Village Boss E-Book

Ronenin Duval

• Herausgeber: Fresh Ink Group
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 590

Beschreibung

Dexter Jones is a military veteran suffering from PTSD. He has flashbacks he can’t quite explain. There are gaps in his memory. Is this the result of his head trauma? Or is it the CIA running a program on him? Now a hired gun tasked with eliminating drug traffickers, Dex finds himself in Colombia wearing military fatigues and fully armed, but answering to a name he’s never heard. He sets out on an intercontinental mission to uncover the truth even as assassinations and betrayal at the highest levels of government threaten to destabilize the world. Maybe it’s not who Dex is so much as who he might still become.

Leseprobe

Village Boss

Copyright © 2023

by Ronenin Duval

All rights reserved

Fresh Ink Group

An Imprint of:

The Fresh Ink Group, LLC

1021 Blount Avenue #931

Guntersville, AL 35976

Email: [email protected]

FreshInkGroup.com

Edition 1.0 2023

Covers by Stephen Geez / FIG

Covert Art by Anik / FIG

Book design by Amit Dey / FIG

Associate publisher Beem Weeks / FIG

Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976 and except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, no portion of this book’s content may be stored in any medium, transmitted in any form, used in whole or part, or sourced for derivative works such as videos, television, and motion pictures, without prior written permission from the publisher.

Cataloging-in-Publication Recommendations:

FIC049070 FICTION / African American & Black / Urban & Street Lit

FIC081000 FICTION / Muslim

FIC031060 FICTION / Thrillers / Political

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023917545

ISBN-13: 978-1-958922-53-8 Paperback

ISBN-13: 978-1-958922-54-5 Hardcover

ISBN-13: 978-1-958922-55-2 Ebook

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I thank the One Almighty God for blessing me with the opportunity to write this novel. This has been an amazing journey of discovery.

I’m grateful to the team at Fresh Ink Group for helping me realize my vision.

Special thanks go to my cousin, Tyron “Juicy” W., for the times you looked out, providing shelter and assistance when I needed it most. And the people who still take my calls and stand by me if I falter: Edna, Marshall, Roy, Gerelane, Tenisha, Maylee, Kaylin, and all who remain from the lines of Wardean, JWL, and JDA. In their memory I deeply appreciate the love, support, and encouragement during my inner battles and victorious realization that the only rational response to any hurdle or adversity is success.

CHAPTER ONE

Marcello - 1725

Augustine screwed the top off the whiskey and gulped down half the flask. Afterward, he let out a loud wide-mouthed drunkard’s sigh. The quiet Colombian driver who collected him and his two bodyguards at the airport smiled and adjusted the rearview mirror to better see the old Italian in the back seat.

The mafia man beside him extended a box of Italian smokes.

“Cigar, Don Razzoli?”

Augustine’s eyes gleamed with alcoholic wetness as he accepted one gladly. Smoking and drinking had become a debilitating habit. He had done both off and on from the moment he boarded his private jet in Naples for a flight to South America. In his mind, he had as many reasons to drink and smoke as to be worried about this meeting in La aldea de Los leones.

Entering the village was a risk. As they grew closer, they spotted men in fatigues roaming up and down the roadside with Kalashnikovs. Others were standing inside the gate to the Kingpin’s compound. Every vehicle pulling up to the checkpoint was stopped, inspected, the occupants questioned.

When their limo stopped at the checkpoint, the Colombians stared at them with dark, serious expressions, as if they needed to remind them, they were no longer in Italy.

Two men walked over. One held a thin pole with a mirror he used to look beneath the car’s undercarriage, while the second man made his way the back and bent towards the window that rolled down.

“Como te llamas?” he asked, peering into the back seat.

“Augustine Razzoli. I am here to see Mr. Tagola,” the old Italian replied.

The man with the pole joined his comrade after his inspection. Augustine stared evenly between the two, until the man who asked for his name walked off about twenty yards chattering into a handheld radio. Then he turned, waving back at the driver as he muttered in Spanish, “Passe! Passe!”

The limousine drove under the raised guardrail into the compound and continued down a stretch of road that took them to the mansion they came to. The woman and two men the Kingpin deployed to show them in were waiting on the walkway. As custom for a don in his country, Augustine didn’t exit the vehicle before the bodyguard in the front seat jumped out to get the door. When he did, he staggard up to one of the Colombian men wearing a stylish looking shirt, tie, and sleek shades.

“Bienvenida a Colombian, señor. Welcome to Colombia,” he greeted.

“You must be Hector,” the old man said, slurring his words.

The Colombian hesitated, held his gaze, wondered how he knew the name when he had no recollection of the two of them ever meeting before today.

He pushed the question down, pretended not to smell the liquor on him, and replied, “Si, I am Hector. Come with me. Carlos will see you right away.”

Augustine raised an impressive eyebrow when he gestured in the direction of the steps leading up to the mansion. The sight of it was astonishing. Enormous sculptures were situated between the pillars, chiseled into the replicas of two male maned lions sitting on their hind quarters as if they were there to keep a vigilant watch over the entrance and a fortress compound surrounded by a thirty-foot wall of concrete with built-in watch towers, and cameras that commanded a view of the entire village.

Weighing almost three hundred pounds, Augustine was a big man. His size showed in the way he climbed the steps on the heels of the Colombians. By the time they reached the top of the steps he was exhausted and had to lean against one of the lion sculptures to rest. The young man beckoned them forward when he gathered his wind. After they walked inside, they crossed a marble floor to a pair of glossy white elevator doors. The Latino woman and man accompanying the young Hector broke off in separate directions. They stepped inside and went up to the second level. When the doors pinged open, they followed him down the hallway before they stopped at a door, knocked twice, turned the knob, and led them inside the spacious office.

Carlos looked up from behind his desk the moment they walked in. The bodyguards remained at the door as the young Colombian steered Augustine to the leather armchairs in front of the Kingpin’s desk.

