Nude Awakening (25 page)

THIRTY-SEVEN

Friday, 2:37 a.m.

Fort Lauderdale, Florida

By official documentation, the Miami U.S. Marshals Fugitive Task Force was posted in Swagga’s mansion. Lieutenant Colonel Frank Robinson walked into the kitchen with a cup of coffee. He wore a dark brown suit and tie with the unmistakable five point U.S. Marshals badge on the left side of his blazer. Robinson’s slightly receding hairline matched the tired look on his face. In his late 50s, he was nearing the end of his career and refused to go out with a tarnished record of not catching whoever he was sent after. The crime scene at Chyna’s house was gory. Hearing that one of the suspects was the famous rapper, Swagga, had him driven. Robinson, being white loathed when the crime involved black on white. He nodded at his fellow Marshals, and then placed his cup of coffee on the table where Yaffa’s broken down .45 still sat.

“Gentlemen and ladies.” He kindly acknowledged the three female Marshals’s standing to his right. “All of you have been briefed. All of you have seen the crime scene. The local authorities have requested our immediate assistance and that’s what we’re here to do.” He loosened his tie.

“We’re all set to make the call, Mr. Robinson.” Everyone turned their attention to a young Asian U.S. Marshal sitting at the table with a dull black briefcase-size GPS tracking system.

Robinson headed over to the GPS tracking system and took the cell phone that was wired to it. He dialed Yaffa’s cell number.

“No signal, sir. It’s turned off,” the Asian tech stated.

Robinson pulled out a sheet of paper. On it was Swagga’s cell number. He dialed the number.

“We got a signal, sir! Try to keep him on —”

“Shhh. I know,” Robinson assured the Marshal.

“Yeah,” Swagga answered.

“Hello. May I speak to Mr. Marcus Brooks?”

“Dis the fuckin’ police?”

“I’m Lieutenant Colonel Frank Robinson of the U.S. Marshals Fugitive Task Force. I um . . . got wind that your bodyguard kinda got out of hand. You two had some issues down in Coral Gables and I—”

“Yo! Ain’t fuckin’ kill no damn body!”

“That’s what I’ve heard thus far,” Robinson lied. Stan had not seen who had actually shot Cindy and Chyna. “We all need to sit down and discuss what has happened so we can clear this up. Is your bodyguard with you?”

“No, and you can forget about me turning myself in!”

“That’s not a wise move, Mr. Brooks. At this very moment I’m giving you a chance to call your attorney and come in on your own. I’m willing to respect your status as a rapper. But mark my word, you don’t want me to hunt you down. Now, how do we move about this situation, Mr. Brooks?”

“Man, fuck you! If I see the police I’ma kill this bitch, Kandi!” The connection ended.

“Did we get a trace?” Robinson asked, lowering the cell phone.

“Yes! We need thirty seconds and you got us fifty-one. He’s at the Marina on Miami Beach.”

“Let’s move, people!” Robinson shouted. “Tamika, find out who Kandi is. If he has kidnapped someone, I want to know!”

“I’m on it, sir.”

In the hall, D-Hot raised his hand to get Robinson’s attention. He had taken a big risk to call Yaffa to warn them, but he now saw his mistakes. Swagga and Yaffa were in too deep. D-Hot willingly aided the Marshals by telling them about Kandi.

Swagga jogged quickly with the Glock 19 shoved under LaToria’s rib. They headed down the brightly lit floating dock walkway under the starless Miami night. Coming up on boat slip number eighteen, he yanked her to a stop. Swagga’s glossy black and silver-hulled 108-foot Sunseeker Predator floated with its prow pointed toward the Atlantic Ocean. The powerful triple 2400 hp engine was idled back, but still emitting a deep throaty rumble. Swagga shoved LaToria across the stable gangway onto the sleek sports yacht. By gunpoint, he forced her into the lavish salon appointed with glossy black mahoghany walls and white plush carpet.

“Hurry up! You know where my room is at!” He pushed her violently past the custom-built travertine marble top bar, toward a set of steps. Reaching the door to his master stateroom, she paused.

“Go in, bitch!”

“Please untie my hands,” LaToria pleaded.

“Fuck no! You better be glad I took the gag out. Now get in there!”

“Swagga, please! I don’t know what is going on—”

“Go!” he said firmly with the barrel of the Glock between her eyes. LaToria fumbled with the polished brass knob until it opened. She was roughly forced into the stateroom. Swagga stood in the doorway scanning the room for items that she could use to aid her escape.

“Try something stupid! I promise I’ll dump your ass overboard with your hands and feet tied.” Glaring at her, he eased out with the gun aimed at her. The door slammed shut and was locked.

