He glanced at the clock. It wasn’t even seven a.m. and he’d been up for hours, prayed, exercised, and had eaten while most people were just starting their day. He opened his computer and logged into his email account and had only one message. He only needed one, especially after the lousy games he’d played in Vegas.
Touch was a private, cautious man, just like his father. He used a secure network and took many precautions to not leave his online footprint. His router was encrypted, and he also used Tor’s server, a virtual private network which hid his IP address and allowed him to surf the web in anonymity from any location he chose. He could pick Russia, Germany, Atlanta, California—anywhere in the world—but he never chose his current location. His computer was scrubbed daily, and he didn’t do dumb shit like click links sent to him. He took most of his calls on burner phones through encrypted phone apps such as Signal or WhatsApp to converse with most, but the fact remained that he didn’t have many attachments.
He quickly read the email and exhaled. It was a murdergram.
Touch quickly walked back into his bedroom where two large hutches sat. At first blush, one would think they contained his designer clothing. He swung open the double doors of one of the hutches to reveal a treasure trove of guns and ammunition. The second hutch held similar materials. Touch carried each weapon from the first hutch into the living room, doubling back for the contents of the second one.
His apartment had few amenities—just essential items to get him through his days like a coffeemaker, television, couch, bed—shit like that. There weren’t any personal touches or things a man his age might have in a bachelor’s apartment like artwork, family photos, or sports memorabilia. Touch sat erect in the stiff kitchen chair and carefully removed each piece of weaponry he owned. Within a short span of time, he had his whole life’s collection displayed across the table—two .38 Specials, a black .45 ACP, four 9mm Berettas, three Glock 19s, three Smith & Wesson SW99 9mms, and a stainless .45. It looked like he had committed a smash-and-grab from a gun shop.
Touch was also the proud owner of two of the most powerful guns ever manufactured: the Barrett M82 and a Remington 700 PSS. Both could blow baseball sized holes in muthafuckas. Touch marveled at his FN Tactical Police 12-gauge and Mossberg 500 12-gauge, along with a Heckler & Koch G36C 5.56mm, a SIG SG 552, and a Heckler & Koch HK91A3.
Touch started life in a single-wide trailer in the woods of the Deep South, where his father trained him to be a marksman. Back then, it was just a hobby to pass the time. When they moved north to New York, he kept up his training at the shooting range.
It was bound to be a long day for him. Touch was determined to properly clean his guns before his next job, taking care of his arsenal like they were his children. He had all the tools he needed in front of him: a bore brush, cleaning solvent, a cleaning rod, lubricant, and cotton swabs.
He grabbed his now-vintage iPod and scrolled through until he found his Prince playlist. Prince’s smooth yet sultry voice crooned “Purple Rain,” and Touch found the strum of the guitar strings relaxing.
One by one, he looked through the barrel of each weapon from front to back to confirm there were no live rounds stuck in the chamber or barrel. Touch dismantled the guns—which was complicated work of removing firing pins and barrels from each gun before ultimately reloading it.
Nearly five hours later, every gun was cleaned, functioning, and looked brand-new. Touch was ready to put them to use.
Touch worked for an agency called GHOST Protocol (Gather Humans Only to Slaughter Them). This was one of the better-known establishments in his line of work. There wasn’t age or sex discrimination, and they placed no real restrictions on their hired guns other than complete discretion and professionalism. Touch’s services weren’t cheap, and his funds were directly deposited into his secure account within a day after he carried out a hit. Touch was vetted and then hired a week after his eighteenth birthday. To this day he had no idea how his recruiter had picked him or even known he existed.
