One Blood (18 page)

The warden looked primed to jump over the desk and strangle Lincoln to death. “You ain’t outta here yet, you black idiot!”

“
You can’t do nothing to me and you know it, bruh.” Lincoln maintained his smirk. “I got a pardon signed by the Governor and I’m walking out of here, whether you like it or not. I bet you want to know how I managed to get myself pardoned. Sucks to be you then, cuz that’s one magic trick you’ll never figure out.”

“
Magic, huh, boy? You must be crazier’n a shithouse rat if you think you’re just walking out of here.” Winey sauntered around to the front of his desk holding a copy of Lincoln’s pardon. “The Governor gave us very specific instructions not to let you out until we heard from him. How you like the sounda that, boy?”

“
Sounds fine to me, bruh. It’s gonna be the last time you see me anyway, so you might as well get your fill.”

“
Oh, I’ve had my fill,” Winey replied. “You actually have a visitor.”

“
A visitor?” Lincoln asked.

“
Yes. Mr. Roberts. He’s a friend of the Governor.” The warden’s smirk now mirrored his own.

Lincoln remained stoic but his stomach ached.
Something is wrong
.

The guard grabbed Lincoln by the arm and ushered him down a short hall to a small, windowless room. Lincoln met the steely gaze of a rugged-looking white man with long, silver hair and an equally unkempt silver beard.

“
Mr. Roberts,” the guard said. “Do you need me to stay?”

“
No, you can go.” Roberts fixed his faded gray eyes on Lincoln’s face. “Have a seat, Link.”

“
Name’s Lincoln. You don’t know me, bruh, so don’t try me.”

“
Come on, Link, I thought you were expecting me.”

Lincoln stared back at the stranger. Something clicked. “You the Panther?” Lincoln asked, referencing Amir’s codename for their partner.

“
In the flesh.”

Amir, you brilliant motherfucker
. “Well, why the fuck didn’t you just say so?”

Initially, Lincoln had been against partnering with someone from the outside, but once Amir explained that they had recruited one of Lafitte’s own men as an accomplice, it became Lincoln’s favorite aspect of the plan.

“
So what happens now?” Lincoln asked.

“
Well, that’s the easy part. The Governor should be calling the warden right now, ordering your release. When you get the word, go check out yuh things. I brought yuh some cash and left yuh a car parked just outside the gates. A silver sedan.”

“
Anything else?”

“
There’s tons of reporters outside. I suggest yuh don’t say shit to nobody. Just get to that car, and haul ass to the location in the envelope with the money.”

“
What then?”

“
Then we’ll meet up and head back to Lake City, together.”

Lincoln considered this. Roberts didn’t get his portion of the ransom until Lincoln touched down in Lake City, so all seemed good.

“
Okay, I’m witcha. We done here?”

“
For now.”

Moments later, a guard led Lincoln to collect his things. Lincoln took stock of all the material possessions he had in the world—barely enough to fill a shoebox. He took a deep breath—he was now just three doors from freedom.

Lincoln noticed two strange envelopes mixed in with his personal effects. One was thick, stuffed with cash. The other was thin. He opened the thinner envelope as he made his way toward the front gates.

Inside the envelope was a note containing a single sentence. Lincoln stopped in his tracks just fifty feet from the front gate as his palms went cold. He read the note again, just to make sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him. They weren’t.

It read, “Congratulations! You’re a dead man.”

* * * * *

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Monday

Lake City, LA

Brandon stood in his bedroom, cordless phone in hand. Karen lay in his bed, sleeping peacefully. He wanted to call the police but Shorty’s words gave him pause. What if Shorty was telling the truth and he’d really been the one who
rescued
Karen? Though they had different ambitions in life, Brandon had a soft spot for Shorty. After all, they’d both lost brothers in the Simmons Park Massacre. Brandon owed it to his troubled friend to try and confirm his story.

Leaving Karen to rest, he headed over to Simmons Park. The park, surrounded by a rusted chain-link fence, had been officially condemned after the killings took place, but everyone in the hood still used it to play ball, smoke out, and drink. But not Brandon. He hadn’t set foot on this cursed ground since that day.

Everything looked just as he remembered, although weathered and worn from years of neglect. The faded, rainbow-colored jungle gym still stood beside the abandoned gymnasium—once a place of summer pool parties and community activities, now a hulking, beige husk with busted windows and cracked peeling walls.

If a building could catch leprosy, this was it.

Brandon hopped the fence and saw a burgundy Oldsmobile Eighty-Eight turning the corner. He instinctively ducked, knowing that any neighbor would have more than a few choice words to say to Moses if they saw Brandon going into Simmons Park.

Brandon pushed through the first pair of doors of the run-down gym and was immediately assaulted by stale air and the stench of rot. He headed up the stairs where Shorty had supposedly heard Karen’s cries. Soon Brandon stood in front of the only closed door in the corridor. He pushed it open and entered the tiny room.

There was a mini refrigerator nailed to the floor, a toilet with no seat, and a giant Jamaican flag covering the entry. Brandon noticed a camcorder sitting atop a tripod in the far left corner. There was a crashing sound from below.

Someone had thrown open the doors downstairs. They sounded like a herd of elephants as they approached the stairwell. Panicked, Brandon only had one thought—
these must be the real kidnappers!

