Certain Reprisal

by Kevin Macklin

  The lawn was well maintained and the soft grass silenced my every footfall as I crept to the rear wall of the house. I approached a window and attempted to peek in, but the privacy blinds were drawn, obstructing my view. I moved on to the next window. Same obstruction. Then I reached the back door. Rested my hand on the knob and turned.

  Locked.

  I heard something behind me. Barely. Like the swish of two leaves rubbing against each other. Almost, not even a sound. My logical brain wanted to dismiss and ignore it as nothing, perhaps some auditory hallucination that didn't quite happen. But, my primitive, instinctual brain wanted to check it out. So, I started to turn around when my entire body seized up. Felt like I'd stuck my finger into an electrical outlet, or as if I'd been struck by lightning.

  Then, I felt nothing. Saw nothing. Thought nothing.

  Chapter 7

  The warehouse office was packed, the majority of the twenty people crammed into the small space stood around. The few seats were taken by those who had arrived first, but one seat remained unoccupied.

  CG walked into the office and sat in the one remaining chair. Behind the desk. He looked around the room, meeting the eye of everyone, in turn.

  Each man before him ran and operated one trap house. They were team leaders, managers, with small crews working in shifts to ensure they were open for business twenty four hours a day. They had been chosen because they were honest, ambitious, and prone to hustling their asses off.

  "We got a problem," CG said. "And we need to make some adjustments to the way we do business for a little while. Some heat might be coming our way, and I want to be prepared."

  These guys weren't afraid of going to jail, but they weren't reckless either. Most had families, bills, responsibilities. Lacking opportunities due to felony convictions, poor education, or appearance, they ended up employed in this line of work, for this particular employer. Which wasn't all that bad. This crew wasn't run like most others. Hot heads and fame seekers weren't welcome. Discretion and employee safety was a high priority. And, they made good money. Much better than any legal position they would qualify for.

  A guy in his mid twenties with locs said, "Just let us know what we need to do."

  "First thing we need to do is get the majority of product out of the trap houses," CG continued. "We're only gonna keep enough that can be flushed down the toilet in one flush. Everything else will be kept off site. Guns, too. I'll leave it up to y'all on where to keep shit. Be smart though. You need more, you go get it. Get lazy, you slip up. And, slip ups count."

  "What kinda heat," another young hustler asked.

  "Cops. I'm just really being on the safe side. Dough got some shit going on, but y'all know he be on point when he move. Still, though. We gonna be prepared."

  The young hustler replied, "It's on. We got you."

  "Then get back to it. Get shit right. Keep getting money." CG stood, the meeting over.

  One by one, the guys filed out of the office until CG and the guy with the locs were the last two left.

  "Mike," CG said to the guy. "I'm coming with you."

  Mike nodded, and they both left the office.

  Five minutes later they pulled up to the trap house, got out of their cars, and went inside. The front door opened up into a living room. Same as any other living room. TV on the wall, a couch, a chair, a coffee table. Sitting on top of the coffee table were a digital scale, and a tray containing a small pile of little baggies with white powder inside, and another small pile of baggies full of clear, jagged crystals.

  "Take me to the stash," CG said to Mike.

  They crossed the living room and stepped into a hallway. Mike opened the second door on the right, and the duo entered. The room was sparsely appointed, with only a bed and a closet. Mike went around the far side of the bed, pulled a knife out of his pocket, and squatted down. He stuck the knife into a crack in the hardwood floor and pried up the floor board. After removing three boards, Mike reached his arm down into the opening and brought out two gallon size storage bags and sat them on the floor.

  After replacing the floor boards, CG followed Mike out of the door and into the back yard, which ended at an alley. They followed the alley until they reached a plot that was overgrown with weeds, and walked into the high grass.

  "Watch out for snakes," Mike said.

  They were behind an abandoned house with the windows boarded up. A short set of stairs led to the back door, and next to those, another stairway led beneath the house. After taking the stairs down, they walked through a door into a large open space. A breaker box was on a wall in the corner and a water heater rested in a space under a stairway that led to the main floor of the house. Mike went to the water heater and removed a panel.

  "Water's off. I'll bring the guns on the next trip," he said as he put the two large storage bags into the water heater.

  After replacing the panel, the two guys retraced their steps back to the trap house. Went inside.

  CG said, "Good shit with that spot. Don't forget the guns, and stay on point."

  They shook up, then CG made his exit and returned to the warehouse.

  Chapter 8

  I woke up, opened my eyes, and looked around. Concrete surrounded me. The walls were gray and smooth. The floor was gray and smooth. A jail cell this was not. Too spacious. Felt like I was in a dungeon, but this was more likely to be a basement. A single fluorescent light fixture on the ceiling provided insufficient illumination as I gazed around the empty space.

  My pockets had been emptied of their contents, but I was fully clothed.

  Good.

  The room contained no other occupants and I didn't see any signs of recent occupation other than the fact that the place was clean. No spider webs hung in the corners. There was no accumulation of dust and dirt. Someone had been taking care of this place, and recently.

