Hard Candy (10 page)
Authors: Amaleka McCall
Rock sat at the table with all of his armorer's tools laid out in order of smallest to largest. Sweat caused his reading glasses to slide down the bridge of his nose. He carefully picked up one small steel piece, held it close to his eyes, examined the end of it, and fitted it with another piece of steel that he held like a fragile piece of crystal.
Rock was careful and deliberate, like an artist or sculptor working on his next great piece of work. He had been at the table for several hours already. His back ached, and he had endured at least three coughing attacks. Nothing could interrupt his concentration when he was working like this. Not even his burning insides.
A few more pieces and he'd be done. He picked up a spongy piece of cloth and rubbed the metal until it shined.
When Rock's masterpiece was finished, he lifted it with the palms open, like a pastor would hold a baby being offered to God during a blessing. He rubbed his hands up and down the metal prize and whistled at its beauty.
The mere act of sucking in air to whistle caused him to immediately start coughing. Rock cursed in frustration. He hated the coughing and feeling-weak shit. For the last few weeks, Rock had been dosing up on the medicine from his doctor and had noticed a slight improvement in his condition, with little to no blood coming up when he coughed.
Rock placed his latest creation in the cushiony case, which he'd also handcrafted. He immediately thought about Candice. She was probably the only person in his life that would appreciate the powerful beauty that lay before him. Which reminded him, he needed to see her.
As he went to stand up, the buzzing of his cell phone startled him. He hated that thing. Candice had all but twisted his arm to purchase a cell phone, which he still didn't know how to use entirely. Aside from a singular, straight-dialed phone call, Rock couldn't make the pesky TracFone device do much else.
He let the phone go to voice mail as he hastily folded up the nubuck blanket his tools rested on. He had somewhere he needed to be, and now that he was assured the company of his new work of art, he wasn't too concerned with his weakened physical state.
Rock slid on his customary black skullcap and grabbed a pair of black gloves out of his box of gloves. Hefting the black, hard-shelled plastic case off the table, he headed out the door. Rock hoped things would go smoothly. He certainly wasn't much in the mood for bullshit these days.
Broady stood beside his parked car and let his eyes rove the parking lot of the deserted gas station. A weather-beaten sign hung by a mere strand from the front of a dilapidated building that used to house the clerk's station, and six old rusted gas pumps displayed yellow, faded paper signs with prices that were illegible.
Broady was feeling the effects of the Kush he'd smoked on his drive over. Naturally paranoid, and with heightened senses, he kept his eyes peeled on his surroundings. There wasn't a soul in sight. He checked his Breitling and sucked his bottom lip. “This motherfucker late,” he said to himself in a harsh whisper.
He usually didn't get out of his car when he was making these sorts of transactions alone, but his legs ached from the long-ass drive. He was surrounded to the east and west by run-down concrete walls and to the north by bushes and trees. Behind him, cars zipped by on I-95, but none had stopped yet.
Frustrated with waiting, Broady bent into the car and grabbed the prepaid cell phone he'd purchased just for this meeting and dialed the number. When he heard the line pick up, he curled his face into a scowl and began yelling.
“Nigga, you late! I don't do business like this! This is why I don't get recommendations from so-called thug niggas. You lucky I didn't say fuck it and fuck you!” Broady boomed, throwing his usual tantrum.
Within a few minutes of his rant, Broady started to ease his tone and relax the death grip he had on the small cellular phone. Broady was big on ass-kissing, and the person on the other end was obviously doing a good job at it.
“A'ight, you ain't got to apologize again, man,” Broady said calmly. “Just get the fuck here. I wouldn't even be fuckin' with this if I didn't need a clean ratchet right now.”
Broady leaned his head against the frame of the car and closed his eyes contentedly.
His peace was quickly shattered when an old beater eased into the parking lot. He swallowed hard. This wasn't the vehicle or the driver he was expecting.
Chapter 6
Avon rushed into his apartment and unlocked his safe. He snatched up his undercover cell phone and dialed Brad Brubaker's phone number. He only had limited time before Razor's funeral services began, and he was expected back. Avon needed to set up a meet with Brubaker stat to let him know about the new developments regarding Razor's death. He had been alarmed to learn that it hadn't been the rival drug dealers that mutilated and murdered Razor. Given these developments, he felt he needed to have a surveillance team standing by.
Avon rubbed his chin and wiped sweat from his brow as he anxiously waited for Brubaker to pick up the phone. The other end of the line just rang and eventually went to voice mail. “This motherfucker!” Avon spat, slamming the cell phone down, causing the battery to jump out of the back of the device. “Fuckin' bastard! You don't know what the fuck I want!” Avon growled out loud, as if his words would somehow telepathically reach Brubaker's ears. He could have been lying in the gutter, his cover could have been blown and his life in danger, and Brubaker wasn't answering his calls.
Avon suddenly got an overwhelming, paranoid urge to call his house. He hesitated midway through dialing the phone number, not sure if he wanted to hear who would answer on the other end. He felt a stabbing pang of resentment. “Fuck all of them!” he growled, deciding against calling his home today.