His assignment was Haruto Takahashi, the head of the New York Yakuza crime family. Haruto was from a small town in China and had worked his way up the ladder traveling throughout Asia as an enforcer before being promoted to move West. The bosses back in Japan were disappointed with how he was running his faction in New York City. Takahashi had lost many shipments of cargo containing the Asian women sent to the United States to work off their debts to the Yakuza. These women were ultimately stolen under Takahashi’s watch and sold as slave labor by rival drug organizations. To make matters worse, one of the Yakuza members had accused Takahashi of informing on fellow gang members to local authorities. GHOST Protocol was hired to dispose of Japan’s problem.
He had one week to complete his assignment.
The air was thin and dry on Humphreys Peak near Flagstaff, Arizona. The high elevation forced him to take slow, deep breaths while his lungs adapted. At nearly eleven thousand feet above sea level, he could develop altitude sickness or pulmonary edema, so he was ready to put the wheels in motion to end this. His head swiveled left and right. The hidden cabin nestled in the woods was eerie and empty like a sacred burial ground or New Orleans cemetery. Haruto Takahashi had fled with his family after he had gotten wind that a contract was put out on his life and was hiding out in the small cabin.
Touch waited in the dark, controlling his breathing and keeping a keen eye out for threats. The living room was illuminated by the shimmer from the T.V. playing in the night, and eventually, Takahashi exited his side door in his boxers and a t-shirt carrying two large trash bags. The Beretta to his ribcage told him he had gotten too relaxed too quickly.
“Do as I say and your family lives,” Touch instructed. Takahashi looked at the shadows inside his home where his wife, Emiko, and his son, Banri, were and complied.
It was just under an hour’s drive to the burial site in Arizona. Touch steered the stolen car near a secluded section of a sprawling cemetery, tucked away from the community. It was pitch black out there, and it took some time for his eyes to adjust to such darkness as he killed his headlights.
Takahashi’s final resting place was already dug; he just needed to get in. The full moon above gave Touch enough illumination to handle his business. Touch parked close to the grave and forced a resisting Takahashi out of the trunk at gunpoint. A cloth was wedged into Takahashi’s mouth, so his angry pleas and cries were muffled. His small wrists were bound tightly, and his t-shirt and boxers were disheveled. Takahashi had to be dragged to the open grave as he refused to make shit easy for Touch. He squirmed, kicked, and tried to head butt his captor, but all his efforts were made in vain.
The butt of a Beretta suddenly came crashing against the back of Takahashi’s skull. He collapsed to his knees, dazed from the blunt force trauma.
“Stupid muthafucka,” Touch said.
Takahashi groaned loudly. The rag shoved in his mouth made him sound like a wounded animal. He didn’t want to die, that was certain, but he had no choice. He had fucked up.
Touch grabbed Takahashi by his collar and dragged him some more. He was now at the foot of an open grave. Takahashi’s impending fate allowed him to shake off the dizzying blow and he was once again trying to fight for his life. He wiggled, squirmed, and even tried to crawl away from the inevitable. Touch felt remorseless.
“You Yakuza, Takahashi,” Touch stated the obvious. “Take this shit like a man!”
His words made Takahashi hang his head in defeat. He was Yakuza, and he felt he deserved an honorable death. Haruto Takahashi was born in the year of the rat, and that was precisely how he would die.
Touch and Takahashi locked eyes. “This ain’t personal.”
The Beretta was placed on his temple, and a bullet slammed into his frontal lobe. The bullet’s impact sent Takahashi flying backward into the unmarked grave.
Touch outstretched his left arm toward Takahashi and fired two more
shots into him.
Poot! Poot!
Touch covered the grave and hovered over the body like an omen. He showed no remorse for killing a family man. It was his assignment.
Quietly, Touch hugged the darkness and drove off into the night. He had a redeye flight he needed to catch.
The next morning Touch’s plane was taxiing to his JFK gate when his cell phone vibrated. He reached into his overnight bag and grabbed one of his three mobiles and opened a text message from one of his many bank accounts. The remaining balance for the hit had been transferred in. He could buy into his next game in a couple of weeks, but he needed some action now. He knew exactly where he would go.
