Snatched

by Cullars, Sharon

  She paused at the crosswalk, waiting for the light to change when the roaring bikes started down the street.

  As the bikes passed, Nailah caught a closer view of the bodies, most of which seemed unwashed, unkempt. One bulky rider, in the seconds he passed, took time to shoot her a lustful sneer. The garish bottle blond clinging to his waist noticed the look and shot her own daggers over her shoulder.

  Closing up ranks was a rider who appeared different from the rest. Maybe because he looked as though he had seen a bar of soap in recent months. And he was more clean shaven while the others sported beards of varying lengths. Even in the blur the cyclists became as their bikes raced away, she was left with an impression of humanity among the depraved. Strange how she'd sized up a man just in seconds.

  The bikes were long gone when the light finally changed for her to cross. And she had no more time to think on it as she made her way home.

  CHAPTER 3

  Dele had to get word back to the office, let them know the assignment was going down wrong. Somewhere, somehow he was going to have to pull several thousand dollars worth of heroin from his ass or said ass was cooked. There was no way for him to get out just now, not with all the eyes watching him. One suspicious move on his part and he was already dead. And knowing Rez, there wouldn't be a body to find.

  This assignment had him in deep which meant no backup. No wires, no surveillance. No cell phones with suspicious last dialed numbers. That had been a necessary concession in order for Dele to gain the trust of the gang. And to keep that trust, he had to live the life 24/7. No downtime. Anything could give him away.

  Which made getting word to the precinct that much riskier. But he had to somehow. Especially since Roach wasn't going to cough up the stash…that is, if he hadn't snorted it all.

  Dele pulled off his shirt, tossed it on a nearby chair. He pulled carefully at the tape that secured the Glock to his naked back and discarded the used adhesive into the small bedside trash bin. One of the many tricks of the trade. He placed the weapon in the bureau drawer next to his unmade bed. Nothing in the small apartment lent to any illusion of comfort or safety. It was one of those places that provided a roof and nothing more. Part of his role.

  He strolled to the bathroom, looked at the haggard face in the cracked mirror. That face barely resembled the usual reflection of Eric McIntire who only five years had graduated top of his class at the academy, had done some vice before opting to "go under." Before becoming Dele Larson, the latest of several personas he had assumed in these last couple of years.

  Dele Larson was a bad man. A stone cold killer.

  That was the word on the street, the gateway to his position in the Demons. The reason Rez had ultimately trusted him. To cement his "resume" the office had provided a body to present proof of one of Dele's last "assignments." In reality, the body was an undeclared from the local morgue, a homeless man who'd gone by the name of Shakes. The knife slashes were courtesy of another homeless renegade who had got into it with Shakes over the contents of a lifted wallet.

  The story had somewhat changed by the time he relayed it to Roach, who'd he used to get an introduction to Rez. In Dele's rendition, though, Shakes had been an unfortunate fool who'd made the deadly mistake of mouthing off to Dele.

  If at all possible, these last months had hardened his features even more. Not that there had ever been anything soft about him. Growing up with an abusive alcoholic of a father had nearly beaten the humanity out of him. Which made it easy to assume these roles; they were closer to his true self than the upstanding rookie who had stood impressive in his dress blues that long ago graduation day.

  The uncut dark hair, five o'clock shadow and general seediness added to the grit of his alias. Dark brown eyes stared back at him, devoid of much life. The deadness also lent an air of authenticity. Of danger. Anyone who didn't know Eric, who only knew Dele, would rest assured they were looking into the face of a killer.

  He stiffened at the sudden knock on his apartment door. He thought about retrieving the Glock, but he didn't want to make an unnecessary move. Dele's weapon of choice was a Blackhawk combat knife, not a police-issued Glock.

  "Yeah, who is it?" he bellowed through the closed door.

  "Carolyn," answered a familiar voice.

  "Damn," he muttered softly.