“Mucho gusto a conocer te, señor Razzoli. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Carlos stated.

“The pleasure is equal,” Augustine replied. He settled into the armchair the escort.

“Your presence here is an exception to my rule, Señor Razzoli,” Carlos asserted. “No one enters this village unless we have some kind of prior business affiliation. You are only here on the good word of a mutual friend, D’Angelo Cabrini, who tells me that this urgent request of yours to meet with me involves a matter of great importance.”

“I can’t thank D’Angelo enough for conveying my request to speak with you. His father and I did a lot of business many years ago. I’ve known Mr. Cabrini since he was just a boy growing up in Calabria . . .”

Carlos watched the old man as he paused to look around the space of his chamber, his eyes settling on the scenic wall paintings, the walled library shelved with hundreds of books and pictures of his family and friends, the two oversized national flags hanging gracefully on opposite sides of the wood burning fireplace.

“Well, that’s good to know,” said Carlos. “Perhaps you see this as an opportunity for us do business as well.”

He opened the top drawer of the desk to take out the thick black folder he slid across the surface of the polished mahogany.

“So, tell me. Is it cocaína or the hardware in the folder that brings you here?”

Augustine picked the folder up and opened it. Inside was a list of top-grade military arsenals: drones, handguns, automatic rifles, RPG’s, missiles, torpedo’s, tanks, and other armored vehicles. None seemed to strike his interest except the Russian made Black Sting Ray torpedo he noticed among the illustrations.

He slid the folder midway back with his index finger marking the weapon of choice.

“This one,” he stated. “After my meeting with you today. There might be a need for me to have some use for it.”

Carlos leaned forward to look at the illustrated picture.

“Powerful piece of arsenal,” he said with a quizzical grin. “Why would an old man like you be interested in such a weapon of this magnitude? Are you even aware of its capabilities?”

“I’m very aware of its capabilities, Mr. Tagola. The Black Sting Ray was developed in 1998 by the Russians. It can be fired from a sub or ship. And with the kind of accuracy its homing radar has. Once it is fired, it will track down and destroy any targeted vessel moving in the water.”

“I see you like torpedoes,” Carlos remarked.

“Just this one. Let’s just say it holds a special significance for a particular vessel I have in mind to destroy. However, I am not here today to discuss purchasing any of your drugs or weapons. No, the nature of my business today you will find very different.”

“If you’re not here to discuss the drugs or weapons, Señor Razzoli. What exactly is the nature of your business here today?” Carlos clasped his hands and waited for his reply.

The old man reached into the side pocket of his suit coat for the silver flask he extracted. After a quick sip, he removed the Borsalino he wore and placed it on his lap. As he gently caressed the hat’s wide brim, he finally responded. “I came to help you save yourself.”

Carlos and the other young Colombian in the chair shot each other an incredulous look and laughed out loud.

“Por su puesto, el viejo esta bromeando con nosotros! Surely, the old man is joking with us!” Carlos uttered.

“Unfortunately, I am not,” Augustine retorted. “I came here to give you the opportunity. You see, for years you have indulged in a drug trafficking business that’s only made you into a complete fool!”

Carlos frowned. “What did you say?”

“Please, allow me to explain. You are right about one thing. We have never met or had any business before today. But I know who you are, Mr. Tagola. You are just another figure in the long succession of cartel leaders to rise to power out of the notoriously brutal history of the South American narcotics trade. You have amassed this great fortune that’s earned you a luxurious lifestyle. But for everything you have done to maintain your empire. The footprints being left in the trails of blood, death, and destruction throughout Colombia and beyond are certainly some of your own . . .”

The young Colombian sitting beside him abruptly scowled. “Que estas hablando? What are you talking about?”

“Mr. Tagola knows exactly what I am talking about,” the old Italian answered, without taking his eyes off the Kingpin. “Want specifics? We can start with the turf wars, his payoffs, all the buyouts. I know you probably think you built this empire all by yourself, Mr. Tagola? But you didn’t. You had help—lots of it. You just didn’t know it. For decades you have only done the dirty work for a hidden agenda that was mapped out for you by people you know absolutely nothing about. But they know everything there is to know about you. Just like I do. And everything you think I don’t know; I know!”

The young Colombian beside him catapulted out the chair taking the verbal attack as an insult.

“Cuidarte la boca, viejo! Watch your mouth, old man!” he snapped.

Carlos intervened. “Tranquila té, Hector,”

“Calm down? Miré lo. Look at him. Esta baracho! He’s drunk!”

“Basta! Enough!” Carlos retorted.

Hector glared at the old Italian a few seconds longer before he returned to the chair in silence.

“This man says he is here on a matter of great importance,” Carlos asserted. “Let’s see what else he has to say about these mystery people he claims helped build my empire. You may carry on, Señor Razzoli.”

Augustine took another drink, brushed the sleeve of his Versace suit as if he had removed a dust mite. Then he went on.

“The people I refer to are a group of five individuals. They are formed by an international alliance. They belong to a hierarchical society with vast wealth and power. From the day you took over the Medellin cartel they have always been the ones pulling the strings on your drug trafficking business, Mr. Tagola.”

The old man stopped talking, signaled to one of his henchmen posted at door. The man on right hurried over to serve him, first with the cigar he requested, then with the gold-plated lighter that flamed it.

“To be quite frank, you are nothing more than a pawn in a game far outside of your league, Mr. Tagola . . .”

Carlos smacked the surface of the desk with his palm and blasted a stern rebuttal. “I am Carlos Alejandro Tagola. You don’t know anything about me or my business, nor do the mystery people you speak of. I am the one who built this empire! No one pulls the strings on business in this country, except me! I call the shots!”

The veins in his forehead bulged. The reaction was no surprise. Hearing this had to be unnerving for him, Augustine surmised.