15
The Lincoln projects trap house was Apple’s most prized possession in the drug game. She had the whole floor on the payroll. When she won, they all won. All parties had a vested interest in making sure her product was safe, and they kept their ears open for snitches and their eyes open for any ambushes. The apartment was also heavily guarded with armed thugs and a high-tech security system. Several henchmen took shifts on the building rooftop as lookouts, each equipped with a police scanner and walkie-talkie for instant communication. From up top, you could see the whole perimeter down below; 360 degrees of the territory was monitored. Any police raids would be spotted in real time, giving everyone a chance to evade capture.
Apple’s organization was running smoothly. Years of being in the game had prepared her to run an operation of this magnitude without Kola or Cartier. And speaking of her friend, she had received a panicky call from her a few weeks ago giving her the heads up about Caesar. Apple asked her to come through, but she hadn’t. Word on the curb was that she was having man troubles again—something they had in common.
Inside the two-bedroom apartment turned trap house were the most lethal killers on Apple’s payroll. Each man had “executioner” seeping through his pores. They stunk of death and destruction. They greeted Apple with respect, but Apple was only concerned with the shipment of heroin from the Helguero cartel. She addressed IG.
“Where is it?” Apple asked.
“We put the heroin in the back bedroom, El Jefe,” IG said. “We wanted to keep it separate until you came through.”
“El Jefe?”
IG nodded.
“I like it.”
Apple entered the bedroom that held no bed, no dresser, and no comforts and saw fifteen kilos of heroin, a street value of at least a million if packaged correctly. The apartment also contained stacks of cash and a few firearms.
Hood asked, “What we gonna do wit’ this? I mean, I never moved heroin.”
“We move this right here one package at a time. Cut it up into bundles of twenty at twenty-dollars per package. We got that pure heroin, grade A quality those fiends gonna love. Don’t step on my shit and watch how quickly we flip this. Put Easy on design duty for me. I want this stamped, ‘Queen of New York.’”
“Done,” Hood said.
“A’ight, y’all niggas get to work,” Apple ordered her crew. “Y’all know what to do.”
Touch felt her presence before she entered the room. It was as if his soul was pulling him toward a sparsely populated area of the casino. He was puzzled as to why, and then he saw her. She glided into his view with purpose, her silhouette even more alluring then he had remembered. He wanted her—every inch of her. He couldn’t explain it. Why her? What did she have those other women didn’t? What was it that caused his heart to beat differently when he saw her? He had heard all the sordid stories about her past and foul tales about her present, and he didn’t care. Touch would never ask her or want her to change. She was probably more woman than he deserved, but he’d never know if he couldn’t get her to go out with him.
Touch stood with his hands stuffed in his suit pants pockets and observed the beauty from across the room. He wanted to turn around and go to his room—leave, just as he had done at El Tempo’s—but he couldn’t. He was risking all his cool points, but he figured no risk, no reward. If she shut him down again, then he would blame it on the alcohol. Apple was at the bar when Touch came up behind her and whispered near her ear.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
Apple turned around to see who had violated her personal space and it was him, the guy from the block party. The man who had quickly lost interest in her when Queenie came through was standing before her. Apple’s eyes scanned him quickly—fitted suit pants, Louboutin hard bottoms, and a fresh haircut. Touch was on trend with his full beard and mustache trimmed low. His cologne, Dubai Emerald by Bond No. 9 New York, was one of her favorite scents on men. On him, it was like liquid pheromones.
She finally responded, “It’s your money.”
“What does the lady drink? Champagne?”
Apple smirked and rolled her eyes. “Bor-ing.” She did drink champagne, actually loved an expensive bottle, but it was fun torturing him. She wanted him to work for it—earn her time.
Touch needed no time to contemplate his order. He waved the bartender over.
“Let me have two ginger beers and two shots of whiskey.”
Apple crinkled her nose at his drink choices.
He saw her face and said, “Trust me.”