  He didn't want to deal with Carolyn tonight. As part of the persona, he'd had to accept some of the "offerings" provided by Rez to his crew. Most times he'd been able to beg off. Carolyn had been an unfortunate exception but he'd managed to keep their "dates" to a minimum.

  He unlocked the door and found her leaning seductively against the door jamb. The motel's parking lot behind her was barely lit or occupied and was definitely not a place for a woman alone. Especially a woman dressed in a revealing top and jeans, Carolyn's usual uniform. Showing the wares was just part of her "duties." The dishwater blond detracted from her youth; being used on the regular had aged her. She was only 22; she looked a decade older.

  "Carolyn, not tonight," he said tiredly. "Keep someone else happy tonight. I'm not in the mood."

  Carolyn had a persistence that belied her chronological age. "What about keeping me happy?" She smiled, cracking her dried lip gloss, then pushed past him into the apartment. He sighed as he closed the door.

  She bee lined for the bed, sat down, leaned back on the unmade sheets, crossed her legs. Assuming what she'd thought was a seductive pose. Right now, her antics were more pitiful than seductive to Dele. If he could, he would put her on a bus back to whatever flyover town she'd run away from. All he could do tonight was stop being part of the sick cycle that had her tied to the gang. Even if she thought it was what she wanted.

  "C'mon Carolyn. I don't feel like playing with you. Not tonight. So get the fuck out."

  She did her fake pout, another irritating gesture. "You c'mon. I'm horny."

  "I'm not."

  "OK, let's make a deal then," she offered.

  "What kinda deal?"

  "You give me what I want and I'll give you a little somethin'"

  She smiled, mimicking the vampire grin she'd picked up from her mentor, Clare, head ho in charge.

  "And whaddya think I want from you?"

  She laid fully on her back then, grin in place as she looked up at him.

  "How 'bout some information."

  "Yeah? What information?"

  She took the edge of the sheet, twiddled it between her fingers, her eyes on the action. "A little somethin' about…oh, I don't know… some smack…" She let the rest hang in the air as she looked back up at him, her grin wider.

  One moment she was laying there, the next he had her by the shoulders gripping her like a ragdoll, her feet dangling a few feet in the air.

  "Ouch! You're hurting me!" she yelped.

  "What do you know about the missing stash?" he demanded still holding her by the shoulders.

  "I'm not going to tell you if you keep hurting me!"

  He realized then what he was doing. He hadn't meant to hurt her. Just that he was on edge and if she knew something, it could go a long way to saving his ass.

  He released her, let her feet meet the floor. She rubbed at her shoulders.

  "OK, feel like telling me now."

  She tried to smile, couldn't quite make it happen. "You really hurt me."

  "I'm sorry. Just tell me what you know."

  She stepped away from him until she was out of arm's reach.

  "Nothing really. I just heard Drake and a few of the others talking. Something about a missing stash. I didn't hear everything, just that somebody was going to have to take the fall and that it might as well be you since you're the virgin of the crew. You know, because no one would really miss you."

  The thought of the set-up roiled his stomach. He unconsciously clenched his fingers into a fist.

  "Well, what
else did they say?" he asked impatiently. "They say who stole the stash?"

  She shook her head, nervously noting the fist.

  "I didn't hear them say a name. Just that they knew somebody had to go down and they didn't want any fingers pointed at them."

  So Roach hadn't been the only one setting him up. Sounded like most of the crew was in on it; which meant they might be in on the theft too. And they were intent on making him the sacrificial lamb. Getting out of this mess had just gotten messier. And the clock was ticking down to Rez's deadline – all the way to his grave.

  Carolyn began to sidle toward him, her smile back in place. If he hadn't been in the mood before, he definitely wasn't feeling it now. Just as she reached him, he grabbed her arm, began pulling her toward the door. She squeaked.

  "Hey! Why you treating me like this, Dele? I did you a good turn."

  He let go. "Thanks for the info but if you know what's good for you, you'll keep this just between you and me."

  "You're not threatening me are you?" she asked uncertainly. "I mean you wouldn't actually hurt me. You're not like the others. "

  "You sure about that? Let me give you a piece of advice. Don't trust anybody around you. You never know who'll turn on you."