They were now on the landing and rapidly approaching the guest room from hell. Brandon flattened himself against the wall next to the door opening, trying to calm his breathing and heart-rate with little success. In his head, he sounded like a broken vacuum cleaner each time he inhaled.

Then Brandon remembered Shorty’s gun.

The door blew open. An obese, dark-skinned man barged in, a sweaty black blob with gigantic bulging eyes. His huge eyes nearly tripled in size after Brandon hit him in his baby-making factory with the butt of the gun.

All the intruder could say was a very surprised, “Ooof!”

Brandon got tangled up in the Jamaican flag as he tried to flee the room. A large hand clamped on his ankle and he fell to the floor, halfway between salvation and imprisonment.

Brandon squirmed and tried to get out of the man’s reach. After bashing the man over the head with the butt of the gun, Brandon jumped up and ran toward the stairs. Unfortunately, he was so focused on what was behind him that he missed the first step. Badly. Brandon flew down the stairs headfirst.

As his forehead came into contact with concrete, he heard gunshots.

* * * * *

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Baton Rouge, LA

“
Yes, that’s right, Bill, I spoke to Karen…just a couple of minutes ago.” Randy sat in his Town Car on the way to the Louisiana Capitol Building.

“
So she escaped?”

“
Somehow, yes.” Randy’s mind returned to the all too short conversation he’d had with Karen as the motorcade glided through traffic. Her voice had been weak, wobbly, and shrill. She’d tried to tell him something, but with little success. He asked her over and over where she was, but her responses were incoherent and nonsensical. Then the line went as dead as Randy’s heart.

Was this some sort of trap?

“
My men are ready to move in as soon as you give the word,” Bill said.

Randy could barely contain his anxiety. “That’s good. Very good. But…please be careful, Bill. My daughter might still be caught up with them. Bring her back to me safely.”

* * * * *

Baton Rouge, LA

From far away, Coral heard someone banging on the door to her suite. It was probably the maid. “Go away!”

“
Mrs. Lafitte?” a familiar voice called from the other side of the door.

Coral looked through the peephole. It was Larry, the chief of her husband’s extra security detail. His bald, cone-shaped head looked extra pale in the incandescent light from the hallway. Randy was the first Governor in Louisiana’s history to hire his own security, in addition to the secret service. Larry was the fifth chief of security to serve the Lafitte family since Kristopher died. He rapped on the door again.

“
I’m not dressed, Larry.”

“
Come on, Mrs. Lafitte. Give me a break here. I’ve been out here banging for like five minutes.”

“
Okay, just give me a second please.” Coral put on her silk robe in a fluster. She opened the door and said, “Thanks for your patience.”

The large man loomed over her like a canopy. The bulges of his concealed weapons peeked out from under his oversized sports coat.

Something is wrong
.

“
I need you to get dressed, Mrs. Lafitte. Something has happened and I need to get you out of here.”

Coral knew the routine and went into the bathroom to grab her things. The morning newspaper sat on top of the toilet. She read the headline on the front page in disbelief.

“
Lincoln Baker Granted Full Pardon.”

What the hell is going on?

Five minutes later, she was dressed and heading out the front door with Larry behind her.

* * * * *

Angola, LA

The clamor outside Angola grew. Panama X listened intently. The volume of the screams indicated they were getting a first glimpse of their villain. But Panama X knew who the real villain was, and soon the public would, too. He waited patiently for the phone to ring down the hall, the signal that Lincoln was clear.

The phone finally rang. Panama X stood and walked to the bars. A guard picked up the phone and nodded in Panama X’s direction. Panama X smiled from ear to ear.

* * * * *

Angola, LA

Moses got out of the SUV and began the walk toward the penitentiary gates. Even though it had been years since his incarceration, the sight of the gates still brought on an intense loathing. The one benefit of his twelve-year stay, however, was that he still had allies on the inside who owed him favors. He was counting on them to get him access to Malcolm. The thought of acting the part of a prisoner, even for a cause as righteous as this, made him queasy. Nonetheless, he had no other choice. Lincoln’s life depended on it.

Moses took a deep breath and pushed through the crowd gathered around the prison opening.

What’s this protest all about?

Then he saw his adopted son emerge from the security gate.

What is going on here?

* * * * *

Angola, LA

Lincoln took his first steps toward freedom. He felt very exposed standing alone outside the security entrance. Armed guards had cleared a path for him to walk through the crowd of people behind the gate, but once he was outside, he would have no such protection from the angry mob. He’d received more hate mail and death threats than any other prisoner in Angola.

Sweat bloomed on his skin. Lincoln noticed the line of reporters waiting for their chance to speak to him. Cameras would once again project his face all over newspapers and television sets across the fifty states. He felt like he had hungry piranhas swimming around in the pit of his stomach.

“
Did you think you were just gonna walk out of here?”

Lincoln couldn’t find one friendly face amidst the hoards of people spitting and cursing at him. They had to be the families of the police officers and children killed during the Simmons Park Massacre. Lincoln’s sweat flowed freely. Head held high, he stared into the sea of hate-filled faces. Hopefully Amir was having better luck.

* * * * *

Lake City, LA

Amir noticed movement on one of the security monitors before him. Was that a man crouching in the bushes before the gate?

“
Yo, Moose,” he ordered. “Go check out the perimeter.”