leseprobe

KJ Publications, Inc.

Author and CEO: Darrell A. King Sr.

Executive Producer and COO: Elbert Jones Jr.

[phone]

kjpublications.com

Chapter 1

he air in Baltimore clung to the skin like a damp rag, thick with the stench of asphalt and fried food from the carryout on Eutaw Street. It was late September, and the city pulsed with its usual chaos—sirens wailing in the distance, the low thrum of bass from a passing car, kids shouting over a pickup basketball game on a cracked court. Vivian Carter, nineteen, navigated the sidewalk with a purposeful stride, her backpack slung over one shoulder, a stethoscope peeking out from the unzipped top. Her braids were pulled into a neat bun, and her sneakers—white, scuffed but clean—squeaked faintly against the pavement. She was a sophomore at Morgan State, pre-med, and every step she took felt like a defiance of the odds stacked against her in Sandtown-Winchester.

Vivian wasn’t just another face in the neighborhood. She was the girl who’d made it out, or at least was clawing her way there. No kids, no drama, no record—a rarity in a place where dreams often drowned in the grind of survival. Her neighbors called her “Doc” half in jest, half in pride, and she carried that weight with a quiet smile. Her mother, a nurse’s aide, and her father, a sanitation worker, had poured their hopes into her, and Vivian felt it every time she cracked open her anatomy textbook. She wasn’t just studying for herself; she was studying for them, for her little brother, for the kids on the block who needed to see someone like her make it.

Today, though, her focus wavered. She’d met someone. Marlon, he called himself, a carpenter who’d rolled into town a month ago, working odd jobs on the rowhouses being gutted for renovation. He was older, maybe twenty-five, with a smile that could melt steel and a way of talking that made Vivian feel like she was the only person in the room. They’d met at the corner store, her grabbing a ginger ale, him buying a pack of Newports. He’d teased her about her stethoscope—“You savin’ lives already, huh?”—and she’d laughed, something she didn’t do often. Since then, they’d been texting, meeting up for walks, sharing late-night calls. Marlon was different, she thought. Not like the boys around here, all flash and no substance. He listened when she talked about med school, nodded like he understood her dreams.

Now, as she crossed North Avenue, her phone buzzed in her pocket. A text from Marlon: Meet me at Lexington Market, 6pm? Got a surprise. Vivian’s lips curved into a smile, her heart doing a little flip. She typed back, Bet. What’s the surprise? His reply was quick: You’ll see, Doc. Wear somethin’ nice. She shook her head, amused, and tucked the phone away. For the first time in months, she felt light, like the weight of her ambitions wasn’t crushing her. She didn’t notice the eyes watching her from a parked sedan, or the way the driver, a woman with a shaved head and a cold stare, jotted something in a notebook before pulling away.

*****

Half a mile away, in the shadowed heart of the Ashley Apartments, Lucien Valentino stood before a cracked mirror, adjusting the collar of a flannel shirt. The apartment was a husk—peeling paint, water-stained ceilings, the faint smell of mildew and something sharper, like bleach. To the outside world, he was Marlon, the charming drifter with calloused hands and a quick laugh. But here, in this dimly lit room, he was something else entirely. Lucien was a ghost, a predator, a genius forged in the crucible of loss. Orphaned at twelve, he’d raised himself on the streets, devouring books in public libraries, learning to mimic the world’s masks. His mind was a blade, sharp and precise, and he wielded it with a purpose that burned colder than hate.

He turned from the mirror, his dark eyes catching the flicker of a single bulb overhead. On a folding table lay a syringe, a vial of clear liquid, and a stack of burner phones. The vial was labeled only with a string of numbers, but Lucien knew its contents. Ninety-nine percent mortality within six months, no cure, no mercy. It was his weapon, his art, his vengeance against a world he believed had stolen everything from him. His sister, dead at fifteen in a gang shootout; his parents, gone to drugs and despair. Lucien had no illusions about salvation. He was building a pyre, and Baltimore’s Black and Hispanic communities were the kindling.

The door creaked open, and a woman stepped inside—Candy, his second-in-command, her shaved head gleaming under the light. She was tall, wiry, with a scar running from her temple to her jaw, a memento from a life before Lucien. Like all the Sentinels of the Illuminati, she was infected with HIV5X, a willing soldier in his crusade. But her eyes, usually hard as flint, held a flicker of unease. “They’re ready downstairs,” she said, her voice low. “You sure about this batch? They’re young.”