As he sat there, he wondered if the Colombians were studying him as he studied them, from the moment he entered the office. Hector’s skin was lighter, nose narrower, lips thinner. He had short black neatly trimmed wavy hair like the Kingpin. Except Carlo’s coarser waves, full lips, and dark complexion was the product of a mixed heritage. When he turned to look at the pictures of the cartel leader’s family and friends on the shelves of the library again, his eyes fell on a childhood picture of Carlos and Hector sitting on swings in a park. The one he saw next to it showed them together in adulthood, standing in front of a cargo plane, posing with fully automatic rifles and bundles of cash and dope. The one next to that one was a picture taken of his mother—a smiling Colombian princess, standing beside his proud African father the day after their wedding.

“Your father’s name is Hannibal Abaas Ibn Tagola,” he said abruptly. “Your mother’s name is Mariana Abrigela Tagola. Here’s what else I know, Mr. Tagola. The two national banners hanging on the opposite sides of the wood burning fireplace over there are more than office decorations. That’s because they mean something to you. You see, the national flag of Colombia on the right represents the country of your mother, where she gave birth to you. The Tanzanian national flag on the left represents the homeland of your east African father. Your mother married twice. Mariana’s maiden name was Colón before she married her first husband. He was a Colombian. Your half brother and sister are the two children she bore for him. She was long divorced by the time she met your father. At the time she traveled to Africa as a Catholic missionary, Hannibal was a chieftain living in the Tanzanian village of Taborah. While there, Mariana became educated about the country’s people and various religions.

“Even after learning Hannibal was a Muslim, despite differences between the faiths, she became fond of him. They were never permitted to date or be alone together because Islam encourages marriage. Mariana began to seriously study his religion and eventually converted. Two years after she met him, Hannibal conveyed the marriage proposal through a close relative who arranged their wedding ceremony.”

“Were did you get this information?” Carlos chimed, but the old man kept talking.

“Your mother didn’t like it when you took up with the likes of your three uncles, Federico, Fráncisco, and Ferdinand Colón. Mariana despised her brothers. And she despised Ferdinand the most because she always knew it was him who got you into the drug business. Your uncle was a chief operator for the Medellin cartel led by Escobar. After Escobar was killed by the government’s military police in 1993, Ferdinand took over. His reign lasted a good while, until he and his brother Federico were discovered deceased in the back seat of the bullet-riddled limousine. They were ambushed. No was ever arrested. Some believe it was the CIA. Once the allegation leaked, top officials inside the agency simply dismissed it as nothing more than a rumor being floated. Many people close to you thought it was more of a shock when you became his successor. No one knew about his plans for this. But the day you made the decision to become the new boss of this village you were just as determined to fulfill his quest to build an empire from here. Well, you certainly accomplished that task. On top of that, you have poured millions into this place to give it a luxurious makeover and a name which has lasted ever since La aldea de los leonés. The lion village. Only, when you made that decision, you lost your family. To this very day they refuse to see or speak to you. All of them—except your father, Hannibal, and a few loyal cousins who remain close to you. Isn’t that right, Mr. Tagola?”

Augustine took a drag off the cigar, exhaling a gray cloud of smoke into the air before he turned to the Colombian sitting in the chair next him.

“Young man, your full name is Horacio Hector Colón. Mr. Tagola is your first cousin. Your mother’s name is Natalia Colón. You and Mr. Tagola grew up together in this very village. It is no wonder why you and he are the only remaining members of the family who still reside here. The two of you have always been close since childhood. Your mother Natalia was just as fearful as her sister Mariana about the activities of their brothers. She was so desperate to shield you from them, she packed up and fled with you to the United States . . .”

“Tell me how you know about all of this, right now!” Hector demanded.

“I understand you find it problematic that I would know such things. Like all the time you had to served inside that U.S. federal prison after you and you and your mother moved to America. Yes, I know about that as well. The sentence you got could have been avoided if the council hadn’t voted to let you fall to protect your cousin Carlos instead . . .”

Bewildered, Carlos inquired, “Espera! Wait! What do you mean by if the council hadn’t voted to protect me?”

“They know all about the connections you have with the corrupt officials working inside the U.S. government and its agencies . . . CIA, FBI, border patrol, Coast Guard, DEA, military, etcetera. What you and Mr. Colón don’t know is that the officials you think are helping your cartel, these same officials also work as loyal agents for the council.”

Carlos gave him a skeptic’s glare. “What kind of council is this?” he asked.

“The kind who has instructed their agents to exploit South American drug traffickers like you.”

“Why would they target us?”

“You are very beneficial to their agenda. The fall your cousin took was a mild one—compared to the likes of Escobar, Noriega, Marcos, your uncle Ferdinand, and others. They all had deep connections with various corrupt U.S. officials. Every one of them was considered valuable assets. But once those officials felt there was no longer a need for them. They had to be . . .”

The second he stopped talking, Carlos pressed, “They had to what?”

Augustine pulled on the cigar and replied, “They had to be removed. Silenced.”

“Are you telling me . . .”

“What I’m telling you is that men like your uncle Ferdinand and the rest accumulated too much wealth and power for their own good. They got too big, too cocky. Aside from that they had too much detrimental information on certain top level American government officials that made a lot of people in Washington very nervous. Once the council felt there was a need to issue the order. It was only a matter of time before they sent out their agents to pull the plug on them.”

“You really expect me to believe it was some council who murdered my uncle?”

“Your uncle was too close to Escobar. They feared the possibility that sooner or later he might decide to retaliate for his demise in some way.”

“You refer to these people as the council. Who are they?”

Augustine reached inside the inner pocket of his suite coat to remove the photograph he placed on the desk before him.

“The woman you see on the picture is Eleanor Queensberry. The gentleman sitting next to her is Edward Kingstone. Eleanor and Edward are both citizens of Great Britain. The other gentlemen you see are Julian Bisoppontiz of France, Heinrich Rookvaunklaff of Germany, and the American Arthur Knightwood. Together, they are the ranking five members of the CROP. To those closely affiliated with their inner circle they are only known as the CROP.”

