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Authors: Leslie Esdaile Banks

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BOOK: Shattered Trust
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“Why do I let you always string me along?” He laughed at his own joke.
She couldn't laugh, much less move her mouth to speak.
“I know you know something, or how else would you have the drop on crap going on here all the way down there? Stop teasing me.”
“I promise, the minute I have a lead, I'll call you and only you.”
“Ahhhh ... exclusive rights. That's my girl. I love a monogamous woman.”
Laura forced a soft chuckle. “I always play straight by you, Rick. You know that ... but just do me one more favor.”
“Name it,” he said in a cheery tone.
“Be careful on this one. I don't think it's local.”
“Duly noted,” he said, all the effervescence gone from his voice. “This is some serious shit, huh? A senator and his son. Very wild.”
“Yeah,” she said quietly. “Very wild and very dangerous. Thanks for the heads-up. I owe ya.”
“As long as you owe me, I'll never go broke,” he said, trying to regain his former upbeat responses.
“Yeah,” she said flatly. “Just watch your back.”
“OK. I can tell from the sound in your voice, you're worried, and I don't like that sound at all. Never heard you like that, Laura. Now I'm concerned. You all right? What are you into this time?”
She paused and ruffled her curls with her fingers, squinting as she peered past the group to the horizon. “That's just the thing, Rick. Nothing.”
He sighed. “All right. Tell me anything. Just behave yourself and be careful.”
“You, too.”
“I love you, kiddo.”
“Me, too,” she said quietly.
Rick chuckled nervously. “He's standing right there, staring down your throat.”
“Yep.”
“Oh, so it's like that, now.” He laughed, but the sound was strained. “If the big guy is staring you down, then I am worried. Having an old man as an ex-cop doesn't bode well during a call like this. If he's in it—”
“Good-bye, Rick.”
“All right. Good-bye. Guess I should just be honored that you're having information phone sex with me.”
She laughed and this time it wasn't forced. “Get off the line, man.”
“Bye,” he said quickly, and hung up.
“Do I dare ask?” James said, shaking his head.
“No, but the call was revealing.”
“And?” Jamal said, turning his palms up to the blaring sun.
“Howard Scott, Jr., got waxed in prison,” she said slowly. “Went out so foul, I can't even—”
“They probably did him old school,” Jamal said. “But you knew that was coming, given how he played everybody around the way.” Jamal shook his head and made a face. “The way he did Moon and them, sheeeit. I knew they was laying for him. That's a no-brainer.”
“Somebody took out his father, too, Jamal,” Laura added carefully. “That wasn't a homeboy hit. Telephone cord or a wire.”
“Geez Louise,” Steve said raking his hair back with his fingers. “No wonder Mikey called me, because that's old Sicilian signature, if ever I heard it.”
“But, if we were worried that the senator would send somebody to come for us, doesn't that sorta take that off our backs?” Najira's gaze darted around the group. “I never, ever, wished anything like that on him or his son, but it just seems like to me that we're in the clear, then.”
James shook his head. “Uh, uh. No. I still don't like it.”
“I'm feeling my partner on this,” Steve said. “Homeboys in prison can get to anybody any time, but a guard paid off to look the other way ... hey, how do we really know who did Junior?”
“Why do we care?” Najira said, becoming frantic. “That's not our business!”
“Just like homeboys don't do the wire thing, generally,” James said, ignoring Najira's outburst.
“And a senatorial hit ain't light fare in these days and times,” Steve added. “Not to mention, me and Mike Caluzo are cool and all, but I'm not his priest. Why would he feel it necessary to tell me it wasn't his people, ya know? He's been an enforcer a long time, has done however many jobs that I never wanna know about—so why the big confessional thing now?”
“Because he's
your friend
,” Laura said calmly, her tone so serene that it made the group go still. “And friends give friends the heads-up when something really foul is about to go down ... just so they'll die knowing it wasn't an internal betrayal and their friends weren't involved.”
“Old Sicilian code,” Steve said quietly, gathering Najira in his arms.
“Sho' you right,” James said, and then glanced at Najira. “Now you see why it
is
our business?”
 
 
“Part one and two of the job is done,” a man with a thick Russian accent said into his cell phone.
A black sedan rolled up next to his in the Washington, D.C., parking lot. The darkened back window rolled down by a crack and an envelope was pushed through it. He reached out and accepted the manila folder.
“Everything you need for the rest of the job is in there,” a quiet male voice said. “Make it happen. Your wire transfer is complete, check your account.”