  With those words he shoved her out the now opened door and slammed it behind her.

  Even as he stood near the door, he wasn't sure that he hadn't made an unnecessary enemy. He ought to take some of his own advice, including not underestimating what a peeved woman might do.

  Minutes later, he lay on the bed looking up at the darkened ceiling. The only light in the room came from a couple of street lights outside. Laying there naked, uncertain about his future, he began to regret not taking Carolyn up on her offer. Sex was a good release in times like these.

  He thought about helping himself. Instead he turned over, closed his eyes, forced sleep to come.

  And hoped he wouldn't wake up to find someone pushing a knife into his heart.

  CHAPTER 4

  Even before the interview had ended, Nailah knew she wasn't getting the job at Internance. Something about the way the interviewer, Ms. Barton, dressed in dull gray tweeds and with an overly pleasant demeanor, had settled back into her seat, a patronizing smile plastered on her face as she'd looked over Nailah as though Nailah were some curious but entertaining anomaly. After an awkward start, the questions had quickly veered from Nailah's financial background to casual bullshit questions like "How are you enjoying this weather? Hot isn't it?" and "What books have you read lately?" Not any real substantive questions about the current fluctuating market or what particular investments Nailah might recommend to customers. Not what Nailah could contribute to Internance.

  Nailah had soon realized that the bullshit questions were simply allowing Ms. Barton to while away the crucial hour until the next applicant arrived. The questions were a smoke screen to give the appearance of due consideration when in fact there was no consideration at all. Ms. Barton had already written her off. At the end of the hour, the woman had quickly risen, giving Nailah a pleasant but final send-off, all the while weakly shaking Nailah's hand, a touch that ended just a bit too abruptly.

  When Nailah arrived at the condo after an hour's ride on the Metro, she'd doffed her bitterness along with her sage Chanel threads. She'd pulled on a comfortable red tee along with her favorite faded jeans. She then headed to the kitchenette, pulled out a bottle of red Merlot, retrieved the container of berries from her refrigerator followed by an orange and a lemon which she summarily peeled. She mixed the ingredients into the blender along with half a bottle of the Merlot. After a few minutes, she switched off the blender and poured the newly made Sangria into a wine glass. The recipe was one she'd picked up during her trip through the south of Spain last year. As she drank first one then another glass, she began to feel fine. Actually she began to feel really fine, in fact. After the third glass, she was able to give a good fuck off in her mind to both Ms. Barton and Internance.

  Midway through her fourth glass, a craving for barbecue took over. Ruby's piquant sauce would go just right with her sangria. It was a little after three in the afternoon, too late for lunch, too early for dinner. Then again, it was also too early for half a bottle of Merlot. And there was that small promise to God to lay off the indulgences. But given her rotten day, maybe God would allow her some dispensation. Since she'd already broken one cardinal rule, what did it matter if she indulged herself a little more with some succulent meat?

  She headed to the door, feeling just a little bit wobbly but still holding her own. Thank goodness she didn't have to drive to the rib joint.

  Fifteen minutes later, she entered Ruby's BBQ. There was already a line several folk deep. No matter the state of the economy, Ruby's would never go out of business. Hot links, rib tips and fries drenched in Ruby's secret sauce was the menu de jour every day. In addition, the clientele could choose other dishes such as blackened catfish fried up as good as anything one might find in New Orleans. Not to mention collard and mustard greens, beans and rice, bean pie, sweet potato pie, lemonade and sugary iced tea. For just a few bucks, those suffering from any type of malaise were sure to get a spicy pick-me-up. As well as pick up a few pounds. For the weight-conscious customers, there was always diet soda.

  When she left the establishment, she had a bag with a container of ribs, fries along with a side dish of sweet potato pie. She didn't know if the dessert would taste good with Sangria but she would find out within a few minutes.

