Trap House (38 page)

“What happened?” the captain said, letting down his window to talk to the officer.

“Looks like a DUI. There is a bottle of liquor on the front seat of the van,” the officer replied.

“Is there anything we can do?” asked the captain.

“Naw, we got EMS in route as we speak, so if you could just bear with us for a few minutes,
we’ll have you on your way,” the officer said.

“No problem, just know we’re in a bit of a hurry,” the white haired captain said as he let the
window back up to keep the heat in. He then got on his radio to let the caravan know what was
going on. “We’re gonna be here for a few, so make yourself comfortable, but stay alert,” the
captain said.

Everything looked safe as they sat there. There was nobody out at three forty a.m. but the few
homeless people that lived under the ramp that were huddled around a fire that burned out of a
barrel. The captain sipped his coffee, thinking about how he was gonna go home and get some
sleep when it was all over. The flare officer called for his partner to come over to the police car
that sat to the side of the road. Once he reached the car, his partner was digging in the trunk like
he was looking for another road flare. A suspected drunk man stood in the road, waiting for the
officer to come back and finish taking his statement. The flare officer looked to have found what
he was looking for, but to the captain’s surprise, it wasn’t flair, it was an AR-15. The flare officer
wasted no time unleashing on the second Suburban. They never saw it coming, and they never had
a chance as the shooters accuracy seemed to rip through everyone in the Suburban in a matter of
seconds. The captain’s frantic cries of ambush were useless. His eyes showed a clear sign of panic
as he looked forward and saw that the bloody body that lay in the street was aiming an AK-47 at
his Suburban. The so called DUI suspect was holding what looked to be a Teck Nine. Before the
captain could react, gunfire filled him and the driver. The right back passenger was hit in the neck
that left blood squirting everywhere. The remaining SWAT member tried to open his door and step
out, butthe AK fire almost took his leg completely off , making him fall flat on his face. The driver
and passenger of the van tried their best to return fire, but the AR-15 was turned on them, slicing
through their limbs, making quick work of them.

“Don’t kill me!” the almost legless SWAT officer cried as the flare officer’s partner stood over
him aiming his Glock Nine at him. Two loud pops were all you heard as the SWAT officer took
his last breath. A dead silence took the air except for three homeless men that were once in front
of the fire. One of them pushed his basket full of cans across the street, moving fast toward where
the assassin with the AK stood.

“Get the fuck out of here,” the AK wielding man yelled to the bum.

All he saw was the shining gold from the man’s grill and a flash from the .357 that Red had
pulled from under his rags that sent a bullet smack in the middle of the assassin’s forehead. The
man with the Tech couldn’t react fast enough to get out of the way of the three slugs that hit him
center mass. Red moved for cover swiftly as the AR-15 spit in his direction, barely missing him.
The flare officer and his partner shot relentlessly at their target, but their key mistake was not
paying attention to the two bums that crept up behind them holding twin Desert Eagles. The bark
from the golden eagles ripped off rounds in the assassins until they were empty and the top part of
the guns set cocked back, waiting for them to feed them another clip. As the gunfire stopped, the
marshals in the back of the van sat as if nothing had happened outside. Sullivan, the heavyset white
man, sat there and lit a Marlboro, and then he began to speak as he blew the smoke out.

“Well, King, long time no see. Too bad it has to be on these terms,” Sullivan said.

“I agree, Sullivan, or would you like to be called the Reaper now?” replied King.

“I see you haven’t lost your touch for surprises,” replied Sullivan.

“I guess this is the part where you kill me, huh?” replied King, showing no fear in his eyes.

“Actually, it’s not,” replied Sullivan. “I would like to introduce you to my promising new
protégée’, Ms. Aisha. I thought I’d give her the honors of this one.”

Ms. Aisha had been the number one hitter in the Reaper’s Death Squad. She seemed to come
out nowhere seven months ago and displayed a killer’s instinct that made the Reaper cuff her and
take her under his wing while teaching her everything he knew.

“Well, King, I can’t say it was nice knowing you. I never did like you. I’m gonna enjoy watching
you die. Aisha, if you would do the honors,” Sullivan said.

Ms. Aisha wasted no time pulling her .45 out and aiming it at her target.

