Most Wanted (9 page)

Then this fool had the nerve to cup his crotch and say, “I know you want this dick, don’t ya? Or you one of the bitches that prefer pussy?”

Peaches tried her best to remain calm. After all, this wasn’t the first time that a stupid, disrespectful man, drunk or sober, thought he was God’s gift to women. She locked eyes with him and was polite but absolute. “I may be a bitch, but I’m not a trick bitch. And definitely not your trick bitch either. Because it seems you’ve obviously got me confused. However, playboy”—she looked him up and down, and rolled her neck a little—“I’m willing to overlook your mistake this one time. But like I said before, I’m ready to go. Now please unlock the door so I can be on my way.”

Since Tony didn’t take being put in his place too well, he paused, evaluating his next move, as if he were playing a poker hand. Then the fool went all in and snatched open her blouse. “Let me see what you working with.”

He caught Peaches totally off guard and embarrassed. Her Victoria’s Secret bra and all her cleavage were on full display for all of the men to view. Peaches just couldn’t help herself, she lost it. She angled her fist and cuffed, just like her father had taught her, and aimed for the part of the bone that she knew would impact him when she punched Tony in the face, right across his nose. She heard the bone in his nose crack under her tightly closed fist. Somehow—probably a combination of the alcohol and the coke—he managed to ignore the pain. Instead of backing up, like he should have, Tony picked her up like she was a feather and slammed her back-first on the poker table, bringing each guy’s reflex to jump on their feet. With a forearm pressed over her neck, restricting her breathing and moving, Tony used his free hand to try to unfasten the belt to her tight-fitting True Religion jeans.

No amount of money was worth her getting beat up or raped for that matter. She knew that she was needed to get the fuck out of dodge before things went any further.

Though Peaches had won the money fair and square, she shouted, “You all can have the money back!” At that moment, she was trying anything to make amends so Tony would allow her to let it go, so she could leave.

Tony responded by applying more pressure on her neck, muting her words. “Shut the fuck up, bitch.” The spit from his words almost landed in her right eye.

Desperately, Peaches’s eyes dotted to each guy in the room, one after another, in search for help. But none of them had an ounce of compassion for her.

Eric yelled out, “Fuck that bitch, Tony! As a matter of fact, man, after you do her, I got dibs on that fat ass.”

“Yeah, and I got front-row seating, voyeur style. I’ve always liked to watch,” Mark slurred as he took a pull of a cigar.

“How you think that head is? I been needing a good blowjob, and those lips look like they can make my dick hum,” Charles said. “Eric, you and I are going to have to flip for next.”

Peaches knew she was doomed and basically shit out of luck. If she was going to be saved, she was going to have to save herself. None of them had an inkling of mercy for her, so she had to save herself however she could.

The Louis bag filled with the money was on the table next to her, the leather strap was still on her shoulder. Only by the grace of God, Peaches found a way to wiggle her hand inside the bag. No one even stopped her. “Bitch want to make amends. You can’t buy your way back out of this,” Eric said, his expression giving away his perverted plans.

They must have assumed that she was trying to give them the money back and continued to go back and forth about who would have her next.

Tony applied pressure with one hand and then let up a little with the other to focus his attention on his buddies. “Man, who want to make a side bet that I don’t make this bitch scream in pleasure. Bet them ducats up, right now, niggas,” he joked.

“That bitch knows she better take it like a champ,” Eric said, looking at Peaches with a big smile.

That was the exact moment that her hand made it to the bottom of the purse. She dug her hand around her bag as Tony slid her jeans off her waist.

“I’m going to get her hot for you, Tee Man.” Eric had the nerve to come over and begin sucking on her breast. Just as Tony was about to remove her pink thong underwear she found what she was searching for: the Glock 19 she had gotten from her father. Feeling the chrome handle felt like a present from heaven. She closed her eyes, and silently thanked the man above and asked for forgiveness all in the same breath.

Peaches didn’t even bother to take the semiautomatic pistol from its resting place inside her purse. Instead, she just squeezed the trigger. And squeezed it again! Then again . . . and again . . . until the clip was empty!

E
ven for a city that once held the infamous nickname “murder capitol,” the horrific crime that had been perpetrated earlier Saturday morning was nothing short of shocking. Two men dead from multiple gunshot wounds, a third and fourth critically injured, led all the morning news broadcasts. The fact that the victims were all very prominent citizens—one the son of a judge—fueled the already hot story to the brink of crazy media frenzy. The mayor scheduled a televised press statement for noon, three hours from now. But commander Toepani, an ex-military chief and now head of Richmond’s SWAT team, planned to have the persons responsible for ruining his breakfast in his custody by lunchtime.

A tight Commander Toepani keyed the mic on his headset and asked, “Alpha and Charlie units, are you holding position?”