  My hands were cuffed behind my back, the steel biting into the flesh of my wrists. My head was a little groggy, but other than that I was fine.

  Unharmed.

  Satisfied that my person was ok, I began trying to find weaknesses in the structure, some means of escape. Ideally, I'd like to get out of here in a clandestine manner, before whoever had captured me came back and interrogated me. As it stands, they don't know who I am. My pockets didn't contain anything to reveal my identity, just a few dollars and my knife. I'd left my wallet, phone, and keys with my bike.

  But, as far as I could tell, the only exit was the door. So, I sat and waited, trying to keep the panic from setting in, taking deep, controlled breaths. If you've never been handcuffed, alone in a gloomy basement, unsure of the identity of your captor, unsure of anything, really, then you'll never understand. But, the panic is real.

  People crave control of their circumstances, control of their future, control of their lives. Once that control has been ripped away, the human psyche has a hard time dealing with that loss. Breathing becomes shallow, the heart rate and blood pressure kick up, the body gets tense. Fear becomes the dominant emotion, replacing happiness and contentment.

  And, panic sets in.

  I sat on the smooth, concrete floor for what seemed like forever, trying to control my physiological responses. In reality, I'd probably been awake a few hours, but each minute was drawn out, building anticipation for an outcome that just didn't come.

  Until it did.

  The door finally opened. A man walked in with a sandwich in his hand. He was average in every way. Not tall, not short. Not heavy, not skinny. Brown hair cut into what I'd call a hipster style. His face could easily disappear into a crowd. He could have been twenty five, or thirty five.

  He noticed that I was awake, tossed the sandwich on the floor next to me, then turned around and left without saying a word.

  I sat there, again, waiting for something, anything to happen. The lack of mental stimulation was also hard to deal with and the mind starts to turn itself inward, playing out possible scenarios of what would come. Were they going to just
leave me down here indefinitely? Were they going to torture me? Would they kill me? I began imagining how I would try to fight back, what I would do when they came for me.

  If they came for me.

  Every minute was a year. I had to get my mind under control, clear my head of all the worry and anticipation. Meditation has long been praised as an ideal way to clear your mind and enhance your focus. I've tried meditation many times. Not once did it work. So, I sang. Softly, to myself. Let my mind focus on remembering the lyrics to songs I hadn't heard for years.

  A medley of Isley Brothers' songs were up first on my mental radio station. They were twisting, shouting, inquiring into a particular lady's identity, and making love. Five songs later I cued up some Billie Holiday and listened to her sing about fruit that most of the world outside of the American South wouldn't be able to identify. After Ms. Holiday told a truth too real, I let R. Kelly express his battle between mind and body, then listened intently as he told me about a woman's wrath.

  The door opened and in came four guys. Officer Scott Mahoney was first through the door, followed by a very tall, black guy with a short salt and pepper afro, and a mustache. He was in turn followed by an average height, average sized, blonde guy. Last through the door was the guy who was so kind as to toss a sandwich on the floor next to me. They all had the air of police officers. Except for Hipster Hair.

  Mahoney spoke first, establishing his dominance and his role as leader of this little quartet. "Who are you and why the fuck were you snooping around my house?"

  For some reason I expected him to snap his fingers when he said "fuck." He just had this odd energy about himself, like a doctor who really enjoyed delivering bad news. I could imagine him handing out a terminal cancer diagnosis with a soda and a smile.

  I said nothing. Just looked up at him with a blank stare. My strategy was to say as little as possible and see how he would respond. But, Mahoney wasn't a patient man. When I offered no response his hand shot out and punched me in the nose. It was a solid punch, but not a knockout blow. It didn't even break my nose. The psychological effect of that punch on the average person would instill a fair amount of fear. It hurt and a trail of blood meandered its way through my facial hair.

  But, this was the calmest I'd been since waking up.

  I was always a fighter. Not necessarily mean or aggressive. I just appreciated the competition. And, I think I was blessed with a higher pain tolerance than the average individual. I was comfortable with physical confrontation. Plus, it gave my mind something to focus on.

  Hand to hand, Mahoney wouldn't stand a chance against me.

  "Well, well," Mahoney said. "Looks like we have ourselves a tough guy."

  He squatted in front of me, resting his weight on his left knee.

  "You think I don't know who you are? Mr. Jon Fucking Dough? Huh? You think I don't know what you do? You think I'm that fucking dumb? It just so happens that your territory has the least amount of crime on the entire eastside. Your territory has the least amount of violence on the entire eastside. We figure it must be because of you. So, we leave you the fuck alone and focus on the less organized and more crime ridden areas. But, now, you come fucking with me. Now, ain't that ironic!"

  He continued, "So, now I wonder what exactly brought you to my backyard. Huh? Tell me!"

  He slapped me across my cheek, emphasizing his last two words. I fell over onto my side, unable to cushion the concrete's impact with my hands cuffed behind my back. Rough hands pulled me back into a sitting position.

  Still, I said nothing.

  "Well, boys, I got shit to do. So why don't we just let him stew in his current situation for a while." Then he turned his attention to me. "You will talk. You understand me? See ya later sweet cheeks."