“Twins, y’all alright?” Uncle Red asked as he ran toward them. They never got a chance to
answer before they heard a single gunshot go off inside the van. They ran to the van, Red grabbed
the door handle. The twins stood there pointing their guns toward the doors. Red pulled the door
open and what they saw made their heart skip a beat. They never moved as the large man fell to the
ground with a bullet in his head. Aisha stood there, gun smoking, looking like she had no mercy in
her anywhere. The boys took aim, and Uncle Red never moved out the way. He just looked down
at the body in front of him. Amazed, the large man was still holding his cigarette.

“Now, y’all kids play nice,” King said as he stood up in the line of fire between the twins and
Ms. Aisha. “Twins, I’d like y’all to meet your sister, Latisha Scott.” The twins lowered their guns
with a look of confusion on their face as they watched their sister put her gun down and hug their
father.

“Enough for the family reunion. Twon, go get the car, Qwon, get the gasoline, and, Tish, get
your father out of them cuffs and shackles. Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Red said. He could hear
sirens in the distance.

As they pulled away up the ramp, all that was left was a blazing inferno that would take hours
to put out. Plus, it would take another two months to go through all the dental records to realize
the King was gone. The King couldn’t help but think to himself,
I’ve waited ten years for this moment,
and now that I’m free it is time to punish the people that oppressed my black people for hundreds of years. The
people that fed us crack cocaine and heroin, and watched us sit back and destroy ourselves and our families
with addictions we can’t control - the police, the judges, and the prosecutors that throw our young, black men
in jail and never give them a second chance at redemption. But, now the time has come that they will all bow
down to the royal family, and all our loyal followers.
All he could do was grin as they sped off to their
destiny.

Coming Soon!

Sabrina A. Eubanks

author of Karma I, II & III

Prologue

C
hase Brown had never been moved much by the power of prayer, but he was sure as hell
praying now. There, in what were apparently the last moments of his life, he discovered the
truth: You really do see your life flash before your eyes. His life story did not unwind like one of
those grand and glorious old epic movies; rather, it was a jarring assault, just starkly vivid sparks
of random memory. He saw hundreds of bits and snatches of everything he’d done: things he’d
done right, things he’d done wrong, and things he should have done differently. Then there were
the things he never should have done at all.

What should have happened in the blink of an eye, though, seemed to stretch out unnaturally
in some sort of strange, revised measure of time. Chase wondered why his thoughts were so
scattered, why he couldn’t think straight. Everything was flying around in his head with such
swirling, blurring speed that it was impossible to get his thoughts to gel. He felt dizzy, and his heart
hammered in his chest.

Violence had always been an abstract to him, and he always associated it with his older brother,
Cyrus. That’s not to say he was a stranger to it himself. Chase had grown up around violence, had
seen friends and family fall prey to it, and had inflicted a generous amount of it himself; though
rarely had he been on the receiving end, unless it was from Cyrus. And, the violence he doled out
himself was for Cyrus. The shit he did for Cyrus had niggas scared to death…but obviously not
this nigga.

Objectively speaking, there really was no reason for the guy to be afraid of Chase. After all, the
man holding the .45 on Cyrus Brown’s little brothers was Herc Mercer. He and his boys went back
a long way with Cyrus, but as of late, most of their history was far from pleasant. They’d started
out as friends and business partners when Chase was still in junior high. Chase knew Herc, Rome,
and Khalid—knew them niggas well. He knew things were turning sour between them, but he
never in his life did he think he’d find himself looking down the barrel of Herc’s infamous .45.

Herc waved the gun in front of his face a bit. “Stop daydreamin’ and answer the damn question.
I swear, I ain’t never seen a man drift off with a gun in his face. Where’s Cyrus, Chase? Is that
muthafucker hiding from us?”

Chase narrowed his eyes and licked his lips. He looked Herc straight in the eye when he lied to
him. “I don’t know.”

They stared at each other, neither wavering for a second, and Chase felt sweat trickle between
his shoulder blades.

Herc looked at him dubiously. “What did you just say?”

Chase squared his shoulders and held his gaze. He was scared, but there was no way he was
about to let Herc see that. If he was going to shoot him, he wasn’t going to let him punk him first.
“I said I don’t know,” Chase repeated, careful to keep his voice even. Raising up had no place here.
He knew Herc, and he didn’t doubt for a minute he’d blow his brains out. His best bet was to try
and smooth this dude out by keeping it even.