  A sense of déjà vu arose with the sound of rumbling engines. Specifically, the rumbling engines of motorcycles. She knew instinctively that those engines belonged to the bikers from yesterday. The ones that had gathered in the parking lot across the street from the cleaners.

  Damn. Two days in a row meant that they had moved into the real estate and had probably already claimed territory. She knew next to nothing about gangs except basic stuff about graffiti signs along with the inevitable rise in crime. Crime that usually centered around drugs. Street drugs, prescription drugs, club drugs. There was always somebody – or some dead body – in the news because of the underground economy. Just like Ruby's, drug dealers would always have customers no matter what was going on, up or down. Actually a bad economy probably padded the customer list.

  She knew the damage drugs could do. Had seen the ravages on both relatives and friends. She definitely didn't want to be anywhere around dealing. With that thought, she hastened her pace but found that speed walking was not good on a stomach – and a head – full of Sangria. She stumbled a little as she reached the crosswalk.

  Déjà vu again. The bikers practically mowed her down even though she had the light and had already stepped off the curb. A quick step back to move out of the way of the marauding bikes landed her squarely on her ass. An explosion of red sauce splattered the sidewalk as the bag burst on impact. Ribs, fries and sweet potato pie were now street litter.

  Sitting among the destruction, Nailah's earlier resignation morphed into something feral, something white boiling hot. Fed by anger, denied hunger and liquid courage, she picked up a rib bone and rose. The last of the bikers was still crossing against the red light, just past the crosswalk.

  Her aim wasn't sure. However, the gods of barbecue must have lent a bit of luck to her trajectory because the bone smacked the last rider square on the cheek as he rode past.

  The next minutes blurred in a quick succession. The impact of the sudden projectile caused the rider to lose control. His bike skid, wobbled, then toppled beneath him. The spectacle of it all made her laugh with righteous vindication.

  He extricated himself from his bike, sauce smearing his jaw and dripping onto his shirt. She realized too late that laughing wasn't exactly the wisest thing to do in a situation like this. She especially realized this when his eyes fell on her in a thunderous stare. Inwardly she blamed the Sangria for her stupidity. Or rather a mixtur
e of Sangria and Ms. Barton. Both were about to get her killed.

  Word must have gone down the line of bikers because they were turning around, the sound of engines a chorus as they headed back in her direction. Just like the chorus of laughter that erupted as the bikers stopped and took in the scene. The bikes jammed the intersection forcing cars to move around the blockade. She hadn't realized there were so many of them.

  "Hey Dele! Looks like the bitch's trying to get your attention! Maybe you got somethin' she wants!" This from a ZZ top wannabe with a blondish beard down to mid chest. The others seemed to take their cue from him and laughed.

  "You need to show her the errors of her ways," the "leader" offered, this time without a trace of mirth. "She needs to learn a thing or two about frontin' off to a Demon."

  The first rider wiped sauce from his face, never taking his eyes from her. Unlike the others, he didn't sport a full beard but rather a few day's growth.

  "We don't have time for this shit," the man answered. "We've got business to take care of."

  "Bro, I decide when and what business we handle. Now this black bitch think she's gonna get away with dissin' one of my crew. I say it's our business to show her some reality."

  Nailah had been quiet up until that point, her anger duly squelched by her sudden "reality." But she had learned a thing or two about getting out of bad situations and she definitely had to use some ingenuity to get out of this.

  "You're going to hurt me with all these witnesses around, not to mention a few strategically placed traffic cams? That's about ten to twenty when you're caught. And since I'm guessing most of you aren't unfamiliar with the inside of a jail cell, I figure there'll be some cumulative time tagged on. Now, do you think I'm worth all that?"

  The ZZ top guy smiled. "Who says we'll get caught? But you're right about the cams. What we're going to do to you won't be recorded. Grab her, Dele."

  The man they called Dele hesitated for a second with an "ah shit" expression on his face. But in the end he moved toward her even as Nailah try to evade his reach. Unfortunately his reach was longer than she calculated and an arm roughly encircled her waist. He dragged her toward his now erect bike, pushed her onto the seat.