LaToria wiped her watery eyes. The stateroom was spacious. On the bulkhead wall was a 60-inch flat screen TV. The room smelled of fresh leather and wood, but the setting did nothing to relax LaToria. She began to pace in front of the bed covered with black, white and blue satin and cloth sheets. She heard Swagga moving about above her. LaToria’s fear ran wild. Hearing Yaffa and Swagga speaking on Cindy’s death had her on edge. She began to sob when she felt the big yacht moving from its slip. At that point, she made up her mind to fight. Crying was not going to help. Wiping her eyes once more, she moved around the room in search of anything she could use to catch Swagga off guard. Desperation replaced her fear as the 108 Predator accelerated to its cruising speed of 35 knots.

Swagga sat at the bridge controls with his eyes moving from the glowing monitors. He steered the 108 Predator on a course to freedom, Cuba. Looking at the radar, he saw his line of travel was free of any other vessels for forty miles out. Glancing back over his shoulder, he had a hurting feeling at leaving so much behind.

“Fuck it.” He turned back around. Adjusting his course toward Cuba, he gripped the African mahoghany throttle, pushing it all the way forward. The sexy 108 Predator responded quickly for its massive length. When it reached its top speed of 45 knots, Swagga reached above his head to turn on a small TV monitor. The screen flashed on with a glowing icon that required a thumb print signature. Swagga carefully placed his thumb on the blue square. It took two seconds for the security system to activate. The screen changed to a list of every room on the yacht. Swagga touched the title ‘Master Stateroom.’ A second later, a hidden camera showed LaToria searching inside his walk-in closet. With the yacht cruising on its own, Swagga amused himself by watching LaToria with the Glock on the control panel.

The U.S. Marshals were converging with force toward the signal from Swagga’s mobile phone. Robinson now had the rundown on Kandi aka LaToria Nicole Frost. Four Marshals had driven to her home in Coconut Grove and instantly drew their weapons when they found the slain security guard at the gate. Proof of LaToria’s kidnapping was discovered when her back door showed signs of a forced entry. The stakes were high. Robinson sat in the co-pilot seat of a U.S. Marshals helicopter listening to guard units make their way closer to the signal that pinpointed Swagga’s phone. The helicopter was a mile away flying in a waiting position.

“Do we have a visual of the suspect?” Robinson spoke into the hands free headset mic that bumped annoyingly against his lips.

“Team Crow to home,” came a quick reply.

“This is home,” Robinson replied as the helicopter banked over downtown Miami.

“We have a blue Bentley GT parked at the Marina. No suspect in sight. Repeat, no suspect in sight.”

“Are we positive the GPS is still tracking?”

“Yes sir. No doubt about it.”

“Okay, send four men to the car. If the phone is there…”

“We’ll find him.”

“Search those warehouses, too.”

At the same time, Trevon was running down the floating dock walkway. Yaffa had died at Trevon’s feet from a single shot to his chest. Leaving Yaffa behind, he had run out of the warehouse and spotted the Bentley’s taillights heading toward the Marina. In the heat of the moment, the motorcycle was forgotten. He took off running behind the Bentley.

Running down the dock, he yelled out LaToria’s name and began to panic. An older white couple stood on the raised covered flybridge of a 60-foot Hatteras motor yacht.

“Excuse me!” Trevon pleaded. “Have you seen a guy with dreads walking with a light-skinned female?”

The man quickly shook his head side to side and then ushered his wife below the deck.

“Shit!” Trevon spun around. No one was walking along the walkway. “LaToria,” he moaned, moving further down the boat slips. He assumed this was the right dock since Swagga’s Bentley was parked in the parking lot. He was afraid to yell for help. Yaffa’s .380 in his waistband was his main deterring factor. Reaching the last of the boat slips, he looked out toward the ocean. He then looked at the countless yachts moored in their slips. “Swagga!” he shouted, not giving a fuck who he woke up. Suddenly, he remembered his cell phone. He hit redial. Pacing, he waited as the line rang. No answer. “Fuck!”

“Yo playa!”

Trevon spun around to the voice, reaching back for his gun.

“Whoa, yo!” the black man said.

Trevon froze. Behind him standing in the cockpit of a sleek speedboat was a black man with a wild afro. Like Trevon, he too was armed. Trevon slowly eased his hands into the man’s view.

“I need help.” Trevon watched the man ponder his words with doubt.

“Help? You just woke me up yelling for Swagga and now you want help?”

“You know him? Did you see him? He, he had a girl with him and—”

“Bruh, Swagga bounced outta here ‘bout fifteen minutes ago. His slip is right behind ya.”