Carlos’s suspicion increased as the question about the old man’s motives popped into his head.

“Why have you flown all this way to tell me about people?” he asked.

Augustine’s expression changed immediately. He looked riled, not so much by the Kingpin’s question, but by the thoughts in relation to the reply he was about to give.

“They betrayed me,” he muttered bitterly. “And I think it’s high time they know exactly what that feels like!”

“So, it’s revenge that brings you here?” Carlos asked.

“Partly, yes,” Augustine answered. “Except, I am old. And you are young.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I need someone like you to assist me. Someone young. Someone with enough power and connections outside their inner circle . . .”

“And you really think I would consider such a thing? I know nothing about these people you speak of. But you obviously do. How is that?”

“I was a member on their council at one time. They are former colleagues with whom I am no longer in good standing.”

“I must say, you are a brave man, Señor Razzoli. You come to my village, and you discuss the affairs of my family. You tell me it was your friends who killed my uncle. And you make claims against my business for which you produce no proof!”

The old man raised his flask, lowered a second afterwards. “Ah, yes. I thought you would eventually get to that.”

He turned and signaled for the other bodyguard posted at the door. He approached with a black briefcase and snapped it open. Augustine said, “If it’s proof you want, it’s in the case. But as I said, that’s only part of the reason I am here. There is more.”

Carlos looked at the briefcase and then back at him. “And what might that be?”

“The Russian Black Sting Ray torpedo on the list of arsenals you showed me. The council doesn’t know how you acquired it. But they do know it’s in your possession. They also know about all the trips you have been making back and forth to Africa . . .”

“I have flown to Africa to see my father since I was a child. What does this have to do with him?”

“The council has fears. It’s not your father that raises concern. They fear the Black Sting Ray could end up in the hands of the mujahedeen.”

Hector cut in. “Ahi, I see where you’re going with this. You’re insinuating that because Carlos’s father is a Muslim . . .”

Augustine rebutted sternly, “I don’t ever insinuate. And I am afraid you don’t see anything. Otherwise, you would know your cousin Mr. Tagola has big problems. Sure, the council knows about his connections. But he’s also building up a military. And his turf war with that rival cartel led by Ortega Diez in Cali has only compounded the situation.”

“Wars come with the business,” Carlos uttered.

“I know all too well. But Ortega Diez’s business is a vested interest for my former colleagues. And many of their top agents now feel the war between you and him is starting to attract too much unwanted attention. As we sit here, there are federal authorities in the U.S. investing Mr. Diez’s activities in Cali. He is safe for now only because the CROP has a particular mole in the ranks of the FBI commissioned to make it disappear to protect him.”

“Ortega is an insect on the wall to me.” Carlos mushed his palms together in mock fashion as if he was squashing an imaginary fly. “That’s what I do to insects that get in my way!”

Augustine shook his head; he looked up at the ceiling as he loosened his tie.

“Here’s the reality, Mr. Tagola. People are falling sick and dying throughout Colombia and beyond because of your narcotics. My former colleagues couldn’t care less about this. They have no empathy whatsoever for those most affected by it. What they do like is the dirty work you do for their agenda. But in their eyes, you are no different than Mr. Diez and the insect you described him as. In fact, you’re even smaller, a couple of tiny organisms they view in microscopic proportion.”

Augustine sighed, brushed a hand through his hair.

“You know, on my way in I couldn’t help but noticed the two amazing male lion sculptures between the pillars. They bear a striking resemblance to the black manes on the Serengeti. I suppose your fondness for big cats must have developed at some point during your travels to Africa. What you said about me being a brave man to come here. I say one of the very reasons I did is because I believed you had the same courage as those lions you admire. Only now I am not so sure. In fact, I wonder if you even know the real story about the black manes and their responsibility to the lion prides on the Serengeti. Do you know their story, Mr. Tagola? It is to protect both his territory and the pride. The females rarely need him around. They are the ones who hunt and raise his cubs when he wanders off to scout and mark the territory with his urine to warn off other male lions. The females have no worries, unless another big male invades and threatens the pride. In that event, they will call out for their leader. The minute he hears their distress call he responds. Because he knows if he fails to defend them the invader will claim his pride and territory and kill off all his offspring to replace them with his own.”

Carlos listened attentively when the old Italian added.

“Maybe one day you will see the similarities between a black mane’s responsibility to his pride on the Serengeti and the responsibilities men must have toward family and country. Only then will you be able to hear that same distress call coming from the people of Colombia and beyond in their search for a leader bold enough to protect them from the threats they face . . .”

“Interesting story, viejo,” Hector chimed. “But the only thing my cousin Carlos is hearing right now is a bunch of basura!”

Augustine rose to feet, collected the picture from desk, placed it inside the briefcase, and snapped it shut.

“Perhaps I have wasted my time coming here, Mr. Tagola. Your cousin has obviously grown as irritated with me as I have with him. With that said, I shall see my way out now.”

He turned and headed for the door. The bodyguard on the right twisted the knob that opened it for his quick exit.

But just before he stepped through it, Carlos called out, “Oye, Señor Razzoli. You forgot something!”

Augustine turned around in the doorway to face him. “I can’t imagine that. You heard what I came to discuss.”

Carlos replied, “Yes. But you said you had proof in that briefcase you’re holding. This is a difficult business. Excuse my cousin’s sentiments. If you are inclined to stay a while longer and show me. It’s the least I can do.”

The two held each other’s gaze until Augustine tipped his Borsalino at his acceptance of the invitation. Hector held a sneer on his face. But if Tagola wanted the proof, he was willing to ignore it.

He walked back to the chair and sat down. The bodyguards closed the door and resumed their post. It was a pivotal moment.

