Out a Order (15 page)

T
he Darkling didn't accept misses, Ballistic learned when the spirit turned a deaf ear to him, because it missed collecting the soul of Kesha, Rico's lady.

Part of the Darkling's bargain with Satan was that he/she/it was to collect as many souls as it could for the kingdom of darkness. This was how Satan kept score with the Lord.

He loved to brag about the ones he'd stolen, lured, or enticed away from the Kingdom of Light. He'd known for a long time that the best he could do was trip them up, lead them astray, and place whatever stumbling blocks came to mind in their paths.

In the end it would come down to the scorecard. The only thing that amazed him is that they were too stupid to know it. This was a test. Scores of them had failed, leaving him victorious.

Fame, success, the scorning of poverty was all fodder for his grill. Like most black neighborhoods, Newark was easy to trade in. He loved it. It was so easy to instigate the young bucks, who were angry and brimming with rage at their place in society.

They believed this was all there was. Boy, were they going to be pissed off when they learned the truth—albeit it would be too late by the time it happened. He was a master at deception, and he was the creator of hunger; they just didn't know.

He'd invented game.

That's who he was, darkness and a lie. There was no truth in him and there never would be. That's why he traded with people like the Darkling, more soldiers in the foot army.

The Darkling's job in exchange for being a shape shifter with spiritual powers was to collect whenever there was a body drop. It missed because in the final moment of death Kesha stared the evil in the face, realizing they'd all been played. The tables had been turned.

Ballistic was stupid. He had no spiritual insight. He thought he could just drop bodies, but there had to be an aftermath for the Darkling to feed on, a soul to pass on as there had been with his stepfather, and many other bodies, but not with this one.

What Ballistic hadn't seen but what the Darkling had witnessed was the separation of the spirit from the flesh when his dog chewed the life out of Kesha.

Ballistic had missed the light that had shone, the powerful
hand
that reached out to the girl, all because in an instant she had uttered a prayer of forgiveness to the world's sacrificial lamb.

The lamb.

She had summoned the blood of the lamb.

Something the Darkling hadn't done when she was human, being consumed with black hatred, rage, and foaming at the mouth with a taste for the blood of her enemies. Once Kesha had evoked a plea for mercy the Darkling had howled in abject pain, as she'd lost the possession of the girl's soul to give to her maker.

In the flesh Kesha had fallen victim; in the spirit she had overcome and been rendered untouchable. She had called the name of Jesus. There was power in that name.

Really.

The Darkling trembled at the sound of the Prince of princes' name being called. And it was always the same when it happened—complete defeat.

Now Ballistic stood trying to evoke her powers, the Darkling's powers, her spirit in a deadpan ritual, so he could be cleansed and empowered to continue his reign of terror.

She had answered him long ago, feeling a kinship for his hunger for revenge, but on this night she was incensed over the miss.

The Darkling didn't accept misses, so on this night as she watched Ballistic she left him on his own, knowing that he would pay for not delivering. Yes, if you danced to the music, sooner or later you would pay the piper. Ask your mama.

Ballistic watched the last embers of the fire die, wondering why he felt incomplete on this night.

His cell phone rang. He picked up, receiving the news of Bobby's death. Rico had made quite a spectacle of the boy in exchange for the dead Kesha. He had dropped a piece of Bobby's body off at each of Ballistic's safe houses and Rico's stickup boys had taken whatever dope and cash were in the houses.

Ballistic smiled to himself. Newark had always had the most notorious reputation in the country for their stickup boys. Even New York wasn't on the map when it came to stickups.

Hell, Newark's stickup boys had been known to rob cats in New York, leaving a trail of fear, and they'd better not even think of coming to Newark for revenge.

Otherwise their new graves would be Port Newark or maybe they'd float back to the city via the Hudson River. It all depended on the crew and the mood.

Ballistic would have to alert Trey and Warren P., Bobby wasn't a main hit, and neither were any of the houses, but it was close enough for that punk Rico. Ballistic had it locked, copped, and blocked, but sometimes there were failures. It was all part of the game.

He hit up Trey and Warren P., telling them to watch their backs. His eyes and the eyes of the German shepherd turned red simultaneously. Letting out a howl like a wolf keening in the night, he summoned the Darkling once again.

And once again he received no answer.

T
he next day at the bank Dominique was just about to leave the ladies' room stall when she heard Shonda's voice. Instinctively she stepped back against the stall listening.

Shonda gave her the creeps down-low seriously. She had told Tawney long ago to transfer her or do something to just get rid of her, but Tawney only laughed. Tawney didn't think Shonda's attitude was all that serious.

But Dominique knew a snake when she saw one even if it was dressed in banker's clothes.

