Cracked Dreams (12 page)

When he was ready, he started toward the cab that was waiting for him across the street from the building. All of a sudden, in the corner of his eye, he saw a navy blue Chevy Crown Victoria with dark tinted windows creeping from around the corner on the left. In the opposite direction, he spotted a black Astro van turning the corner unhurriedly two blocks down. Something told him that it was about to go down. He felt the streets getting hot underneath him. His hands started to shake. He wanted to just lunge into the direction of these pig mu'fuckas with both hands gripping .40 cal. Desert Eagles shooting uncontrollable fire. He was ready to go out blazing. One by one, he would take them all out, 'til every last one of those bitch-ass
niggas was dead and gone.
Let's do it
, he thought to himself. “Let's get the shit over with. Come on!”

As the vehicle approached, still at a very slow pace, Trigger got the ground firmly beneath his feet. With a smooth movement, he managed to reach behind his back for the .40 caliber he had tucked into his pants. He had only intended on carrying the pistol halfway to the airport before disposing of it somewhere along the way. In fact, he almost didn't bring it along, thinking to himself that he was just being paranoid. It was a good thing he'd shrugged off his second thoughts and went with his gut feeling. Now, it was time and he would be ready.

When the car pulled up, it stopped in front of Trigger and the passenger side window came easing down. “Do you know where I can find Mace Avenue, sir?” the guy in the car asked.

Trigger took a deep breath and let out a sigh of relief. “Yeah, just make the next two lefts and go straight down. You can't miss it,” he said, pointing in the right direction.

He inserted the pistol back into his pants and entered the cab still waiting for him patiently across the street. He got into the backseat of the car and it pulled off. “Oh shit!” he said out loud as he turned back toward the building he'd just exited. The cab pulled away as that black Astro van was pulling up. When it stopped, the doors flew open and what looked like federal agents came charging out of it with MP-5 fully automatic mini-machine guns in hand. They flooded the apartment building in search of what had just slipped through their unknowing fingertips. It was already looking like a good day for Trigger. He made it to the airport early enough to check in and get breakfast before his flight. When he reached Los Angeles, the infamous “Red” that he'd heard so much about was there to pick him up. He figured Spits meant for them to get acquainted as soon as possible. That was the reason for him sending Red to pick Trigger up. It didn't matter to Trigger though. As long as this mu'fucka knew who was the boss, they would have no quarrels.

Red took Trigger to Rachel's house. Trigger and Rachel had met a few times while they were both younger, when she used to visit New York.
They exchanged hellos, and Trigger showed his gratitude for her letting him stay there. They spent a minute catching up, and then he called Spits.

“Yo, who dis?” Spits asked, answering the phone showing aggravation as if the person who called was interrupting.

“What up, my nigga?” said the voice on the other end.

“Trig?” asked Spits with excitement.

“Holla at me, dog. Where you at?”

“My nigga, I'm over here at the mall turning this bitch upside-down. They ain't gonna have shit left when we done, dog. How long you been here?”

“I just got here a minute ago. Your boy Red came and got me from LAX.”

“Yeah, I told him if I wasn't back in time to go ahead and do that for me. So everything went down according to plans?”

“Well, I wouldn't exactly say that, but I'll fill in all of those blanks when you get here. How long you gonna be anyway?”

“I'll be there in a few. We about to have some lunch and then we'll be out.”

“All right, God. I'll see you in a minute, then.”

“Yeah, nigga. One.”

“Peace.”

“Are there any new developments on the Beckford case?” asked the FBI's Assistant Director to the two agents that were assigned the case.

“No, sir,” responded Agent Cassett, nodding his head with hopelessness.

“The bastard just disappeared off the damn face of the earth,” added Agent Clifton, showing his aggravation by slamming his fist down on his desk.

“Pardon me, Clifton,” said the Assistant Director.

“Excuse me, Mr. Chistov, sir,” he said, retracting his previous outburst. “I'm sorry, sir, but we have nothing to report regarding the Beckford case as of yet.”

“Well, as long as you both are aware that regulation of drug traffic in this country is our number one priority. Flagrant violators of this directive, such as this Peter Beckford and this Michael Banner character, have to be made examples of. We must send a message to the underworld that illegal drug trafficking will not be tolerated in this country.”

“Yes, sir”, said both Agent Cassett and Clifton at the same time.

“He can't hide forever,” added Agent Cassett. “We'll get him sooner or later, sir.”

“Well, as you were, gentlemen,” he said as he walked away.

Anatoliy Chistov, Assistant Director of the FBI, was one of the most passionate figures in the Bureau regarding eliminating narcotics trade in the U.S. He was born in St. Petersburg, Russia, and had only spent a small
portion of his early childhood there. He'd come from a small family that had very little, and when his father suggested to his mother that they move to “America, where the streets are paved with gold,” she couldn't have been more excited. But when they'd arrived, instead of the golden opportunities they'd expected for themselves and their son, all there was were drugs. Still surrounded by poverty, starvation, and the daily grind of the struggle, their self-pity got the best of them and they surrendered to the streets in the form of heroin. Anatoliy grew up in Brooklyn, New York in a predominantly Russian community, and saw his parents and their friends slowly deteriorate from drug use. He vowed to his father, while on his deathbed, that he would rid the streets of this horrendous menace. He'd since climbed the Bureau's ladder until he'd become Assistant Director; exclusively specializing in narcotics.