CHAPTER TWO

Colombia

A little after sunrise the next day, Carlos woke up thinking about the choice he had to make. Continue the lifeline for his drug business, or let it die.

The old Italian left his village, but he was still hearing his words, hearing how he was nothing but a pawn in an advanced game outside his league. It wasn’t just the words. There was enough proof he presented to keep him interested until he got the full picture.

The ritual stroll he took out to the third level balcony with his binoculars every morning always gave him time to think and observe the pleasantries of the surrounding vista. For almost a half hour he stood gazing up at a lone hawk in flight, a fox he spotted in search of field mice near the edge of the tree line, the waters of the Rio valley shifting from crystal clear lakes, and bubbling springs, descending hillsides through miles and miles of unforgiving hinterland.

There was never a time he didn’t acknowledge the beauty of the landscape. Colombia was a graceful wonder. But as he stood on the balcony, he came to grips with the old Italian’s parting words. It wasn’t just Colombia and its citizens that stood to be lost, others could be lost too.

Hector knew it was early when he came walking through the sliding glass door. He understood Carlos wanted to be alone. He saw the battle he was fighting within. But there was no way around it. They had to talk. Worst case scenario he was already plotting a course of action to clear his conscious.

“Do you believe he was truthful, Carlos?” he asked.

“What if he was?”

“I know that’s what you are hoping. But I personally don’t think he was telling us everything.”

“He knew too much. And you saw what was in the briefcase.”

“Yes. But you also heard what he said about the meeting. That it must stay anonymous. Otherwise, his old friends will not hesitate to come after us.”

“Are you concerned about that?” Carlos questioned.

“Concerned? Not at all. I am with you, primo. But you have a big decision to make. So, what are you thinking?”

Carlos lowered the binoculars, and slowly raised his right hand next to his ear to listen. “Can you hear that, Hector?”

Hector heard nothing except the light breeze rustling leaves. “Hear what?”

“The sound of voices coming from the people of Colombia and everywhere else,” Carlos replied. “I can hear them calling now. I can hear them calling just like the old man said I would. I can hear them calling out in distress just like the lion prides on the Serengeti.”

CHAPTER THREE

Two Months LaterUnited States District Attorney OfficeWashington, DC

Email: 1 Message

Time: 11:45 am

YOU HAVE TWENTY-FOUR HOURS TO TRANSFER FIFTEEN MILLION DOLLARS FROM YOUR SWISS ACCOUNT TO THE BANK ACCOUNT NUMBER THAT WILL ARRIVE INSIDE THE MANILA ENVELOPE. IF YOU FAIL TO COMPLY THE ACTIVITIES YOU CARRIED OUT FOR THE CROP WILL BE DISCLOSED.

District attorney Aron Duffy stared at the message on his computer in confusion. It was a prank, he assumed. But it scared him.

He glanced at the time again. 11:55 am. In five more minutes, he would know there was nothing to worry about. That’s what he told himself. But after a few minutes he waited to confirm it. There was a dreadful knock at the office door he wished hadn’t come. The moment secretary Norfolk walked into his office at exactly 12:00 pm, the manila envelope she was holding was the first thing he noticed.

“Is that for me, Mrs. Norfolk?” he asked nervously.

“Yes, Mr. Duffy. But . . .”

“What is it?”

“Well, sir, it only has your name on it. There is no return address. I do not recall seeing it on my desk when I went out for a smoke break. But when I returned, I found it lying on my memos. I thought that was odd. So, I called downstairs to the postal clearance department. They said there is no record of it arriving. Shall I call security inspections, sir?”

“No. It’s okay. I’ll have a look at it myself”.

Duffy watched her smile happily when she handed the envelope over. She started to leave, but he stopped her.

“Just a second, Mrs. Norfolk.”

She turned. “Something more I can do for you, sir?”

“Yes. If you don’t mind. I’d rather you not mention anything about this envelop to anyone else.”

“As you wish, Mr. Duffy.”

The moment she stepped out, he examined it. The parcel was double-stamped confidential on both sides. He picked up the letter opener on the desk and sliced across the top to free the contents. Inside were two audio disks, snapshots, and a stack of papers containing highly sensitive information. When he began reading the papers the material facts on each page pointed towards corruption and his involvement while serving as the assistant U.S. DA from 2001-2011. The bulk of the information exposed his pilferages of classified information, his concealment of files involving hundreds of top priority extortion and racketeering cases, the favors he traded for finance to help political figures who relied on his guarantee of victories in their election campaigns.

A wave of panic came over him. He began rummaging through his desk in a frantic search for his CD player, flinging out reams of paper, folders, notepads, before locating it in the bottom drawer beneath a box of Kleenex. Seconds after inserting the first disc he heard the voices of two government informants discussing classified documents he gave them while they were still peddling stolen diamonds and artifacts on the black market. After inserting the second audio he heard himself talking to a pair of east coast DEA agents about a shipment of narcotics they allowed to pass through a U.S. customs border patrol with the aid of unnamed CIA agents.

Stunned, he ejected the disk and picked up the snapshots. Some of the stills showed the actual documents stolen in several high profiled cases that involved leaders of motorcycle gangs and the mafia. There were others that caught him in the act of taking under the table payments.

Gripped by fear and overwhelming frustration he reached for the garbage can next to the desk and dumped all the incriminating evidence into it. Then he torched it with the contents and watched them burn while his face reflected the glow of red. Someone out there knew about his activities. Someone out there had all the goods to bring him down. The thoughts crept into his mind so deep he began to picture himself inside an orange jumpsuit with handcuffs on after a federal indictment was issued against him. He would face a trial. And when the grand jury of his peers came out of their deliberations to pronounce the guilty verdict. He would be facing a life sentence.