Shonda and Debbie walked into the lounge, continuing their conversation. Shonda, whose instincts were usually on a par with the devil's, didn't sense Dominique. In fact she never bothered to even look to see if anyone else was in the lounge.

Debbie was busy trying to fight her way out of the cocoon of Shonda's madness. She went to the sink to wash her hands, thought better of it, and stopped to stare at Shonda as though she were crazy.

“Girl, are you out of your mind? That mouth of yours is going to get you in trouble one day,” Debbie stated emphatically. She couldn't believe her ears. Shonda was talking pure insanity.

Shonda stared arrogantly at her reflection in the mirror. “I ain't lying. Gangsters have kidnapped Tawney. Rico's crew. I told you that husband of hers used to be a gangster. I tried to tell you that all that glittered wasn't gold, but you ain't believe me,” Shonda said with what could not be mistaken for anything except malice.

Shonda shrugged nonchalantly. Debbie washed her hands. Shonda's eyes wandered from her own reflection in the mirror to Debbie's. “Word,” she said.

“No. I don't believe you.” Debbie reached for a paper towel, drying her hands. “You're talking trouble. Real trouble. So I suggest you shut up. I don't want to hear any more, Shonda. And I'm dead serious. Keep your filthy lies to yourself. Somebody's gonna get hurt listening to you.”

Shonda laughed. She pulled out a nail file, buffing her nails. “You're a straight-up punk, Debbie. You ain't stand-up, girl. Where I come from you've got to represent.”

Dominique barely breathed as she listened to the exchange. Debbie shook her head. “I thought you wanted a career. You're about to kill it with that mouth of yours.”

“I ain't killing anything. Tawney was killing it for me anyway with that lethal pen of hers writing me up with bad performance reviews and messing with my money.”

Shonda blew on her nails. “Besides, the bank may need someone to take her place now. No doubt when them niggas finish with her she won't be coming back.”

A look bordering on insanity flashed in the depths of Shonda's eyes. The familiar light peeked out, and this time Debbie didn't miss it. She backed up a step, wondering how it was they'd never seen it before.

Shonda smiled serenely.

She could smell the fear that suddenly emanated from Debbie. It was like a liquid stench coming from her pores. Shonda was a predator. Predators always knew when they had a weaker animal cornered.

But Debbie wasn't in the eye of her storm so she let it go, using her for an information source instead. “Is Tawney at work today?”

Debbie suddenly frowned. “No.”

“I rest my case.” Shonda pivoted on her stiletto heels, leaving Debbie to trail behind her.

Dominique stood frozen in the ladies' room stall in disbelief and fear. Although she couldn't stand the acid-tongued Shonda, something in her words rang eerily true.

Dominique needed to get the word out to send some help for Tawney like yesterday. She flipped through her mental Rolodex, trying to decide who it would be best to tell.

Time was not on her side.

R
asheem stood outside in the graffiti-covered, dark gloomy hallway of Rico's latest safe house. All the young men in the hall were strapped and armed. Rasheem stood in the midst of enough artillery to blow up a city block.

He eyeballed the dude guarding the door as the line of flunkies flanked him. “I need to see Rico. I know he's in there.” Rasheem patted down his dreads. As he did so he heard
click, click,
and
click
.

He realized that in that instant his brains could've been scattered across the floor like scrambled eggs simply because he'd had a vain moment of patting his hair.

It was a habit that was hard to break. He returned his hands to his sides. Rico's crew didn't relax. They kept the guns trained on him.

Very leisurely the dude guarding the door spoke. “Knowing too much can get you killed.”

Rasheem didn't flinch. “Not knowing things can get you killed too.”

His point wasn't wasted on the young man; he saw respect and acknowledgment flicker in his eyes. He smiled and tapped a code on the door.

When the door was opened he whispered in the young buck's ear. The door slammed shut. In a few minutes the door opened again and the boy inside nodded his head for Rasheem to enter. Rasheem was patted down once again for safe measure, then allowed to enter.

Rico stood in the center of the room as Rasheem entered. “State your business.”

“This is going to cost you cash, Rico.”

Rico narrowed his eyes. “What am I buying?”

“The lease on Shannon Davenport's life.”

“Are you selling the lease on Ballistic's life too?”

Rasheem couldn't help but break a grin. “You're a funny man, Rico. Naw, I ain't got that dog.”

Rico nodded. “Didn't think so.”

He knew a petty street gangster like Rasheem and his running partner, Mitchell, couldn't shine shoes on the same street Ballistic walked on, but he was feeling himself a bit since he'd started hitting that bastard.

And no matter how much paper he had to spread he'd run up on B., as he'd started to think of Ballistic, sooner or later . . .

