Текст книги "Cold Blue"

Автор книги: Gary Neece

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Текущая страница: 1 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

a Jonathan Thorpe novel

by Gary Neece

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Amazon Edition

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This book is a work of fiction, names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright ©2013 by Gary Neece

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Perthshire Press

garyneece.com

Second Edition: June 2013

For other titles by Gary Neece, visit Amazon

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Acknowledgments

About the Author

For my parents,

whose only want was for their children

“All the old knives that have rusted in my back,

I drive in yours.”

–The Phaedrus

Plato

Monday

February 5

Early Morning

SERGEANT JONATHAN THORPE BROUGHT HIS eyes down from the desolate highway to the soft green glow of his dashboard lights. Five minutes till four. Up early, rather than out late, he enjoyed this time. The hours before dawn brought a ghostly peacefulness to the city, a serenity disturbed only by fellow cops, hooligans, and the few unfortunate souls finding their ways to work. Most of the one million or so who made up Tulsa’s metropolitan area slept peaceably in their beds. Those not at rest resembled the Rapture’s left behind, if Thorpe still believed in such things.

Shrewd criminals had long since retired from public view. They feared the slew of uniformed officers on duty, all of them bored and searching for someone, anyone, to pull over. “Big dope,” as Thorpe referred to large quantities of narcotics, was mostly transported and sold during business hours when the cop-to-citizen ratio was much more favorable to the bad guys.

Thorpe’s attention wandered. It’s a trait those with driving experience share, though his autopilot had adapted a few additional skill sets. While he efficiently operated his vehicle—feet working pedals and hands the steering wheel—with little conscious effort, he also checked for tails in all three mirrors, looked for suspicious activity in his peripheral vision. He stamped passing cars and faces into his short-term memory. With each landmark passed, his random thoughts burst with a kaleidoscope of memories. Every street corner elicited visions of arrests, shootings, fights or foot pursuits.

While this activity fluttered in recesses of his mind, he considered the fellow “citizens” with whom he kept these early hours: the junkies, prostitutes and small-time drug pushers—too ignorant to get off the streets. Dealers lurked in darkened doorways and urine-steeped alleyways. They roamed side streets with small amounts of dope destined for motel whores and twenty-dollar crackheads.

He’d encountered every kind. Cagey dealers swallowed the drugs as soon as cops laid eyes on them. Later, they retrieved their cellophane-wrapped wares in the privacy of their own bathroom. The patient ones awaited nature’s call. Those unwilling to postpone deliveries might introduce fingers to esophagus, subsequently plucking their illicit treasures from steaming gastric acid and last evening’s meatloaf. Others were less cautious, keeping their products on them during the stop, concealed in the car or on their person. Often they kept the drugs under their tongue and only resorted to swallowing when their secret was discovered. An officer might grab a suspect’s throat to prevent the destruction of evidence. Meanwhile, passing motorists were subjected to yet one more crooked cop choking the shit out of another “innocent” citizen. Then there were those who thought themselves particularly clever—believing they’d hidden the contraband where one would never look, let alone find it. Disgustingly, their fetid fingers usually gave them away. Maybe that’s how crack really got its name.

On this morning Thorpe was after one of the smart ones, smart by crack dealer standards at least. As the supervisor of the Tulsa Police Department’s Organized Gang Unit, Thorpe knew the difference. He pulled himself back to task as he made his way across the south end of the Inner Dispersal Loop (IDL), a network of highways ensnaring downtown. Free from the commuters’ version of an oval track, Thorpe took a series of side streets before turning north on Country Club Drive and cutting through the middle of a sprawling, government-assisted “community.”

Thorpe thought about his tax dollars at work here. Yes, he was a cop but had to pay taxes like everyone else, and often replied he was self-employed when dipshit citizens told him they paid his salary. Government assisted housing; free rent for freeloaders. Thorpe knew his thoughts were unfair; he’d met decent people who had to live in places like this. He felt sympathy for the innocents because animals of the two-legged variety mostly controlled the complexes.