It was too much to bear. That’s exactly what he was thinking when he got up and went to the door to barricade himself in. The smoke billowing out the garbage can seem to have no effect when he sat back down behind the desk. He just stared at the top drawer like he acquired enough x-ray vision to look straight through the wood at the small handgun lying inside side. He could not do prison. He could not face the CROP as a liability. The mere thought of those experiences propelled him to open the drawer and take the one option he felt would help him avoid them all together.

A moment later when the secretary heard the gun go off, she jumped up and ran to the door. It was locked. She didn’t know what to think. One shot, muffled by the walls of the office. It was the most awful sound in her ears.

CHAPTER FOUR

Thirty-Seven Hours LaterWashington, DC

It was 1:05 am. Senator Glenn Dyse was standing at the window in his bedroom, his gaze fixed a thousand miles away. There was nothing but silence. Silence and darkness. His son was asleep in the room across the hall. All he could think about was the news he learned about Aron Duffy’s apparent suicide and the disturbing email he received thirteen hours ago:

He re-read it in his head a million times. Every single piece of incriminating evidence that came from the envelope he later found in his mailbox drained the color out of his face, leaving his skin dead white, all except for the vivid glow of neon catching angles from the open blind.

It was a warning sign. A wake-up call that let him know the protection of anonymity he relied on for nearly thirty years was no longer there. And for a man in his position options had to be considered in the event the situation couldn’t be contained. His call to the emergency contact was made hours ago. Just as he expected, he was told not to worry, no need to cash in, transfer assets, comply with the anonymous emailer’s demand, because the situation would be handled. Since then, there had been no word from the contact. He was growing impatient. His hands were trembling. Thoughts of abandonment crept into his mind. He was beginning to question whether the protocol was worth it. If the contact failed to get back. If the CROP failed to enact a swift response. He would be forced to enact his own response. And he was very clear what that response had to be.

Minutes after the thought swept across his mind. The cell phone on the table next to the window began buzzing with an incoming call from the emergency contact.

He answered, “Mr. Bedford, I expected an update from you much sooner.”

“Did you get rid of everything in the envelop like I told you, Senator?” the caller asked, in haste.

“Yes. Now, what are you going to do about the problem?”

“I told you I would handle the matter.”

“Don’t give me that crap. Why am I not detecting a sense of urgency in your tone? You are the CIA’s deputy director of operations. You know this is a matter we can’t take lightly.”

“I said I would handle it,” the caller repeated.

“Is that all you can tell me? For namesake, the district attorney killed himself. Did it occur to you he could have gotten the same email? I need more than your empty assurances, Mr. Bedford. In fact, I want you to arrange a meeting for me with the council.”

“I can’t do that, Senator.”

“If I were you, I would think twice about that. Maybe this doesn’t register with you. But I could lose my status, my freedom, my family, my money, everything. I will not go down for the CROP.!”

“Senator, you are losing sight of the protocol. You need to calm down,” the caller advised.

“Forget the protocol! I will not put my family and career on the line for the council anymore. My mind is made up. And it’s best you understand that.”

“Oh, I do, Senator,” the caller uttered. “And you should have listened to me.”

“Come again.”

“Your services are no longer needed,” the caller replied.

“Don’t patronize me.” the Senator hissed angrily. “You and I both know you are nothing but an errand boy for them. And that’s all you’ll ever be!”

Then he fell quiet. The light noise he heard behind him made him turn away from the window. There was an intruder standing in the doorway. A man dressed in all black. The outline of his figure was silhouetted by ceiling light cascading into the room from the hallway. And he was staring at him through the slit in the black ski-mask he wore.

Senator Dyse’s eyes were wide and staring back as the phone in his hand slowly dropped to his side.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” he squeaked.

No response came back.

He stared at the intruder, incredulous. Fixed on the gun at the end of his outstretched arm. It was aimed at his face. Suddenly, he was shaking and sweating. The intruder was quietly easing towards him. Senator Dyse’s eyes were following the red beam on the gun’s laser-sight until a bullet pierced through the glass in the window behind him and struck him in the back. The impact drove him forward. Stumbling, trying to focus on the intruder ducking inside the doorway, he never saw the sniper outside. He never detected the silent round until it smashed into his spine and sent him crashing into the dresser. Seconds after, he hit the ground squirming and gasping and wrenching. The closed door across the hall flew open. And his eighteen-year-old son emerged with his eyes quickly crossing into the room. First, he saw his father lying on the floor heaving and groaning. Then he spotted the man in black back peddling into hallway.

“What are doing to my dad?” the boy shouted.

The moment his voice sailed over the intruder’s shoulder. The intruder spun around instantly with his gun aimed, eye-level, straight out. The boy exploded and hurled his hulking body at him like a raging bull.

With the reflex reaction, the intruder flinched against the pressure of his finger on the hair trigger. The gun went off. The single round caught the boy between the eyes and jerked his body back against the wall where he slid to the floor.

Senator Dyse cried out in horror. “You shot him. You shot my son! I’m a U.S. Senator. Why me?”

The man in the mask crouched low and moved towards him. The Senator’s phone lay feet away. Through horror and agony, he tried crawling to reach it so that he could call for help. The intruder was quietly inching closer, until another bullet pierced the glass in the window and found the Senator with a head shot that killed him instantly. He immediately jerked back and bounced to his feet, gun aimed at the window now, as he moved back out the room with his breath frozen in his chest. Suddenly isolated in the hallway with the young boy, he stood in front of him staring at his blank face. Wide blue eyes stared back lifeless before he reached down and closed them in anguish and regret. He raced down the steps at the end of the hallway and ran out the front door into the dark night.