Lucien’s smile was a razor. “Youth is power, Candy. They trust, they follow, they spread.” He picked up the syringe, twirling it between his fingers. “The ceremony begins in ten. Make sure Grantham’s there.”

Candy nodded, but her jaw tightened. She’d seen the initiation before—the blood, the vows, the moment when new recruits realized what they’d signed up for. It was grotesque, a ritual that married ideology to biology, binding them to Lucien’s vision. She turned to leave, but Lucien’s voice stopped her. “You’re not wavering, are you?”

She met his gaze, steady despite the chill in her spine. “Never.” The lie was smooth, but Lucien’s eyes lingered on her as she exited.

*****

Vivian reached Lexington Market just as the sun dipped below the skyline, casting the city in a bruised purple glow. The market was alive with vendors hawking crab cakes and pit beef, the air thick with grease and chatter. She’d swapped her sneakers for a pair of low heels and wore a simple black dress that hugged her frame, a rare departure from her usual jeans and hoodies. Her heart raced as she scanned the crowd, spotting Marlon near a stall selling sweet potato pies. He was leaning against a post, hands in his pockets, a denim jacket slung over his shoulders. His locs were tied back, and when he saw her, his face broke into that smile that made her forget the world.

“Damn, Doc,” he said, stepping closer. “You clean up nice.”

Vivian rolled her eyes, but her cheeks warmed. “You ain’t lookin’ bad yourself. What’s this surprise?”

He took her hand, his touch firm but gentle, and led her through the market to a quieter corner where a small table was set up, draped in a white cloth. A single rose sat in a glass, flanked by two plates of shrimp and grits, steam rising from the food. “Figured you deserved a real date,” Marlon said, pulling out a chair for her. “No corner store vibes tonight.”

Vivian laughed, settling into the seat. “You did all this? For real?”

“For you? Yeah.” His voice was soft, earnest, and Vivian felt something shift inside her, a wall she hadn’t realized she’d built starting to crack. They ate, talked, laughed—about her classes, his travels, the way Baltimore never seemed to change. Marlon’s stories were vivid, full of details about jobs in Philly, a childhood in Georgia, a love for woodworking that made his hands rough but precise. Vivian drank it in, not questioning the ease of his words, not seeing the way his eyes flicked to her neck, her wrists, calculating her pulse.

As the market began to thin out, Marlon leaned closer, his voice dropping. “You ever think about gettin’ outta here, Vivian? Somewhere you can just be… you?”

She paused, a shrimp halfway to her mouth. “All the time. But I can’t leave my family. My brother—he’s only fourteen. He needs me to show him there’s more than this.” She gestured vaguely at the city around them. “And my parents… they’ve sacrificed too much.”

Marlon nodded, his expression unreadable. “Family’s everything. But you gotta live for you, too. You’re special, Viv. I see it.”

Her breath caught. No one had ever called her that, not like he did. She reached for his hand, and he squeezed it, his thumb brushing her knuckles. The moment stretched, electric, until he stood, pulling her to her feet. “C’mon,” he said. “One more stop.”

*****

The Ashley Apartments loomed like a decayed fortress, its brick facade scarred by graffiti and neglect. Inside, in a basement lit by flickering fluorescents, the Sentinels gathered. Twenty recruits, mostly young women, stood in a semicircle, their faces a mix of fear and defiance. The air was heavy with the smell of antiseptic and something metallic, like blood. At the center, Lucien stood in a black suit. His voice, smooth as velvet, filled the room.

“You are chosen,” he said, pacing slowly. “The world is diseased, rotting from within. We are the cure. Through us, the unworthy will fall, and a new order will rise.”

Candy stood at his side, her arms crossed, her unease buried beneath a mask of loyalty. Behind them, Dr. Myles Grantham fidgeted, his lab coat stained with coffee, his eyes darting to the syringe in Lucien’s hand. Grantham was a broken man, disgraced after a scandal involving falsified research, now tethered to Lucien by desperation and debt. His work on HIV5X was his last chance at relevance, a twisted redemption. The strain was his creation, refined in a makeshift lab to be transmissible through blood, sex, and, soon, in a way no human can escape.

One recruit, a girl no older than sixteen, trembled as Lucien approached her. “Do you accept the mark?” he asked, holding up the syringe. Her nod was hesitant, but she extended her arm. The needle pierced her skin, and she flinched, a single tear rolling down her cheek. The others watched, some whispering prayers, others staring blankly. Candy’s fingers twitched, but she said nothing.