Both sets of car windows rolled back up. Both cars leisurely drove away in opposite directions.
 
 
“Mrs. Melville,” Laura said as calmly as possible into the phone while James drove their Jeep back toward the house, “I'm giving you and your husband a few weeks off with pay... . Uhmmm, James and I just need a little bit more honeymooning time alone in the house, you understand.”
“Oh, my, yes, I do,” Mrs. Melville said with a conspiratorial laugh. “I remember being your age, once. But don't you need me to at least cook, or what about laundry and such things as keeping the place tidy for you, my dear?”
“I'll manage,” Laura said, closing her eyes, hating to have to lie to the sweet older woman who had become her right hand. “I'm trying to show my husband that even though I have fantastic help, I can be a bit domestic. I promise not to make too much of a mess during this experiment.”
Mrs. Melville chuckled and clucked her tongue softly. “You're sure? And you know, if you need anything, we're at your disposal.”
“Yes, and bless you,” Laura said quietly. “But this is best for now.”
“All right, dear heart. You call if you need us.”
“Will do. Bye.”
Laura terminated the cell-phone call and slumped in the seat. “This is worse than before, James. I thought we'd put all this crap behind us. I hated having to lie to that dear old woman.”
“It's best this way, baby,” he said, turning into their driveway. “That's all we'd need is for her or her husband to be in there if something crazy jumps off. This way, we can sleep at night.”
“Yeah, but not in our own home.” Laura leaned forward and stared at him for a moment.
“I hear you. A hotel room?”
She closed her eyes and ran her palms down her face. “Yeah, maybe. I don't know. Maybe we leave Grand Cayman and go smaller, like Cayman Brac—”
“Smaller means even less security, whatever that is anywhere in the world, these days,” James countered.
“All right, how about if we go to a larger island, or maybe—”
“Laura, face it. If someone is hunting us, or simply cleaning up any of the trail from all that Philly madness, then it's only a matter of time before they find us. We have to get to the root of it, figure out why we're in it, what they're searching for—since we can rule out family vengeance at this point, I think.”
“Ahkan is on his way ... what are we gonna tell that man, James?”
“The truth,” James said flatly. “Start there. We all get our stuff, quietly check into one of the resorts, and then all sit down and put our heads together. Maybe once he gets here, he might have a take on this, since he was also close to Haines and might know what other bull Haines was into, or who might be sending a clean-up squad. Bottom line is we can't run forever. At this rate, we might as well go back to Philly.”
Chapter 4
A
khan took his time moving through the house. These were some strange times. “Ashé,” he murmured, acknowledging the ancestors as he gathered up a few essentials and stuffed them in a knapsack. He kept away from the barred windows while going to the one black telephone he owned with a rotary dial. The call was efficient like the universe.
“
Hotep
.”
“Yo.”
“Juney, an old man needs to take a discrete ride to the airport, son.”
“You got it, Pops. When?”
“Now. Down the street and around the corner.”
There was a pause.
“So it's like dat?” Juney asked.
“Yes, it's like that, soldier.”
“Cool. I gotchure back. Five minutes.”
“Thank you. May the ancestors bless you.”
The call disconnected.
Akhan glimpsed around his North Philadelphia home, leaving the radio on, the lights on, and then headed for the back door. He checked his watch, becoming annoyed with himself for being so predictable. Age had created a routine. A daily walk down to the park, long, then quiet contemplation on a bench, feeding the birds. Perhaps a game of chess or dominoes, if a willing player appeared. Waiting for the youngbloods to come out and get schooled, a chance to interact with others and espouse what they thought was philosophical rhetoric. He loved the debates. They had much to learn. Yet he still had much to do.
He slipped out the back door and through the tiny yard. In April the heat hadn't stirred the air to a humid, dank odor from waiting garbage cans, nor had larva begun to multiply. That was a good sign, he mused, passing along the narrow divide of concrete and old wrought iron gates that separated each neighbor's postage stamp of privacy. The dogs didn't bark. They all knew him and he fed them daily for just such an occasion, should one ever arise. Their silent, tail-wagging welcome told him that his passage was safe as he tossed small bits of lunch meat over each fence. He considered it a toll worth paying.
At the end of the alley, he hesitated until he saw Juney's ragged Eldorado roll to a slow stop. He kept his eyes on the window, then saw the lock pop up—that's when he made his move.
In a quick jog-step he reached Juney's car and got in, closed the door quietly, and ducked down. Juney immediately pulled away from the curb, but did so without burning rubber.