Country Club Drive and its bifurcated housing complex shared a fence with Tulsa’s Country Club golf course, which occasionally hosted the LPGA. Thorpe doubted many lady pros would jump the fence and enter the apartment grounds to retrieve an errant ball—to do so would imply their balls were bigger than those used in golf—and therefore wouldn’t be needing the L preceding PGA. The entire complex was scheduled to be razed and rebuilt in a couple of years. For now, it was a good place to buy dope and get robbed—if that was your thing.

Thorpe exited the north end of the complex turning west. Several blocks later he approached Waco Avenue and looked north toward his target’s home. In the distance, he could see Marcel’s gold Cutlass parked on the west side of the street. Thorpe continued on before turning into the Greystone Condominiums. The condos were encircled by a black iron fence and an electronic gate to which Thorpe already had the code. He punched in the numbers from memory, pulled into the complex, and parked in a relatively low-lit area.

Garbed in dark blue coveralls, a hoodie, and full-face ski mask, Thorpe examined the area through deeply tinted windows before exiting his vehicle. The frigid conditions ensured his clothing wouldn’t garner unwanted attention and disguised the fact he was the only Caucasian within a square mile. Taking a winding route through the complex, Thorpe exited a pedestrian gate on the northeast side of the condos. Heading east, he resisted the urge to jog and remained alert for movement in the still morning. Except for his breath rising in the cold, nothing stirred. He passed Marcel’s street once more and continued east another twenty-five yards before encountering a private drive that led north into a wooded tract of approximately five acres.

Thorpe had learned from previous surveillance the only structure on the property was a dilapidated barn, void of any human activity. An old metal farm gate blocked the drive another ten yards north of the property line. Thorpe used a small pair of bolt cutters on a section of barbed wire fence just to his left. He could have easily scaled the gate, but the act would create noise, and as his primary escape route, would also slow his departure.

Faintly illuminated by moonlight, he strode up the old drive, wincing when the occasional patch of gravel crunched under foot. Though not audible more than a few yards away, in Thorpe’s ears the noise sounded like thunder; his senses were hyperaware.

Thorpe followed the drive deeper into the woods until reaching a stone marker he lifted and tossed into the weeds. Turning and trekking into the thicket, he stopped and uncovered a large, water-resistant canvas bag, which he’d concealed under dead vegetation and fallen branches during an earlier scouting mission. Collecting the bag, Thorpe began picking his way through the trees. Spidery limbs and prickly vines grabbed at his clothing as he trudged toward the deserted barn. Winter-stripped of their canopy, the barren trees filtered enough moon and starlight so he could navigate without use of artificial light.

Stepping into a clearing, the barn loomed before him. Thorpe pulled open its rickety door and inspected the inky black with a flashlight. Drawing in a deep breath, Thorpe entered the darkness, removed equipment from the canvas bag, and began preparations.

Five minutes later, the creaky door burped Thorpe into the night; he made his way back southwest until he came to another barbed wire fence. There, he secreted himself inside the tree line with Marcel’s Cutlass twelve to thirteen yards directly in front of his place of concealment. The yellow glow from the distant streetlight didn’t reach his position and neither would the illumination from Marcel’s porch light if activated.

As a member of the Fifty-Seventh Street Hoover Crips, Marcel Newman was one of the “smarter dealers,” and directly responsible for several murders within the Tulsa area. He’d been charged with homicide twice; one of his victims was an innocent six-year-old girl who happened to be playing in a yard behind Marcel’s intended target. Charges were dropped after frightened witnesses refused to testify. Marcel Newman was a killer, and he associated with other known killers.

Thorpe’s Organized Gang Unit (OGU), along with Vice, had conducted a lengthy surveillance of Marcel’s activities. The operation had ended approximately a week and a half earlier with little result. During surveillance, officers noted Marcel would leave his grandmother’s house here and drive to a nearby convenience store where he would buy breakfast sandwiches and drinks. Afterward, he’d continue to his girlfriend’s apartment on the northeast side of town. Why Marcel arose so early and why he slept at his grandmother’s house was never determined.

