Trap House

by Sa'id Salaam

  “Drop the fucking gun before I put your brains all over that wall,” the grimy voice demanded.

  Twon wasted not a second letting it hit the ground, knowing whoever it was had caught his ass slipping for real.

  “Nigga, if you don’t get that gun off my brother’s head, you gonna die where you stand,” Qwon said as he stood holding both his cannons pointed at the stranger that held his brother at gunpoint.

  “A’ght, shorty, be easy, don’t get jumpy. I didn’t mean any harm,” the man replied as he raised his hands up in a surrendering motion. Twon was sure happy to hear his brother. He thought for sure he was about to die.

  “Now, give me a reason why I shouldn’t kill you, mu’ fucka?” Qwon asked the man as his fingers itched to pull the triggers.

  The man started laughing as he gave his answer. “I’ll tell you why, twins, ‘cause I’m your Uncle Red.”

  * * * * *

  A whisper was all he heard as King sat on the edge of his bed. “They’re gonna try and kill you when you go to court,” the whispering voice said. All King could hear were the footsteps walking away as he lay back on his bed, knowing death was around the corner.

  * * * * *

  The twins hadn’t seen their Uncle Red since they were eight years old, but they weren’t deaf to the stories they’d heard about him in the streets. Red was one of the most dangerous men alive in the city. Heartless, cold blooded, and, not to mention, he had the natural instincts of a hit man. Nobody crossed King or Red without getting a visit from death. Once Red was on your trail, there was no getting away. After King and Red took the throne from Big Tony, Red killed anybody that stood in their way. If you weren’t with them, you were dead. If you were late with money, you were dead. If you talked to the police, you most definitely were dead. Once King got locked up, Red disappeared into the shadows of the city, and ten years later he stood in a warehouse laughing at his nephews.

  “Uncle Red!” the boys said simultaneously as most twins did. He wasn’t as big as their father, but they looked almost identical from the long braids that covered their heads to the gold trims that covered their teeth. You knew they were brothers. Red’s skin tone was a few shades lighter than King’s, but he stood six-four like his brother.

  “Damn, I ain’t seen y’all since y’all was this high,” Red said, holding his hand down by his thigh. “Now look at y’all all grown up and shit. Well, I know y’all got a lot of questions, but we ain’t got a lot of time, so the questions are gonna have to wait until later. Let’s roll, we got shit to do.”

  The boys never said a word, they just followed their uncle through the lit warehouse, wondering to themselves what the fuck was going on.

  * * * * *

  Agent Fellows sat impatiently in his office as his secretary walked in. “Sir, Phillips and Reynolds aren’t answering their phones, and nobody has heard from them since this morning,” his secretary stated.

  “Well, keep calling,” Fellows snapped back at his secretary as he pointed toward the door for her to leave. As soon as the door closed, Fellows pulled out his cell phone and begin dialing. The phone rang until a deep, hoarse sounding voice answered on the other end.

  “Yeah,” the voice answered.

  “They’ll be moving him at three a.m. as a precaution for his safety. You’ll only have one chance, so don’t fuck this up,” Agent Fellows said as he hit the end button on his phone. There weren’t too many people that got away with talking to the Reaper like that, but Mike Fellows was one of them.

  The Reaper had been killing for the last fifteen years. He was known as the best hit man out there. He was a real favorite of the Mafia and had made so much money from them that he was set for life. But, it wasn’t about money with him anymore, it was the thrill of the kill. It was what he called an art in the way he brought death upon someone. Once, he was on the sixtieth floor of a building washing windows like an average window washer. When he saw his victim sit down at his desk in front of his computer, that was when his signature AR-15 made quick work of the window and the victim. By the time people realized what happened, he’d vanished. Now, he sat in his hotel room studying a picture of his next victim, King.

  Transporting King always seemed like a big event, even at three a.m. in the morning. He was chained and cuffed, and then put in the back of the unmarked van. Two black Suburbans escorted the van, one in the front and one in the back. Each was filled with four SWAT team members armed and ready for war.

  “We almost ready,” the gray haired captain said to the caravan.

  The deputy driving the van responded in an inpatient voice, “We’re just waiting on the two marshals that are supposed to ride in back with the prisoner, but they’re late, as usual.”

  At that very moment, in walked the marshals – a heavy set white man, along with his pretty brown partner. “I’m sorry we’re late. I’m Jones, this is Sullivan,” the lady marshal said as they made their way toward the van.

  “Well, I’m happy you could join us, Jones and Sullivan. Let’s get the show on the road,” the captain said as he closed the Suburban door and gave the signal to open the garage.

  They were about forty minutes from the city on a clear day, but it was beginning to snow so they’d have to drive a little slower, which meant it may take them an extra thirty minutes. The ride was actually smoother than they expected as they got off on the exit ramp that led into the city. As they were coming down the hill toward the underpass, they could see flares by the roadside and a police car up ahead. They thought someone was not as lucky as them. As they approached, they saw an officer standing in the icy road putting out road flares. You could clearly see a collision ahead at the four-way stop light. It was a van and a Camaro. The driver of the van looked to be alright while he talked to the flare officer’s partner. The driver of the Camaro had clearly gone through the windshield of his car and was lying in the street, covering the freshly fallen snow with blood. The caravan slowly came to a halt as the flare officer approached the first black Suburban.

  “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

  Chase 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.

  Herc was glaring at him with murder in his eye, but he spoke to him gently. “I don’t believe you, son. You know, a man can get in a whole lot of trouble lying to me. Come on, now. Tell me where Cyrus is, and y’all can walk away like this never happened. See what I’m sayin’? Be good, baby. Tell me where he is.”

  “Fuck you, Herc!”

  Chase and Herc both turned in surprise to see C
orey standing there, bristling with outrage at the indignity. His sixteen-year-old manhood was offended, and he was full of piss and vinegar.

  “How you gonna pull a gun on us, Herc? What the fuck is wrong with you, man?”

  Chase put his hand on his brother’s arm. Things were about to get crazy; he could feel it.

  Herc smiled grimly and turned his gun from Chase to Corey.

  “Shut up, Corey. Don’t say nothin’,” Chase ordered in that same even voice.

  Corey shrugged his hand away. “Naw, man! Fuck this nigga, Chase!” He turned his head and scowled at Herc, his young, handsome face glowing with indignation; his eyes were ablaze with it—with bright anger and naiveté.

  Chase stepped in front of him to try to diffuse the already out-of-control situation, hoping he was not too late to change the ending of this story. He could understand Corey’s anger, but he also understood the fact that if Herc had the audacity to pull a gun on them in the first place, he most definitely had the nerve to follow through.

  Herc grinned and spoke through his teeth. “Who you talkin’ to, boy?”

  Corey pushed against Chase. He foolishly feared neither Herc’s size nor his weapon. “I’m talkin’ to you, you big, stupid, motherfucker! How you gonna pull a gun on us, Herc?” he demanded again.

  Chase pushed him right back. Corey’s fast temper and big mouth were finally about to get him into something neither one of his brother’s could fix. “Shut up, Corey! Stop talkin’! Just shut the hell up!”