A resounding “Affirmative, sir,” echoed back through his earpiece from the leaders of both three-man units. Their job was to make sure that the suspect didn’t get out of the house without being apprehended. They wanted her alive but knew that she was armed and dangerous.

Toepani then gave the order to the remainder of his men. “We breach the doors on my command. . . .”

 

Inside of the house, a loud, shrill noise shattered the comfortable silence. Sitting at the kitchen table, Mickey jerked his head toward the ringing cordless phone. The poor man’s nerves were shot to hell. He felt like he’d been running barefoot on razor-sharped blades ever since Peaches burst into the house at two in the morning, wearing mangled clothing, crying, talking about how she had murdered some men. At first he thought he was hallucinating or she was playing a trick on him, but the girl wasn’t that evil to do something like that to him.

Peaches was Mickey’s only daughter and only child. He never had interest in any kids. But after Emma’s, the love of his life and Peaches’s mother, fatal overdose, he raised her by himself the best he knew how. He’d had his own struggles with drugs, which he kicked the day Emma died, but he couldn’t seem to shake off the lure of the streets. It wasn’t always easy for Mickey being a single dad from the streets. Dragging around the little girl from drug houses to Narcotic Anonymous meetings, whorehouses, gambling joints to after-hours spots not only wasn’t easy, but it also wasn’t conventional. No one knew that better than Mickey, but he knew no one could protect her from the mean world like he could. He would have rather died and went to hell than to have been separated—by any length of time—from his little girl. Seven hours away from her while she was away at school was enough to make him miss her immensely, but he knew it was not only mandatory by law, but also the best thing for her . . . and being around other children would help her social skills.

In addition to making sure she was on top of her schoolwork, Mickey taught her every hustle and con he knew of, and persuaded his friends to school her on the ones he didn’t know. But Mickey didn’t educate his daughter from the school of hard knocks to be a predator; he did it so she’d never be anyone else’s prey.

He knew that life could be extremely difficult for a kitten in a dog-eat-dog world. And if a cat didn’t know the nature of the game, the ultimate cost could be life. It wasn’t right in some people’s eyes, but he never cared what others said. This was his child and she would be well rounded and wouldn’t fall for the okey-doke.

The phone rang for the tenth time before Mickey finally answered it, “Hello?”

It was Nita, one of the neighbors from across the street.

“Hey, Mickey. Real quick, ’cause I know you busy. In case you didn’t know, half of the damn Richmond police squad is outside of your house. I just wanted to make sure you and Peaches were okay. And they look like they coming to kill somebody and—”

He knew this woman could talk until the cows came home. Time was of the essence, so he cut her off, “I couldn’t be better, under the circumstances,” he exaggerated. “As for Peaches, she isn’t here, but whenever I do talk to her, I will be sure to tell her that you called to check on her.” Before hanging up, he added, “Thanks for the heads-up, sugar. I’ll talk to you later.”

Only half the force, huh?
he thought as he shook his head and put the phone back on the hook.

Mickey had been expecting that much, plus some, ever since Peaches had filled him in with the gory details of the night before and all she’d been through. As far as he was concerned, a few dead cooked-up bastards was better than his daughter being gang-raped any day. The only problem was without any actual physical evidence, Peaches didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell of proving she was about to be raped. It would be her word against the reputation of men who were looked up to as model citizens in their city. And the fact that one was a judge’s son, he knew his daughter would never get the opportunity to tell the truth to set her free.

Mickey prayed, wished, and pleaded with God that there was a way that he could somehow say that it was he who actually pulled the trigger. In a perfect world he would trade places with his daughter at the drop of a gavel.

But the world wasn’t perfect, especially the one he lived in, but lucky for him he learned many moons ago to play the hands he was dealt.

 

“One.”

Commander Toepani and his men were ready to enter his premises.

“Two.”

Twelve men who made up his elite and special weapons and tactical team all carried standard-issue M-16’s, submachine guns, and wore standard-issue armor under their black windbreakers. They were trained for terrorist and hostage situations; but like most of their brethren all over the country, they were mostly used to raid the homes of drug dealers in the name of the “war on drugs.”

“Three.”

Battering rounds simultaneously knocked the front and back doors clean from their hinges. M-16’s drawn, teams stormed up the interiors of the house in a manner that could be called controlled chaos.

Before Mickey or his nephew could finish their bowls of cereal, the members of the SWAT team aggressively barked out orders: “Get on the floor! Hands by your side! Lay down!”

With a gun to the back of his head, Mickey, acting as surprised as he knew how, asked, “What is this all about?”

“You know! Where is she?” Toepani asked.

“Where is who?” Mickey played dumbfounded.

“Peaches Alize Brown.”