It was all in a matter of time. He snapped his fingers. A brown envelope filled to the brim appeared in his hands. Rasheem's eyes glittered with greed. That's what he was talking about, raking in the cream. Mitchell was going to wet his pants when he saw this stash.

“May I reach into my pocket?” Rasheem said respectfully.

“It's your life,” Rico retorted.

Rasheem retrieved a piece of paper with the address on it where Tawney Davenport was being held. He handed it to Rico. “Shannon Davenport's wife, Tawney, is being held at that address. I figure he'll come for his wife. Don't you?”

Rico smiled.

In one swift moment the money was in Rasheem's hands. Rasheem turned to go. There was no thought for the woman's life he'd just sold.

Rico DeLeon Hudson watched him go. Shannon Davenport. He would end this punk's life and move on, gathering his rep in the dust of the old-school punk's ashes.

S
hannon Davenport was recovering from his wounds. But the ache in his heart over Tawney's kidnapping would not be stilled. He looked over to find Marcus sitting on Papa's footstool watching him intently.

The little brother had proved to be quite manly in the face of adversity. He'd helped Shannon hobble over to Mama and Papa's house on Mama's instructions after Shannon was injured.

Marcus had consistently been keeping an eye on Shannon since they arrived as though he thought Shannon might disappear into thin air.

He was also biding his time. Like the elf he could be at times, Marcus had obtained what Shannon would most desire. Like a shadow he had flitted in and out of the bloodcurdling streets, until he had what he needed.

Marcus remembered Jazz's blood running in the sewer. He could see it just as clearly as the day it had happened, like a river running.

He saw the same image every day and every single night, Jazz's life slowly seeping out of her, trickle, trickle, and trickle, into the dirty sewer.

This one was for her. That's why he had obtained what her daddy needed most. Marcus felt old beyond his years, and his thoughts were light-years ahead of his physical age.

Jazz.

He shivered. He could still hear the shrieking that ripped through the air on the day she'd died. He had felt something morbid, clammy in the air. He couldn't explain it, but it was there.

And not one person had come right away. Marcus felt a sharp pang in his heart, realizing once again as he had on that day that no one really cared about them.

Even now he could hear Jazz's blood crying from the streets, from down in the dirty gutter where it had seeped, though not for revenge but rather amazingly for peace.

This was going to be tricky, he thought. He wished he understood more about what was going on. But mostly it was just a feeling. Things were being turned upside down.

Everybody knew in the hood it was an eye for an eye. Usually. Marcus shook his ten-year-old head as though his own thoughts were too much for him to bear.

“Marcus, there's a chopped barbecue sandwich, some potato salad, along with a slice of butter pound cake and strawberry ice cream, waiting for you on the table.” Mama's voice sliced through Marcus's reverie as though it were being dispatched through satellite.

Marcus smiled, jumped to his feet, and headed without a word to the kitchen. When Mama put food on the table, you just went, plain and simple.

Shannon eyed the old woman, admiring her finesse. She had spent every moment since his beat-down nursing him back to health, and he had known it hadn't been without reason. But now it was time for her to cut to the chase because he needed to get on about his business, and the first thing he had to do was find his wife, hopefully alive. A murderous rage beat against his rib cage at the thought.

“Your home is at risk as long as I'm in it.”

“More souls would be at risk if you were not.”

Shannon hauled his propped-up legs from the table, leaning forward. “Mama, I ain't a man that's good with wordplay. And I don't know a thing about anybody's soul, including my own. I will need to leave your home under the cover of darkness. That will happen tonight. If there's something you need to say, it'd best be now.”

Mama grunted, then sighed. “Boy, as old as you is, don't you knows yet that the spirit can't be rushed? I swear to all that be, this generation ain't got no learning.”

Shannon felt beads of sweat pop out on his back. He didn't know if it was from the physical pain of the brutal beating he had withstood, or from an internal fear that sprang up inside him when Mama had mentioned the word
spirit
.

“I don't have any time to waste.”

“You don't have any to give either,” Mama stated astutely.

Shannon sucked in his breath, closed his eyes, and leaned his head back on the cushion of the couch. “What do you want from me?”

“All that is required.”

“The only thing required of an old-school gangster is his blood, Mama.”

“Then I guess today is a new day. The spirit doesn't want your blood. That's already been shed.”

Shannon decided to humor the old woman. “Then, what does it want?”

“Your allegiance.”

Thunder crackled. A cement block the size of a tall wall crumbled. Both Mama and Shannon made the visual connection at the same time.

The child was placed before them. They could see her clearly. Aisha Jackson. She scribbled one name.
Jesus.
The entire wall came tumbling down.

A layer of Shannon peeled slowly away and in that instant he knew he was expected to fight a war with nothing more than a child and a pen.

Mama searched his eyes. “Care to know why?”