  He raised his hand, but instead of another slap he patted my face a couple times. Then he turned and ushered his guys out of the door. Before he shut the door he turned and offered me a little wave.

  He closed the door and I heard the click of the lock being engaged.

  Alone again, I smiled to myself. We both had the same plans: to get the other to reveal some kind of information. He was wondering why I was here. He'd soon find out. The time just wasn't right.

  Yet.

  Chapter 9

  Officer Mahoney's truck passed by. Lisa was parked in the same spot she'd been in for the past three nights. She waited a minute, hoping to see Jon's BMW motorcycle drive by in pursuit of Mahoney. No such luck. So, she pulled out into the street before Mahoney could get too far away and she lost him.

  After gunning her engine for a couple blocks she was able to see his truck, up ahead. She slowed down to match the speed limit, and followed from a discrete distance.

  Jon's involvement last night had been an interesting development. Lisa was doing this because her sister's life was on the line, but he was involved, for what… Altruism? She wasn't completely convinced, but grudgingly admitted his energy seemed sincere.

  And, he wasn't bad on the eyes.

  Tall. Athletic. Smooth, light brown skin. And, the beard… Lisa loved a man with a neatly trimmed beard.

  Or, maybe it was the stress. People look for companionship in difficult times. It's easier to walk a hard trek with someone holding your hand. Especially someone who has the same goal as you, even if their motivation is different.

  Mahoney glanced at the rearview mirror and noticed that a gray Honda was still behind him. Since discovering that guy snooping around the backyard last night he'd been paying a little more attention to his surroundings. This Honda had been behind him for a while and he needed to know for sure if he was being tailed.

  Instead of continuing his routine drive home, he decided to take a detour. After making a random right turn he checked the rearview again. The tail was still there, although he couldn't be one hundred percent certain after only one random turn.

  So, he made another. This time it was a random left. And, sure as shit, the Honda followed, maintaining a good distance and even pace. The car was too far behind to make out the driver. Could have been anybody. He briefly wondered if it was one of Jon Dough's cronies, out to figure out why Jon had never made it back to wherever it was he might have needed to get back to.

  Well, I got something for whoever you are, Mahoney thought to himself.

  Driving in a manner that wouldn't alert his pursuer that they'd been blown, Mahoney grabbed his phone and tapped an icon for one of his contacts.

  Once the phone was answered, he said, "Think I have a tail. Need you to do something about it."

  "Where are you?"

  Mahoney relayed his location to the person on the other end of the line and he told Mahoney where to go so they could intercept the tail.

  Lisa noticed the black truck take a turn that was outside of the routine that she'd established over the past few days of following Mahoney. A flood of adrenaline coursed through her veins as the excitement built.

  This is it, she thought.

  Her foot became heavy on the gas pedal and she willed herself to calm down so she didn't give herself away. Turn after turn she followed, until they were driving down a dark road, void of any street lights.

  Mahoney dialed the number again and the same voice answered.

  "I just made the turn," he said.

  "Just keep driving," the voice responded. "I'm here with Jackson in a cruiser."

  The line went dead and Mahoney continued down the road.

  Lisa noticed the night light up with flashing, blue lights behind her. The police vehicle came out of nowhere. One moment there was darkness and emptiness, and the next moment the world was awash in flashing brightness.

  As she returned her attention to the truck ahead, her vision was filled with the bright red of brake lights. A sinking feeling spread through her abdomen, bile rose into her throat. Adrenaline continued to surge, but lacking the excitement which had been replaced by fear and… Betrayal.

  She felt as if she'd been set up.

  Her
car came to a stop in the middle of the road, sandwiched between Mahoney's truck and the police cruiser at her rear. Both hands remained on the steering wheel as the officer approached her window.

  "Unlock the doors," he said upon arrival.

  Lisa did as instructed and the passenger door opened, startling her. A black man with a short afro and a mustache climbed into the car and sat down.

  "Drive," he said with a deep, authoritative voice.

  "What are you doing?" She stammered. "You can't-"

  "Shut the fuck up and drive," he ordered. "Follow the truck like you've been doing."

  Mahoney's truck pulled off and she followed, as did the cruiser. No flashing lights, just a small caravan of three vehicles headed towards the same destination.

  She looked over at the officer's name tag, said, "Why are you doing this, Officer Jackson?"

  "Cut the shit. I should be asking you the same question. Why are you following my fellow officer?"

  "He did something to my sister!"

  "You got any evidence to support that? That's a pretty strong allegation."

  "No," she responded, quietly.

  "Then shut the fuck up and drive."

  They rode in silence until the truck turned into the parking lot of an old bar. The place had been out of business for some time, and that was no surprise. It was in the middle of nothing, at the corner of Nowhere and Oblivion. All that was left of the sign above the entrance were the B and R of bar. Most of the white paint had been scoured from the facade, leaving small white patches against the dull gray of the cinder block beneath.

  A real fear started to take root in her bones. She could scream all day and all night, scream until she screamed her lungs out, and nobody would hear.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.