Lucien moved to the next recruit. “You are the Sentinels. You carry the fire. Through you, we cleanse.”

In a shadowed corner, a laptop screen glowed, displaying a video call. The face on the screen was obscured, but the voice was sharp, authoritative—a woman, older, with an accent. “Progress, Valentino?” she asked.

Lucien didn’t look at the screen. “On schedule. The city’s already bleeding. Grantham’s close to the final formula.”

“Good,” the voice said. “The Architects expect results. Fail, and you’re expendable.”

Lucien’s jaw tightened, but his smile didn’t falter. “I don’t fail.”

The call ended, and Lucien turned back to the recruits, his eyes burning with purpose.

*****

Marlon led Vivian to a small park off Druid Hill, where the city’s noise faded to a dull hum. The grass was patchy, the benches chipped, but the moonlight made it almost beautiful. They sat close, shoulders touching, and Vivian felt a warmth she hadn’t known she craved. Marlon’s arm draped around her, and she leaned into him, her guard slipping further.

“You’re gonna be a doctor, huh?” he said, his breath warm against her ear. “Save the world?”

She chuckled softly. “Maybe just Baltimore. Somebody’s gotta.”

He tilted her chin up, his eyes locking with hers. “You’re already savin’ me.”

The kiss was slow at first, tentative, then hungry. Vivian’s heart pounded, her hands finding his chest, his neck. She’d never felt this before—this pull, this need. Marlon’s hands roamed, gentle but sure, and when he whispered, “You trust me, Viv?” she nodded without thinking. They moved to his car, a beat-up Chevy parked nearby, and the back seat became their world. Clothes shed, skin met skin, and Vivian gave herself to him.

She didn’t see the calculation in his eyes, or the way he glanced at his watch as she drifted to sleep in his arms. She didn’t know that what she now carried in her blood. Maybe he is Lucien Valentino or Marlon, he just made another claim to a new life. Carter, the girl who was supposed to save Baltimore, was already doomed.

*****

Back at the Ashley Apartments, the initiation ended, the recruits dispersing into the night, their arms bandaged, their fates sealed. Candy lingered, watching Lucien clean the syringe with meticulous care. “How many more?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Lucien didn’t look up. “As many as it takes.”

She hesitated, then left, her footsteps echoing in the empty hall. Grantham stayed, his hands shaking as he packed his equipment. “This… this is going too far,” he muttered. “The next phase means millions, Lucien. Not just Baltimore.”

Lucien’s smile was cold. “Exactly.”

Grantham swallowed, his mind racing with the weight of what he’d done. He’d crossed lines he could never uncross, but the money—the promise of a new life—kept him tethered. The Dark Architects had him as much as they had Lucien, and there was no way out.

The days after Vivian’s date with Marlon blurred into a rhythm of hope and distraction. Baltimore’s autumn settled in, the air crisp with the promise of change, but the city’s pulse remained relentless—gunshots echoing at night, corner boys slinging under flickering streetlights, mothers clutching kids tight on their way to school. Vivian, though, moved through it all with a new lightness. Her classes at Morgan State were grueling—organic chemistry and biology labs that left her eyes burning—but Marlon’s texts, his voice on late-night calls, were like a lifeline. He’d send her silly memes, pictures of half-finished cabinets, and once, a voice note of him humming a Marvin Gaye tune, low and smooth. She saved that one, replaying it when the weight of her dreams pressed too hard.

Vivian’s apartment, a cramped one-bedroom she shared with her parents and brother, was a sanctuary of sorts. The walls were thin, the carpet worn, but it was home. Her mother, Lorraine, kept it spotless, with plastic-covered furniture and a small shrine of family photos on the mantle—Vivian’s high school graduation, Jamal’s Little League team, her parents’ wedding in ’98. Lorraine was a nurse’s aide at Johns Hopkins, her hands rough from years of bedpans and bandages, but her smile was fierce, a beacon for Vivian. Her father, Clarence, was quieter, a sanitation worker who rose before dawn, his pride in Vivian unspoken but etched in the way he’d slip extra cash into her backpack for textbooks.