Avon tossed his undercover cell phone into his nightstand drawer, along with his wire. He reached down and picked up his long platinum and diamond chain with its big diamond-encrusted cross and slid it over his head. The sparkly piece of jewelry showed up against his all-black outfit like a splash of paint on a white canvas. Avon was now officially back to being Tuck. He smiled as he headed to his fallen comrade's funeral, to be with the only family he had right now.
Candice looked down at her watch impatiently. It wasn't like Uncle Rock to be late for a meeting. She'd promised Shana she would attend Razor's wake and funeral later on that evening. I shoulda went to his house and left with him, she thought. Candice sighed, looking at her watch again. She wanted to attend Razor's funeral, just to add insult to injury. She also wanted to be there for Shana, who was an emotional wreck the last time they were together.
After another fifteen minutes, she saw Uncle Rock's old-ass car pulling into the parking lot of the Black Hawk Ridge Arsenal range. She purposely put a scowl on her face to let him know she wasn't happy with his late arrival.
Uncle Rock struggled out of the low driver's seat of his classic Cutlass.
Attitude aside, Candice walked over to help him. “You're very late,” she scolded in the usual spoiled brat tone she used with Uncle Rock.
“Yeah, I know, but I had to put the finishing touches on this beauty I'm about to show you,” he said, wheezing slightly.
Candice noticed that her uncle Rock was still not 100 percent, but he did look slightly better than the last time she'd seen him. Once he got all of his stuff out of the car, they began walking side by side just like old times.
“We haven't done this in a long time. I miss it,” Candice confessed, softening her voice.
Candice remembered the very first time uncle Rock had taken her to the gun range. It was right after she'd shocked him by revealing her knowledge of his profession. Uncle Rock had chastised her and told her that guns weren't made for killing people; they were made for protection. He'd made her promise that she would use a weapon only against someone who intended to hurt her. That was just one of the conditions he set in place before teaching her how to be a cleaner.
The first time she had stepped up to the firing line at the range, she was only fifteen. The adrenaline that coursed through her veins caused her knees to knock and stomach to churn. Uncle Rock had told her to relax and focus on the task. He stepped up behind her and instructed her to pick up the first gun she'd ever heldâa .40-caliber Glock 22. Candice thought it would be heavier than it actually was. The rough handle felt good against the palms of her hand.
“Grip and trigger pull are the most important aspects to shooting, Candy.” Uncle Rock placed her hands in the correct position and let her dry fire the weapon. When she did it the first time, she jerked the trigger.
“You're anticipating the shot. Let every shot be a surprise,” he urged, trying to ease her nervousness. Finally, when he thought she was ready, he inserted the magazine into the weapon. “It's your time to shine, candy cane,” uncle Rock had said like a proud father.
With his words of encouragement, Candice's first five shots were dead center of mass.
Approaching the range doors, Candice realized just how much she and Uncle Rock had drifted apart since she'd moved out of his apartment. When Uncle Rock had handed over her father's money to her, she'd gotten a bit carried away, thinking she was too grown to be around him. Guilt washed over her at her arrogance and naiveté.
“It'll be worth it. You wait and see,” Uncle Rock said excitedly, breaking up her reverie. He emitted a small cough. It was the excitement, he told himself. He was feeling like he did when Candice was younger and dependent on him to take care of her. It saddened him that she was older and living her own life. He just wanted to always protect her and keep her safe.
“You okay?” she asked when she noticed Uncle Rock staring at her absentmindedly.
“Oh yeah, I'm fine. Let's go on in.” Uncle Rock placed his hand at her back and propelled her forward.
His gesture reminded her that he was the closest thing to a family that she had left.
Inside the range, Candice and Uncle Rock walked through the store portion and gazed at all of the newest guns to hit the market.
“Look at this baby. I'd drop a few stacks on this beast right here,” Candice commented, leaning over the glass-encased counter to ogle a chrome .50-caliber Desert Eagle with a large tritium night sight with a laser dot mounted on the slide.
“That is a nice one, but wait till you see what I put together here for you,” Uncle Rock said, patting the black case he held on to with a death grip. He began coughing again.
Candice and the store clerk looked at him with concern.
Once the fit passed, Uncle Rock slid his membership card across the glass and informed the man behind the counter that they would need one lane.
“Any ear or eye protection?” the clerk asked.
“Got our own,” Uncle Rock told him, a consummate professional.
Uncle Rock and Candice proceeded to a large, heavy metal door, where they were buzzed in. Uncle Rock tugged roughly on the heavy door, but it wouldn't budge.
“I got it,” Candice said, giving the door one forceful yank.
Uncle Rock was slightly embarrassed at how weak he was these days. He walked with his head down as he passed through the door into a small, dusty hallway that separated the store part of the range and the actual shooting range.
In the little hallway, Candice and Uncle Rock prepped for their shooting session. They double bagged their ears by inserting bright orange foam earplugs into their ear canals and then covering them with hard ear protection. They both slid clear plastic protective eye goggles over their eyes, and Uncle Rock put on his customary black gloves.