Juney looked in the rearview mirror. “
The man
was on a roof across from your house with a scope, bro' Akhan.” He kept his eyes on the mirror and zigzagged through the streets to be sure they weren't being followed. “I think it's cool, now, but all that smack you be talkin' up in the park ain't no joke, old dude. You know dey got black helicopters and whatnot for us, right. Figured dey was after you because you be dropping science 'round da way.”
Akhan sat up slowly and peered through the back window. “There was somebody across the street on a roof?”
“Sniper,” Juney said, looking five ways at the intersection. “Had the full kit, laying low. The moment I got your call, me and my boyz took a peek up on the flat tops from down my house. Seen 'em, but he ain't seen us. Funny thing was, he wasn't wearing black SWAT gear, feel me?”
“Nationality?” Akhan rubbed his jaw and glimpsed out the back window again.
“White, brother—whatchu think? I said
the man
, not jus' Po Po.”
“No uniform.” Akhan grunted.
“It ain't the cops, is it?”
“No,” Akhan said, leaning back against the seat. “Too dangerous. If he's got a sniper's kit, he's a professional.”
“Like we ain't?” Juney scoffed. “All I gotta do is hit my cousin on two-way, and he can bring that Uzi up from the basement. Sheeit, we'll spray the joint and blow his foul ass off a rooftop—you don't be coming up in da hood trying to bring noise to one of the old playas, especially one dat done paid his dues and been like a father to how many of us? Naw, we ain't having it. Way I see it, we all owe you man. Respect. Say the word, and we'll smoke him like a blunt.”
“Might need to ask you to do that for an old man one day—but not today. I've always said, be strategic, right?”
Juney let his breath out hard. “Yeah.”
“First of all, you spray the roofs, one of the kids or somebody's mom might get shot and killed.” Akhan paused, allowing the import of the words to sink into Juney's conscience, but well understood where the young brother was coming from. “If this was an intended hit, scheduled to blow me away in front of my own house—kill the hit man, and whoever sent him will simply hire another one. What I need to know is, who sent him and why.”
“Cool. Well, we know he ain't roll up here on SEPTA, so his car is probably somewhere nearby. Want us to tag and open it up—you know we can clean it out like
Gone In Sixty Seconds
, my boyz is all pro, too.”
“Now you're being strategic.” Akhan rubbed the stubble on his chin. “It'll probably be a rental, nothing flashy, and most likely anything identifying will be in the trunk—not on him, in case something went down. He wouldn't carry anything on him. The car will be in a bogus name, but the tag will help.... I know some people that know some people who can run a license plate, get a lock on which car rental agency he got it from, and from there get an alias.”
Juney reached over the seat and offered Akhan a fist pound. “Yeah, 'round here we all know some people that know some people.”
“Can your boys make it look like a run-of-the-mill crash and sweep?”
“We'll do it lovely, will make it look like junkies got him.”
“Then your boys will have to move quick. One needs to watch his position on the roof; the others hit the car, and then be out.”
“We got you, Pops, relax.”
“You still have that key that I gave you a long time ago? Plus the number I gave you last year?”
“Yeah,” Juney said, his tone mellowing with respect.
A silent understanding passed between them, both knowing that it was the glue that had forged their relationship ten years prior, as it had been a confer of the ultimate trust between two men that trusted no one.
“I should be on my way for my morning walk right now. Five minutes, and your target is gone. He'll know that something unusual in my schedule changed.” Akhan paused, staring at the young street soldier before him. “Be careful, son.”
Juney nodded and extracted a two-way cellular from his baggy jeans pocket. “Like I said. We got this.”
 
 
“Change of plans,” James said evenly as he watched Laura dash around the bedroom trying to stuff as many of their clothes into a suitcase as quickly as possible.
She stopped moving about and stared at him. “Come again?”
“This is insane and a bad plan, Laura. We go to a small hotel, or even a resort, and we have less room to maneuver. Here, we'll have a beefed-up security system installed by the end of the day, can walk the perimeter in shifts with weapons without alerting the authorities, and if it gets ugly, can drop an assassin after questioning him, if we have to—without the chaos of innocent bystanders that could get hurt, or worrying about the Royal Cayman Islands Police.”
“What are we gonna do, James? Just sit here?” She wanted to pull her hair out by the roots.
“We can't keep running, baby,” he said quietly, going to her to try to calm her with an embrace. “Don't you wanna just stop running for once in your life?”