CHAPTER FIVE

A VIEW OF PHILADELPHIA’S EASTERN STATE PENITENTIARY

I believe very few men are capable of estimating the immense amount of agony which this dreadful punishment, prolonged for years, inflicts upon the sufferers . . . I hold this slow and daily tampering with the mysteries of the brain, to be immeasurably worse than any torture of the body; and because its ghastly signs and tokens are so palpable to the eye and sense of touch as scars upon the flesh; because its wounds are not upon the surface, and it extorts few cries that human ears can hear; therefore, I the more denounce it as a secret punishment which slumbering humanity is not roused up to stay — Dickens 1842

Battle Creek2011

When Kenny woke up in the middle of the night hearing gunshots go off outside his apartment on Manchester Street. Only two words entered his mind. Summer madness. People in the neighborhood were used to guns going off, including him. But since he couldn’t get back to sleep. He stayed awake a little while watching previously taped segments on C-SPAN. When exhaustion kicked, just as it had on other nights, he went back to bed and slept peacefully for a few good hours before dawn.

Normally, he got up early. But that morning he slept soundly right up to noon. He dragged himself out of bed and into the bathroom, tired and slow. After he washed and dressed, he headed out the door for work. Walking down the porch steps he heard more shots. By the time he got to the bottom police sirens were screaming a couple of blocks over from Greenwood Park. He figured the shots rang out somewhere near Oneita could have been closer to Ann, maybe Oaklawn, or Wood Street. He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that a group of mundane teenagers hanging at the corner of Kendall and Manchester broke out running towards Holland like they were the subjects of the cop’s 911 call.

He walked to his burgundy Marquis in the driveway. When he opened the door to climb in, he heard loud music playing, and peered over the car’s hood at the triple-white Cadillac Escalade he saw bending the corner off Hubbard. The giant sub-woofers inside it were banging out a chorus of funky Spanish beats that even commanded the attention from the people on the sidewalk who stopped and stared at the mirrored windows, and the reflection of themselves watching another ghetto dream roll by.

It was a nice ride. Kenny always wanted a Cadillac Suburban like that one. He just didn’t have the money. Not now anyway. Barely six months had passed since he walked out the front door of Cotton Correctional Facility in Jackson, Michigan. It felt good to trade in the state issued prison blues and return to his hometown in Battle Creek. But everything thing he told himself he was going to do once he got out the joint—settle down, get married, find a job, save some cash, had become a dream deferred.

Finding a full-time job wasn’t easy as he thought it would be. He went in for interviews. But once employers saw the box checked felony on his applications, he heard, “Sorry, we don’t hire felons.” The formal rejections usually came within three or four minutes of him showing up. Every other week he dropped by the local employment office on Hamblin, to log onto websites for the applications he filled out and sent across the city. No responses ever came back. Faced with the dilemma, he accepted whatever employment that came through temp services. The first was a job at Walmart. He did a stint with factory work in Fort Custard after that. The last temp was the grounds keeping gig at Pine Knoll apartments. His first full-time gig was the current job he was heading to—Main Street Market. The manager who hired him was a tired looking Greek. He wasn’t that old. Maybe late forties, pot belly, black oily hair. There was no good side to his face. The guy’s attitude kept his face fixed into a permanent frown. A week never passed without him complaining and threatening to fire any worker on the spot he caught stealing the store’s merchandise.

Kenny was the only worker employed as a felon. At times he knew the comments were directed at him. He didn’t like it. But it was a toss-up: Either work at the market or apply for welfare. The decision wasn’t hard to make given that he was already relying on a bridge card for food and not much else. Every day, despite the Greek’s petty threats and complaints, he showed up for the weak paychecks. Being an ex-con made for a tough road ahead. Most of his time back on the street was spent trying to write off all the years he was caged up and treated like everything less than a human.

He would go in for work on this day. But just before closing time he drove his Marquis around the back of the store and parked within a few feet of the garbage dumpster. At least once a week he took the trash out along with the cases of wine and beer he stashed inside it. After work he always came back to retrieve them. It was never a mother lode, just a side hustle he tried to flip, but usually ended up wasting it on poker and craps tables out at the Fire Keeper’s Casino, like he did this night after he sold off the Greek’s merchandise.

When he drove to the casino after work, he thought it might be a good night to flip the grand he made from the sale. Except he walked out with only two hundred. He would drop some of that at the Liberty Beer & Wine on Northeast Capital Avenue. He paid for the bag of Doritos and case of Budweiser at the counter. The cashier was a pretty Indian woman from Bangladesh. She had that tiny red dot on her forehead women wore in India. Kenny took notice of the pleasant smile she displayed when he came to the counter. But the Bangladeshi guy beside her kept watching him—the same way he watched him the whole time he was at the back of the store.

“How are you tonight, sir?” she asked.

“Good,” he replied simply. Then he left.

Except he wasn’t good. Not after losing eight hundred in one night. He left the store feeling the way he left the casino—in a bad way. Thinking about the money would only drive him crazy, so he shifted his mind away from the lost and started thinking about the plan he comprised to make up for it.

The Sir Pizza between Wabash and Liberty Beer & Wine was closed. But the Marathon gas station across the street normally stayed open late. A lot of fiends and dope dealers who made it their meeting place stayed late as well. So, when he drove out of the Liberty parking lot and parked near the intersection of Wabash and Northeast Capital Avenue. His mind was already set on shaking down the first dealer he saw in the crowd with fat pockets.

With his car parked less than fifty yards away from the intersection. He had a clear view of the gas station. But the plan was risky. There was a police substation a block over. And the area of town he was in was dubbed crack alley. People familiar with the neighborhood knew by day it appeared normal. By nightfall, the place was a circus featuring the main attraction of prostitutes who paraded up and down the avenue showcasing their wares in the bright glare of headlights.

When he retrieved the pistol he kept under the seat, he checked the chamber and placed it beside him. Then he waited almost thirty minutes to see if some unfortunate dealer would show up. The ones who sold twenty-dollar rocks weren’t worth the gank. Cats like them pulled up on ten-speed bikes. Real ballers drove up in a Benz or Cadillac. But the fact he knew some of them carried four or five grand was enough for him to hang out a little while longer.