His sleepy eyes almost lulled her into a trance, hypnotizing her to let her guard down. When the drinks came, Touch poured the shot of whiskey into the large glass of ginger beer and handed it to Apple. “Ladies first.”
Apple took a sip, and surprisingly, it was so good. She grinned her approval, and he liked the way her top lip stretched across her perfect, white teeth. Within minutes she was seemingly different than the stuck-up, distant woman he had met at Harlem Week.
“It’s good, right?”
“Very,” Apple said.
“What brings you to Atlantic City?” he asked.
Apple was in South Jersey because she was summoned by Kiqué Helguero, who had given her the Manhattan and Bronx territories. Apple and Kiqué had a few formal sit-downs and he broke down the particulars, which included a lot of threats of what would happen should she not meet his expectations. It was all monotonous to Apple, and she was more than beleaguered by his commands and demands, but he had that good shit, so she obliged. When Apple and her crew left the meeting this time, it was late, so Hood suggested they stay overnight in Atlantic City and drive home in the morning. The foursome spent hours gambling until Hood and IG hooked up with some women and went to their rooms to fuck. Tokyo went to her room too; she wanted to watch television since she didn’t have cable at home.
Apple still had some energy to burn off, so she ended up at the bar, which was where Touch had found her. There wasn’t any way she would speak of her business dealings, so she said, “I’m here for the same reason as everyone else.”
“And that is?”
“To gamble away my daughter’s college tuition.”
“You think everyone here is here to gamble?”
Apple didn’t care why people were there. She was just making small talk in an attempt to curb her smart mouth. After Touch ignored her at Kiqué’s party, she figured that she should be a little nicer this go around. “Well, why are you here?”
Touch cocked his head to one side, and with a burst of nervous laughter he said, “To gamble.”
Apple chuckled.
“You don’t have an addiction, do you? You are in Atlantic City at two in the morning.”
“So are you,” she pointed out.
“True,” he said. “But, this is what I do for a living. I play poker, and I do it guilt-free because I don’t have kids to lose their college tuition.”
“Are you any good?”
“I am,” he said thoughtfully. Apple was impressed that he seemed like he was stating a fact and not leading with his ego.
“So, Apple, I have to admit that I’ve thought about you since Harlem Week when you shut me
down. I want to get to know you.”
“Not much to know,” she said evasively.
“You have a man?”
“No.”
His eyes were like lie detectors searching for her truth. “How long you been single?”
“A while.” Apple took another sip of her drink. She didn’t like where this conversation was heading, but he didn’t seem to pick up on her discomfort.
Touch thought about that. “Oh, you’re celibate? I understand if you want to take it slow.”
“I’m not celibate,” Apple snapped. She didn’t like the way women used that word, almost from a manipulative angle. That Steve-Harvey-wait-ninety-days wasn’t who she’d ever been. Apple fucked who and when she wanted, and right now she didn’t want to fuck him. “And what am I missing here? Take what slow? We don’t have shit going on.”
Her response made him a little jealous. She had a nigga sharing her bed that she wasn’t claiming. “Then keep me in the friend zone until I can earn more.”
His voice was calm and self-assured, and Apple realized her outburst didn’t unsettle him at all. Sometimes she could be too sensitive, too emotional, or too explosive for no reason. She needed to chill. Apple stared at the poker player with the smoldering sleepy eyes, deep baritone voice, and athletic body and knew he was a heartbreaker. His skin was flawless, his lips were juicy, and his hands were enormous. Apple eyes scanned him up and down once again and—hold up—did she see a dick print in his fitted slacks? She sucked her bottom lip in between her teeth and then bit down as her mind went places it hadn’t gone in a while.
As he and Apple sipped slowly, it was as if everyone around them had disappeared. There was an intensity in his eyes she hadn’t noticed during their first encounter. He had a way of making her feel like she was the only person that mattered when she spoke, like he was dialed in to every word.
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