Special Agent Phillip Cassett and his partner Simon Clifton had gotten this assignment directly from the Assistant Director due to their evident passion for criminal justice. Phillip and Simon had first met in training camp and immediately clicked. Their relationship had soon extended further than the workplace, and they had become very good friends. They were quite pleased to find out that they would be assigned to the infamous
Time Bomb Family
case and were eager to show their supervisor, Assistant Director Chistov, that their feelings regarding criminal justice didn't differ from his own. They both respected his views and methods while they worked alongside him. Being that they shared the same vision, they all adopted a high amount of respect for one another. Although sometimes confusing that with a comfortable friendship, they'd maintained a professional relationship.

“It seems as though Anatoliy won't rest until the Time Bomb Family, and all of its members, are comfortably locked away behind bars for a long, long time,” said Agent Clifton to his partner.

“Yeah,” responded Agent Cassett. “I feel the same way.”

While everything seemed quiet back in New York for the Feds, the party had just begun on the other side of the country—in California. The new West Coast chapter of the Time Bomb Family thought that a little get-together at my hotel room was in order. We'd spent the last three days preparing for this one, and finally it was here. Early that morning, Tone had arrived with the first package. He was exactly on time and everything was going down according to plan. Actually, Tone had been one step ahead of me, bringing more than what was expected of him. I had only proposed that we ship ten kilos to start everything off, but Tone had taken it upon himself to bring fifteen. Plus, to congratulate our new deputy and his lieutenants, Tone had brought six .40 caliber Desert Eagles. The surprise was met with a warm welcome and Tone felt the gratitude. We'd spent the rest of the day cooking and bagging. Now, it was time for celebrations and congratulations as tomorrow would be a lot of work.

“Yo, listen up,” I said, standing on a chair as I addressed all the Cali niggas of enough importance to be at the engagement. Besides me, Tone and Trigger, there was Red, and the five dudes that he suggested we appoint as lieutenants. “This is it, mu'fuckas. Today marks the beginning of the mu'fuckin' end for all of us that used to be broke, that used to be hungry, that had to rob and steal for paper, that thought that there was nothing in this world made just for us. Your niggas right here are all that matter; that's it. Nothing else will ever be more important to ya'll mu'fuckas than all of your niggas. Can't no bitch, or no cheddar, or no fucking punk-ass rat mu'fucka goin' turn you against your crew. If that's the way you feel, then you can be down with us. We are the TIME BOMB FAMILY! No team will beat us, ya'll feel me?”

“Yeah, yeah!” they all screamed in unison, nodding in agreement. My words weren't being taken lightly. My speech wouldn't fall on deaf ears.

“Look at me,” I continued. “Look at my mu'fuckin' right-hand man Trig. Look at us together. Ain't nothing ever gonna break that up, and that's from the heart. Learn that who ya'll niggas call your family, will be just that and nothing else . . .family! Now, let us toast.” We toasted to “To Dom P's and palm trees” and all began sipping our champagne together.

“Yo, hurry up, Reggie!” said Boogie nervously. “What the fuck's taking so long?”

“Shut the fuck up, nigga,” Reggie responded. “I told you I got this, all right?”

Boogie was short and light-skinned, but where he fell short in height, he made up for in weight. He weighed about two hundred and thirty-five pounds, standing at about 5 ft. 7 in. Reggie was tall and brown-skinned. Although he was a rather slim dude, he was very well-built, though it seemed that his features were dwindling due to his most recent experimentations with drugs.

“We gonna get caught, man,” said Boogie with fear in his voice. “If they find us here, man, they'll kill us without a second thought. Fuck it, I'm out of here.”

“I got it,” said Reggie as he finally picked the lock on the door he was kneeling in front of.

Boogie turned back around. “It's about fuckin' time.”

“Shut up, nigga, and come on.”

As they entered the house through the back door they'd just picked, they quickly went directly for the closet. They walked past the stereo on the floor, and bypassed the television set sitting on the kitchen table, and hit the closet first. It seemed as though they knew exactly what they'd been there for. In fact, they
did
know exactly what they were there for.

Reggie and Boogie didn't know it yet, but they'd just committed the only breaking and entering misdemeanor charge that could possibly earn them the death penalty. You see, the house they'd just broken into wasn't just any house, and the people that rented the space weren't just any normal tenants. They had just picked a lock on a door attached to a house that was being rented by the Time Bomb Family. Just the breaking and entering portion of this could be considered means for a lynching. If they only knew the magnitude of danger they were in, just being in that house, they might not have been as dim-witted.

“Is this it, Boogie?” Reggie asked.

“Yeah, that's where they always used to keep it,” responded Boogie.

They stood there for a second in the front of the closet doors and only could imagine what would be waiting for them on the other side. When Reggie opened the doors, he banged around until he felt the portion of the wall that was hollowed out. A plank off of the wood panel that covered the interior of the wall slid from its position and the inside of the wall was exposed. They both just stood there in amazement when what was behind that plank was revealed. Staring up at them was a little over fifty thousand dollars in cash and two kilos of uncut cocaine, plus three G-packs already cooked, cut, and bagged. Their eyes lit up as they began shoveling the cash into a pillowcase they'd brought for their findings. When the cash was securely tucked away in the pillowcase, they each took a kilo of the coke to carry in their coat pockets along with the baggies of crack. When there was nothing left, they were gone. As quickly as they'd appeared, they'd disappeared with pillowcases full of cash and their coats filled with coke and crack. They fled the scene thinking that there would be no repercussions for this heinous act. Yeah, right!