“She’s not here. In fact, no one’s here but me and my nephew.” Mickey nodded toward the young boy lying on the floor to his right, which wasn’t an easy task with his forehead planted firmly against the oak wood floors. “And for Christ’s sake, take the guns off of the youngin’; he’s only thirteen years old. You got the poor child scared shitless,” he said, wanting them to lighten up on his nephew.

Three men from the team searched and secured the upstairs while the others continued checking the closets, under the sofas, anywhere else a person could attempt to hide downstairs while purposely knocking anything glass or breakable over by “mistake.”

“And I see you people on the news saying you are trying to build a better rapport with the youth. This damn sure ain’t no way to do it.”

Commander Toepani told Corporal Hempstead, “Get Mickey and the boy to their feet.”

Toepani gave Mickey a no-nonsense glare once he was standing. “It’s real simple, you answer my questions truthfully or be charged with accessory after the fact to a double murder and a laundry list of other charges. Your fucking choice, man?”

Mickey stammered, “M-Murder?” as if he was taken totally by surprise.

“Where is your daughter? Peaches Brown, Peaches Alize Brown.”

Mickey acted astonished that the commander would use Peaches’s name and the word
murder
in the same breath. “What does Peaches haft to do with a murder?” He looked dumbfounded.

Toepani wasn’t falling for it, he had seen it all before and he wasn’t buying Mickey’s act. If a father didn’t know that his daughter wasn’t alive and well, his first response should have been to the effect of, “Is my daughter okay?” Mickey taking the defense was all he needed to know. He was quiet for a second. “You can bet your ass we ain’t gon’ find her here. He’d be stupid to keep her here; she’s probably long gone.”

At that time, three SWAT officers who had been searching the upstairs came back down empty-handed. “All clear, Commander.”

“I knew it,” he nodded. Then Toepani addressed the nephew, “Hey, son. How you doing?”

The boy nodded his head with tears in his eyes.

“You got a name?”

The boy nodded his head a second time.

“Unless you are a mute or something, I would like to hear you say it.”

“M-my . . . n-name . . . is . . . L-Lamont,” the boy stuttered.

“Nice to meet you, Lamont. I want to ask you a couple of questions, okay?”

Lamont nodded.

Toepani tried to ease the boy’s nerves a little. “How old are you, son?”

“T-th-thirteen.”

Toepani cracked a smile. “I have a son your exact age. Tell me, Lamont, when is the last time you seen your cousin Peaches?”

Wearing baggy jeans, Air Jordans, a Philadelphia hooded sweatshirt, and fitted hat, Lamont looked to his uncle for help.

“Come on now,” Mickey said to Toepani. “Now you interrogating a kid without his guardian’s permission.”

Commander Toepani pressed on. “You don’t want to lie to me, Lamont. I’m here to help out.”

“Not since yesterday morning, Friday,” Lamont said.

“Enough of this bullshit,” Mickey said. “You got my nephew shook up, and my sister is a reallll cuckoo bird, and she’s one of those people always looking for a lawsuit. Now, I don’t play about my Peaches, but she . . . now she’s a real bitch and her kids are a whole other story. So that you don’t waste more of the taxpayers’ money, leave the kid and me alone.”

Toepani thought about what Mickey had said, “We’re wasting time. Let’s get out of here. Take the father with us; we will question him further at the station and we will book him.” The last part he thought would intimidate Mickey a little, but it didn’t. “Call your momma, boy. I’m not going to take you downtown. You old enough to get home, right?” he said. “And remember the police are here to protect and serve.” He patted Lamont on the back and exited out the house.

From beneath her “Lamont” disguise, Peaches watched the elite trained officers perp walk Mickey from the house in plastic flex-cuffs. She watched all the officers clear out.

She knew that they would try to pump him for information—information that he would never give—before they released him. Or eventually book him on a bogus charge of obstruction of justice. She took a deep, sympathetic breath due to the trouble she was putting her father through, having him hauled off to jail for her madness. Then she removed the fitted cap and the cutoff stocking that practically concealed her face by holding down and hiding her shoulder-length auburn hair.

Peaches cursed herself for wrapping the ace bandage so tightly around her breast that she could hardly breathe. But it had worked. It was impossible to tell that a set of 34Bs were being suffocated under the tight green Philadelphia Eagles sweatshirt she was wearing. She knew it was risky to unwrap herself, but she needed to breathe just for a second.

Over her dead body,
she thought, would she ever turn herself in to the police and do even one day for killing that asshole who had tried to attack her. And for the others, she didn’t give a flying fuck if they
all
had planned to join in or not. As far as she was concerned, rooting for the bastard, and doing nothing to stop it, made them just as guilty.

The burning question was,
What do I do now
? The answer: exactly what you and Mickey discussed, she talked back to herself. Get the hell out of Virginia until one of them could figure out a way to convince the authorities to believe the truth.
You better pack a lunch,
she told herself.