Trevon glanced at the empty boat slip. “Please man! I need your help.”

“You wanna use my phone. Nah, I see you got one. But you might wanna—”

“Swagga kidnapped my girl, yo!”

“Really? We talkin’ bout a multi-millionaire platinum sellin’ rapper takin’ your girl. Who is she? Ciara?”

“I’m serious, yo! He and his bodyguard. I think they killed two people tonight. I know they killed a security guard ‘cause I seen the body, okay?” Trevon looked back out to the ocean. “I need to go after him.”

“Dawg, if what you said is true, you might need to call the police.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I killed his bodyguard, Yaffa. Please help me, man.”

“Listen, lemme make one phone call and I’ll put it on the speaker so you can hear I’m not callin’ the po-po. If what you said is true, I’ll help you.”

“Please!”

“Hold on.”

Trevon stepped closer to the fast-looking speedboat as a helicopter flew overhead.

“Yo. Lemme holla at Felix right quick.”

Trevon waited impatiently with his attention on the one-sided conversation.

“Felix, what’s up old man? Yeah, it’s me. I need some info. Yeah. . . . Look can you call our people down at Metro Dade and see if there is an ongoing investigation with a double murder in um . . .”

“Coral Gables.” Trevon assumed the killings had occurred at Chyna’s crib.

“Coral Gables. No. I don’t have anything to do with it. Okay, I’ll hold. Oh, and check on a security guard being found at . . .”

“He worked the front gate at Quovadis Estates in Coconut Grove. And the girl that’s been kidnapped is LaToria Nicole Frost.” Trevon’s patience began to wear thin as the man relayed his words over the phone. Who is this nigga? Acting like he Scarface and shit and who in the fuck is he talking to? Shit! I can’t believe I just told a total stranger that I killed a man. Fuckin’ stupid!

“Are you serious? The U.S. Marshals! Okay. Man, he could be anywhere by now. I can’t stand by and do nothin’ . . . Yeah, I’ll be careful . . . Okay. Look, you can have someone call them so they’ll know who we are. Yeah, I’m gonna help. Shit, you know how I do.”

Trevon got anxious when the man laid his gun down. “Will you help me?”

“Yeah. Untie that line by your foot and get in.”

Trevon moved quickly. “My name is Trevon.”

“I know. Trevon Harrison. The po-po found your Jag shot up and you’re wanted for questioning. Take my advice. Turn your cell phone off.”

Trevon jumped down into the 46-foot skater speedboat. “Man, who are you?”

“Menage Unique Legend. And yes, it’s my real name. Now buckle up.”

THIRTY-EIGHT

“Swagga’s yacht is a hundred and eight foot Predator. Ahhh . . . top speed at I think . . . 45 knots!” Menage informed Trevon as they cruised out into the deep water. The speedboat was cruising at 20 knots.

“Will we be able to catch up?”

“You don’t know about boats, do ya?”

“Never been on one.”

“I figured that. Well, once I get out of this no-wake zone, I’ll show you better than I can tell you. But first, we gotta find out where Swagga is goin’.”

“How will we do that?”

“Common sense. Head south.” Menage nodded. “Plus I can use this,” he said, tapping a small radar screen. “If I was Swagga, I’d be haulin’ ass at top speed and bein’ so late, there ain’t many boats out. Matter of fact, look at the screen.”

Trevon leaned over and saw a green dot heading south with a bunch of numbers around it.

“I bet that’s our boy.”

“What’s all the numbers for?”

“It’s their position, speed, course and all that other shit.”

“How far ahead are they?”

“Umm . . . ’bout seventeen miles.”

Trevon looked ahead at the inky black ocean. To his right the skyline of downtown Miami did nothing to ease his mind.

“Hold on, bruh. We outta the no-wake zone.” Menage gently eased the gold plated throttle forward. The prow of the speedboat leapt up in the air as the speed increased. The two 1300 hp engines roared to life kicking up a ten-foot high rooster tail of water, traveling at 40 knots, then 50, 60, 65, 70, 75, 85. Catching a wave sent the speedboat airborne for three seconds. The rough landing jarred Trevon in the high-backed seat. He assumed the speedboat could take the pounding since Menage sat next to him smiling, showing off his platinum teeth.

Back at the Marina, Robinson stood beside Swagga’s car as the Miami police roped the area off. The ground unit with the aid of a K-9 had discovered Yaffa’s body in the warehouse. Robinson held Swagga’s mobile phone in his gloved hand. He was not happy. His mood stood a chance of changing as two Marshals ran in his direction.

“He’s gone, sir. Slip eighteen is empty.”