After he cracked open a can of Budweiser and switched on the car’s dashboard CD. He tried to relax, letting the Marvin Gaye track trickle into his beer buzz. Ten minutes later, he glanced at the rearview mirror and spotted a vehicle crawling out of a driveway at the other end of the block. Wabash was almost pitch-black. The only light post on the street barely illuminated beyond thirty yards.

The way the vehicle slowly crept up the road at ten miles an hour with the headlights extinguished. It took him only a few seconds to discern that it wasn’t a dealer in a whip or some other motorist. It was a cop behind the wheel of a black Dodge that was hardly detectable at night. When the unit’s spotlight lit up a moment later, the bright beam washed off the row of houses he passed by. Then it danced into a field across the street searching for any illegal activity that would feed the county jail another body.

Kenny tucked the gun back under the seat and poured the open beer on the floorboard before he tossed the can out the window. Then he suffered a flashback. Maybe it was all an optical illusion. But the cop’s nightly patrol with the spotlight ignited his memory bank with a recollection of the nightly rounds he remembered prison guards making with their LED flashlights shining into the cells of the sleeping inmates. The routine rounds made sure no one escaped. That the prisoners were exactly where they were supposed to be.

Prison was such a blank space and a lost memory for much of society. And because so many of the faces inside the penal system were overwhelmingly black, like his, and the neighborhood the cop was patrolling, in the very moment of that distressing flashback, every house on the block that cop’s spotlight shined on appeared to him like prison cells, and the black folks inside, like sleeping inmates. It made him think that for the millions of African Americans who thought of themselves as free. The poverty-stricken communities they lived in kept many confined to the same prison-like circumstances. The invisible fences around the redline ghetto districts may have been the only difference. But they were kept under constant observation by the hired authorities whose job it was to make sure they never went beyond the perimeters of the black world. Not unless they had enough green gate passes imprinted with the name and face of Benjamin Franklin.

If it was the1980’s, Kenny may have decided to stick around until the cop was done with his nightly round. But this was 2011. And the laws for neighborhoods like his across the nation had changed since he last knew them. Traffic stops for black men these days often involved suspicious intent. Some cops didn’t ask for license and registration. They wanted interrogation. They wanted searches without warrants. It was better to abort that plan altogether for tonight, he thought. Then he turned the key over in the ignition for the late-night drive home.

Home for Kenny was the north side of Battle Creek, in the Washington Heights district. Decades ago, during the early years of the Kellogg industrial period, W.K. Kellogg and other rich whites built million-dollar estates in the area. Over time, with the gradual migration of African Americans, Hispanics, Arabs, and poor whites moving in from the east and south sides of town, they fled for the outskirts of town, leaving behind the relics of their old mansions which still stand as testaments to the hard times and despair that followed.

On the second day he was out, Kenny took a stroll through the neighborhood observing the places he hadn’t seen in years. Even now, as he drove toward home, his mind quaked thinking about the depressing sights. Houses that once stood vibrant were now condemned or torn down. The tall trees behind the Washington Heights church had been hacked down into a barren field.

Like many African Americans in the city, he didn’t see much reason to stick around. Some of the people he grew up with had left to broaden their horizons. Others left to get away from the steady wave of violent shootings. Nevertheless, there was something strange yet mystic about the city that lured people back.

As he drove down Van Buren, the words of his sister Elaine came to mind. “You’re going too fast, baby bro. Slow down a bit. You should get on the train and come visit the family.”

If only he could break through the aftereffects of prison, perhaps he could slow down enough to be a good brother and a father to the daughter he hadn’t seen in decades. But he was back on the street moving like a road runner. And he was back in the hood where life for many of the citizens felt like they were being pulled into a giant whirlpool of failure and confinement.

That’s the way Kenny saw things, seemingly unconcerned that he was moving too fast to see himself once again standing at the very edge of it.

CHAPTER SIX

Battle Creek

Kenny wasn’t expecting a shootout when he stopped by his girlfriend Ditra’s place on Frelinghuysen days later. It was sunny and hot. The usual neighborhood scene was out in full bloom, children playing red light, green light, music crooning out of unsealed windows, winos staggering by rambling incoherently.

Ditra lived in a two-story duplex right next door to the parking lot owned by the biggest church on the block. After she missed the overdue payments on her monthly bills, the utility company had her electricity and water shut off. With the heat cranked up the porch was the best spot to chill. He had been on the porch talking with her son Mook and his cousin Doc from Detroit for nearly an hour. Every now and then, whenever a random breeze came through ruffling his muscle shirt, it made him think about how he got through those scorching summer days lying inside a stuffy prison cell. Most of the time he pictured himself on a sailboat being pushed by cool winds and giant waves hurling it towards some tropical Caribbean Island. In the world, a sailboat was the farthest thing from his mind. After he was finally given a parole with only sixty days remaining before he maxed out on a thirty-year sentence, he found himself battling with bouts of anxiety. It was all procedural stuff when his assigned parole agent referred him to Summit Point for a mental health assessment. The therapist he saw told him anxiety and paranoia were common experiences among felons reentering society. Kenny didn’t know what to make of the assessment. Prison was a place of oppression and suppression for which one had to develop patience.

He thought he had. Except on this day, Ditra was tripping, and continuously blowing up his cell phone with back-to-back calls. He quit taking them. But the voice mails she left were laced with unfiltered exploits about him and other women. And what she would do if she caught one in her crib when she got back from her discount shopping spree at Save-a-Lot. That was the last voice mail she left less than three minutes ago. On edge, he stepped inside the duplex to grab a bottled water from the deep freezer she had running off a generator down in the basement. Mook came down after him a few minutes later with a hurried look on his face.

“Yo, Kenny. Some dude just pulled up outside in a tan Marquis, asking me and Doc where was the owner of the Marquis parked in the driveway. He looked like he was upset about something. So, I told him we didn’t know.”

“What he else did he say?”

“That he would be back.”

“Who is he?”

“I don’t know the guy.”