She sighed hard and briefly laid her head on his shoulder. Weary beyond words, she had to agree with at least that much of what he'd said. This was supposed to be a sanctuary that she'd found so many years ago. The Caymans. Peace on earth. A country only one and a half times the size of Washington, D.C., that was devoted to banking and finance, her forte; a place where the dollar was still relatively strong and there was no formal taxation of any kind. No sales tax, no income tax, no capital gains tax, no property tax, no inheritance tax in a land overrun at one point by pirates, folks who obviously understood underground economies.
Hell no, she didn't want to leave her idyllic haven that was only four hundred and eighty short miles from Florida, a hundred and fifty miles south of Cuba, and northwest of Jamaica, and serviced by all the major airlines. Here, she understood the law—British common law, the language was English, but the people her own, with a substantial mixture of every world culture. Beauty, art, white-sand beaches ... Laura closed her eyes. A land where the Silver Thatch Palm reigned supreme, and stood tall next to wild banana orchids, and allowed Grand Cayman parrots to nest.
“But what are we going to do?” she whispered, half as a question to James, the remainder of the query for herself.
“Do what we've always done so far—bring it to them, before they bring it to us. Investigate. Find out who has an axe to grind, and then bust 'em.”
She tentatively nodded as he withdrew from the hug.
“You call Najira and tell her to stand down on the packing. I'm going to the garage and bring in some heat.”
She sat down slowly on the edge of the bed and watched him go to the dresser to pull out his old shoulder harness and Peacekeeper.
Watching him do that didn't make her feel any better.
 
 
It was his chance to be initiated, his chance to come up. Juney was
da man
, and more than that, was his big brother. All he had to do was open the safe under Juney's bed, get the key to the old dude's house, do what he was told, and be out.
Ramir looked both ways and slipped out of the house, and then made a quick dash down the alley, trying to stay clear of growling dogs as he leapt over the short fence toward his destination—Brother Akhan's back door.
Sweat made his white T-shirt stick to his back as he worked the locks, cracked open the door, and then dropped to the floor, scrambling across it with agility. He immediately spied the coats on a hook by the front door, and yanked off the hoodie sweatshirt that had been tied around his waist. Moving quickly, he slid up the wall, hugging it like he were a part of it, slipped off the army fatigue jacket that the old man always wore, and then scrambled toward the couch on his belly, using his elbows and knees to propel him.
In swift, jerky motions, he yanked at the worn pillows and crocheted sofa throw, stuffing them into the body of the jacket and hoodie to fill the fabric out. His hands trembled as he worked the fastenings, constantly glancing at the front window and back toward the hall. Finally satisfied, he shimmied on the floor to the kitchen and retrieved a mop, and hastened back to the overstuffed coat on the floor of the living room and stuck the long wooden handle up into the bundle of fabric. Sitting with his back against the wall next to the window, he shut his eyes for a second and mopped at the rivulets of sweat coursing down his temples. Then he pulled out his two-way.
“Ready,” he whispered.
“Do it,” his cousin ordered.
Using two hands, he raised the coat to his far left, straining to keep the motion fluid but jerky enough to seem like a person had walked to the window from the hall toward the window. He carefully rounded his body with the scarecrow form and brushed the curtain just enough to draw a portion of it back so that the fatigue jacket briefly showed.
Within seconds, two pops shattered the glass, exploding pillow contents from the hoodie where a head should have been and making yarn fibers plume. He instantly dropped the jacket and made a loud crash by kicking over the television. Then he was out.
On hands and knees like he was making a break from a rival gang in a club, he found the back door, stood, and bolted, hurdling the fences, doing a hundred-yard dash that rivaled Olympic records. He hit the back door to his house and entered it, falling forward into the arms of a group of waiting friends. Everybody got down, guns drawn, spines pressed against lower cabinets and sections of the wall, breathing hard.
 
 
He moved with calm precision, breaking down his weapons and gathering his equipment in a routine he could have accomplished in his sleep. Job three was completed. The roofs in this godforsaken neighborhood were a cinch to scale. There would be no eyes, no witnesses. These animals preyed upon and killed one another all the time. He released the window bars he was holding, jumped down, and adjusted his knapsack on his back. Two short blocks to his car and he was history.
Blending into the block like a lost Temple University grad student, he in his rumpled corduroy pants and wrinkled college T-shirt fit right into the environment. A few crack addicts and women pulling laundry carts barely considered him as he stepped over two dead dogs in the alleyway that had been silenced for pragmatic reasons and entered the adjacent block.
BOOK: Shattered Trust
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