Robinson smiled. “I want the type of vessel he owns! I want to know the color, its speed, everything. Dave, get the Coast Guard on the line. We’ll need their help. Secure the scene at the warehouse and let’s MOVE, people. This man is on his boat with a hostage and I doubt he’s on a pleasure cruise. He must—he must be stopped before he reaches Cuban waters!” Robinson turned his attention back to Swagga’s mobile phone. He looked at the last missed call. Someone had called Swagga only minutes before the Marshals had surrounded the car. A cool breeze off the water blew against Robinson’s face. Looking out toward the ocean, a sour feeling began to boil in his stomach. Ignoring it, he jogged back over to the helicopter as the ocean breeze rustled the dry palm tree blades.

Swagga gripped his hard dick with his focus on the security monitor. LaToria’s ass cheeks were spilling out of the tiny pink boyshorts. She was now in the bathroom rambling under the sink. He could have his fun with her, then dump her ass overboard. Swagga had no more compassion for her. Picking up the Glock, he slid the slider back to make sure a round was in the chamber.

The yacht moved stable through the five-foot swells on its plotted course to Cuba. Swagga stood up. It was pointless to look ahead out of the window. The visibility was pure ink black. Swagga instead looked down at the widescreen thermal night vision screen. His path was still clear. Leaving the controls, he moved down to the main deck. He could hear the waves crashing against the hull and the smooth hum of the engine. Each second was pushing him closer to freedom. Stopping at the wet bar, he sat down and started to think. Okay. Once I get to Cuba, then what? I know one thing, I gotta get my money. I hope Kendra will do what I told her to do. “Fuck this shit!” Swagga stood back up. The trip to Cuba would not take much longer. “Might as well fuck this bitch one mo’ time.

D-Hot sped down I-95 South in a green Porsche 911 GT3. He drove with one hand while frantically searching through his cell phone for a number. D-Hot blew past the exit for Homestead doing 98 miles per hour.

“Got it!” he shouted when he found the number. He pushed dial and prayed for the call to go through. Suddenly, the radar detector began to buzz. D-Hot eased back off the gas, slowing the Porsche. “Pick up, fool!”

“What!”

“Swagga! Yo, dis D-Hot!”

“Yo.”

“Bruh listen! The U.S. Marshals are on your ass! They even got the gotdamn Coast Guard tryin’ to stop you!”

“How the fuck they—”

“Look, you ain’t gonna make it to Cuba.”

“That bitch ass nigga, Yaffa! He talking to the police?”

D-Hot shook his head. “Yaffa is dead,” he said morosely. “He was found inside a warehouse near the Marina. They think you might’ve did it because they found your tire marks in the warehouse. Dawg, what in the fuck is going on? And why did you kidnap Kandi?”

“Man, ain’t got time to explain all that shit!”

“Okay listen. I wanna help you, but you gotta promise not to harm Kandi.”

“If you want me to turn myself in, you can kill that bullshit! I’ma take my chances reaching Cuba.”

“Nah. Listen, we gotta trick ‘em, okay? You gotta do this shit right ‘cause . . . just trust me, Swagga!”

“Okay, I’ma listen to you, but—”

“Swagga! Trust me, and I’ll have you out of the country by this time tomorrow. Now listen. You know my mansion down in the Keys?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, here’s the plan . . .”

“Yo, why are we slowing down?” Trevon shouted over the speedboat’s engine and loud wind.

Menage pointed to the headset on Trevon’s left. Trevon slid it on and repeated his question.

“Coast Guard just called me on the transponder.”

“And?”

Menage pointed to the left. Trevon faintly saw a fast moving blinking blue light. “Coast Guard. They told me to stay out of the way. They’re goin’ to stop Swagga before he can reach Cuba. They also have a helicopter on the way.”

Trevon balled his hands into a fist as Menage slowed the speedboat to 30 knots.

“Let ‘em do their job, yo. They know your girl is being held hostage. Real talk, we’d be in the way.”

Trevon studied the small radar screen. Swagga’s yacht was still heading toward Cuba at 45 knots. The symbol for the Coast Guard’s vessel told Trevon its speed was 40 knots. Its angle of approach would cross paths with Swagga’s yacht about twenty miles from Cuba. It was pure tension building as Trevon watched the two symbols getting closer.

“How far is that Coast Guard boat from reaching or catching Swagga?”

Menage glanced at the radar screen. “Um ‘bout seven or eight miles. Look! There’s another Coast Guard ship comin’ in up from the Southwest. Ain’t no way Swagga will reach Cuba.”

Trevon was still worried about LaToria. What would Swagga do once he saw that he could not reach Cuba? Trevon feared the worse.