Jamal, fourteen and lanky, was the wildcard. He had Vivian’s eyes—bright, searching—but a restlessness that worried her. He’d been caught skipping school twice last year, hanging with older boys who carried knives in their socks. Vivian saw too much of Sandtown in him, the way it could swallow kids whole. She made it her mission to keep him close, dragging him to the library, quizzing him on algebra, telling him stories of med school to spark something in him. “You’re smarter than me, J,” she’d say, ruffling his hair. “Don’t waste it.” He’d roll his eyes but listen. He silently admired her.

This morning, Vivian sat at the kitchen table, her laptop open to a lecture on cellular respiration, but her mind was on Marlon. They’d been seeing each other for three weeks now, stealing moments between her classes and his jobs. He’d taken her to a jazz spot in Fells Point, where they’d danced under dim lights, and to a food truck rally where he’d fed her jerk chicken with his fingers, laughing when she got sauce on her chin. Each date chipped away at her caution, replacing it with a warmth she hadn’t known she needed. She was falling, hard, and it scared her as much as it thrilled her.

Her phone buzzed, pulling her from her thoughts. A text from Marlon: Miss you, Doc. Free tonight? Got a spot I wanna show you. Vivian’s fingers hovered over the keys, a smile tugging at her lips. She typed, Maybe. What’s the vibe? His reply came fast: Just us. Somewhere quiet. Trust me. She hesitated, then sent a heart emoji, her pulse quickening. Trust. It was a word she didn’t throw around lightly, but Marlon made it feel easy.

Lorraine walked in, wiping her hands on a dish towel, her scrubs wrinkled from a double shift. “You studyin’ or daydreamin’?” she asked, eyeing Vivian’s phone.

Vivian laughed, closing her laptop. “Both, I guess. Just… got a lot on my mind.”

Lorraine raised an eyebrow. “This about that boy you been seein’? Marlon?”

Vivian’s cheeks warmed. She hadn’t told her parents much, but Lorraine had a way of seeing through her. “He’s nice, Ma. Different. He gets me.”

Lorraine sat across from her, her gaze softening. “You’re nineteen, Viv. You got a big future. Don’t let no man, nice or not, pull you off track.”

“I won’t,” Vivian promised, but the words felt fragile. She wanted to believe Marlon was a part of her future, not a distraction from it. Lorraine patted her hand, then stood, leaving Vivian with her thoughts and the hum of the city outside.

*****

At the Ashley Apartments, Lucien Valentino was Marlon no more. He stood in a makeshift lab, a concrete room in the complex’s sub-basement, its walls lined with plastic sheeting and lit by harsh halogens. Dr. Myles Grantham hunched over a workbench, his fingers trembling as he adjusted a centrifuge. Vials of HIV5X, glowing faintly under UV light, sat in a metal rack. The air was thick with the hum of machinery and the faint tang of chemicals. Lucien, in a tailored black shirt, watched Grantham with the patience of a predator.

“Progress?” Lucien asked, his voice calm but edged with expectation.

Grantham didn’t look up, his glasses fogging with sweat. “The matrix is… complex. The virus degrades in open air unless we stabilize it with a polymer. I’m close, but it’s not ready.”

Lucien stepped closer, his shadow falling over the workbench. “Close isn’t enough, Myles. The Architects want a demonstration by December. Millions, you said. That’s the goal.”

Grantham flinched, his hands pausing. “Millions… Lucien, you don’t understand. This could spread beyond Baltimore, beyond control. It’s not just a weapon—it’s a catastrophe.”

Lucien’s smile was thin, almost pitying. “Control is an illusion, Myles. The world’s already burning. We’re just choosing who gets the ashes.”

Grantham swallowed. He’d been a respected biochemist once, before a falsified study cost him his career. Now, he was Lucien’s tool, paid by the Dark Architects to turn a virus into a plague. The money was good—enough to clear his debts, maybe start over—but the cost was his soul. He glanced at the vials, imagining them airborne, invisible, unstoppable. His stomach churned, but he kept working, driven by desperation and the knowledge that Lucien didn’t tolerate failure.

Candy entered, her boots scuffing the concrete. She carried a tablet, its screen displaying a map of Baltimore with red pins marking Sentinel operations—brothels, street corners, community centers. “We hit three more spots last night,” she reported. “Six new infections confirmed. But the recruits… some are asking questions. They’re scared.”

Lucien’s eyes narrowed. “Scared is good. It keeps them sharp. What about the girl?”

Candy’s jaw tightened. “Vivian? She’s hooked. You’ve got her believing you’re her damn soulmate.”