Candice hated shooting with gloves on. For her, it made getting her rounds on target and in the five rings a bit more of a challenge. But she knew if she didn't wear the gloves, she'd get a never-ending lecture from Uncle Rock about the lead particles getting all over her hands and contaminating her skin and blood.
After getting geared up like they were going into a battlefield, Candice and Uncle Rock entered the shooting range. Several of the lanes were occupied.
Candice smirked when she saw a woman no bigger than five feet tall, wearing thigh-high boots and a miniskirt, shooting a large gun almost longer than the woman's entire arm. Candice recognized the gun as an MP5.
Guess I ain't the only bad bitch around
. Candice felt a twinge of admiration for the woman. She would never have thought to go shooting in high-ass heels and a skirt.
Guess I ain't the only bad bitch around
. Candice felt a twinge of admiration for the woman. She would never have thought to go shooting in high-ass heels and a skirt.
“Come on over here and let me show you what I got here,” Uncle Rock called out loudly, screaming over the resounding gunshots coming from the adjacent shooting lanes. He had already pulled down the gun rest and placed his plastic case on it.
Candice moved in closer to see this great prize Uncle Rock had brought with him. She had to admit, she'd become a big gun buff while living with Rock, but she still didn't think anyone could get as excited about guns as her uncle.
Uncle Rock slowly unlatched the case and pulled up the top in a dramatic fashion, as if about to unveil the Hope Diamond. When the case flapped open, his eyes sparkled, and he smiled wider than Candice had ever seen. “Here she is!” he announced with a flourish.
Candice's eyebrows arched high, and she flashed her even white teeth in pure delight. “Uncle Rock! You know how long I been asking you to let me shoot your AR-fifteen!” she exclaimed, a warm feeling coming over her. Candice was bouncing on the balls of her feet. She was giddy and ready to shoot Uncle Rock's prized possession for the first time.
“Candy, you were too young back then. This weapon is for grown-ups,” Uncle Rock told her, like he was handing her keys to her first car or preparing her for a first date.
“Did you bring the legs?” Candice knew the sniper equipment would just make shooting the big gun even more exciting.
“Let me show you how to shoot it first. Then we'll worry about the legs. I fixed it up just for you, Candy,” he said softly.
Candice scooted over as Uncle Rock set up to show her how to shoot the weapon.
“You need to put this baby on your support side shoulder, relax, then place that support side ear on your shoulder. Candy, you gotta get your head down behind the sights or else this will jump back and hit you in the face. Grip it here, like your life depended on it,” Uncle Rock said, smacking the side of the weapon to demonstrate where he wanted Candice to put her hands. “Watch and learn now,” he said.
Rock quickly put down the weapon when he was suddenly overwhelmed with another coughing spasm. This time, there was blood.
“Oh my God! Uncle Rock! Are you okay?” Candice screeched, her face etched with worry.
Uncle Rock tried to speak, but it took him a minute to wipe away the blood from his mouth and catch his breath. He grunted in frustration.
Candice eyed him suspiciously. She knew that Uncle Rock hated her to ask him questions relating to his health, but this was getting out of hand. “Don't tell me not to ask any questions! Something is wrong! There is blood coming out of your mouth!” Candice bellowed, her hands shaking.
“I'm okay. Let me show you how to work this now.” Rock's chest felt like hot coals were lodged in it. He swallowed hard several times to get the burning to subside. Teaching Candice how to shoot the AR-15 was very important to him.
“First, you need to tell me why blood is coming out of your mouth when you cough. Have you seen a doctor?” Candice folded her arms across her chest.
“Look, when I am ready, I will give you all of the details. This is much more important!” Uncle Rock growled, one of the very few times he'd ever raised his voice at Candice.
A bolt of panic shot up Candice's spine. Uncle Rock meant business; she had never seen him this passionate about anything. She couldn't help but think his unwavering insistence that they meet at the range today had something to do with his failing health. Candice let her shoulders go slack. There was no use in fighting Uncle Rock over this issue. But she intended to find out what was wrong with him. She promised herself she would make him go see a doctor for that cough.
“C'mon, Candy, now take this. Get your head behind those sights, get a firm grasp, and learn how to treat this baby like it's your own,” Uncle Rock instructed, handing Candice the oversized weapon that was almost too big for her arms to hold.
Like my own? Is he giving this to me?
Uncle Rock had regarded his AR-15 like a child. He had never even let her lay eyes on it before today. Skeptically, she accepted Uncle Rock's prize into her trembling arms. She did as instructed, getting into the proper stance and positioning the gun properly. Closing her weak eye and keeping her dominant eye open, Candice tugged on the trigger. When the first couple of rounds exited the end of the gun in rapid fire, she looked downrange at the ripped-up target. She smirked as she pictured the holey target being Broady and Junior, or anyone else who tried to come between her and her marks. Even Junior's fine-ass sidekick, Tuck.
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