The investigation did reveal one useful piece of information: Marcel left this residence every weekday at six in the morning. No exceptions. No one who led Marcel’s lifestyle should keep such regular patterns; one day it would come back to bite his ass. This was the day.

MARCEL WOKE AT 5:45 A.M., groggily pulled the blankets aside, and slung his legs over the edge of the bed. He reached and turned off an alarm radio blaring a nineties rap song, then slipped into his baggy black jeans, extra-long white t-shirt, puffy black coat, and Timberland boots—his “Tims.” Marcel liked to sleep at his nana’s house because it sat on a dead-end street, which decreased the likelihood of his rivals attempting a drive-by. Plus, he’d never conducted business at the residence so he wouldn’t likely be bothered in the middle of the night by an annoying search warrant service. In short, he felt safe at his grandmother’s house.

Marcel shuffled into the kitchen, pulled the refrigerator out a couple of feet, and reached around until he fingered a nylon holster secured to the back with duct tape. He slipped a Taurus 9mm Millennium Pro out of its cocoon and stood admiring the pistol’s weight. The weapon had a matte stainless-steel slide with a black-checked polymer grip. He’d had an acquaintance purchase the weapon for him at a gun show at the Tulsa County Fair Grounds; it was far superior to the Ravens and Jennings pistols most of his associates carried and well worth the 400-plus dollars he’d paid. The magazine held ten rounds plus another in the throat. At just over six inches in length, the weapon slipped easily into his coat pocket and could be withdrawn rapidly. Marcel dug his heels into the puke-green linoleum, pushed the heavy refrigerator back into place, walked to the front door, and flipped on the porch light. Swinging open the frost-covered storm door, he stood behind the threshold, uncommitted.

Marcel scanned the area, then offered himself to the dark, placid morning.

WHEN MARCEL ACTIVATED THE PORCH light, Thorpe was ready. He’d already used the same pair of bolt cutters to cut the three strands of barbed wire separating himself from the Cutlass. He watched Marcel cascade from the steps like an NFL halfback alighting from the team bus. At an inch or two under six feet, his foe was solid. Thorpe had been wise to bring along the weapon. Marcel probably fought like most any other gangbanger, his head down, swinging wildly with absolutely no technique. But one lucky punch slipping through Thorpe’s defenses could be devastating. It amazed him how some guys amassed so much muscle by sitting and smoking dope all day. During surveillance, his squad had never seen Marcel exercise once. Of course when a guy went to prison, the government ensured he got his requisite time with the weights. They generally entered society with an extra twenty pounds of muscle along with a reenergized hatred for authority.

As Marcel rounded the front of the Cutlass and stood near the driver’s side door, Thorpe watched through a red-dot scope as his target looked cautiously to the south. He kept the sight level as Marcel turned and peered directly at his position. Thorpe held his breath fearing the rising condensation would be visible in the frigid morning. Marcel seemed to shrug off whatever alarmed him and returned his attention to the car. Should have trusted your instincts, asshole. Thorpe sighted down and left from the edge of Marcel’s right shoulder, taking into account approximately four inches of coat insulation.

AS MARCEL STEPPED AROUND THE front of his Cutlass and stuffed his right hand into his pants pocket for the vehicle’s keys, he tried to shake the chill crawling its way up his spine. He turned back to his car, cupped his hands against the lightly frosted glass, and checked his backseat floorboard in one last salute to his paranoia. Seeing nothing, he took the key out of his pocket and inserted it into the lock.

Marcel heard it as much as he felt it—the thwack that drove his right shoulder forward. As the pain registered, he instinctively reached across with his left hand to probe for injury. Brain playing catch up, he attempted to retrieve pistol from coat pocket, finding his right arm unresponsive. Switching to his left, he was suddenly yanked back by the injured shoulder as if his body were conspiring against him. Marcel landed flat on his back; he tried to push himself up with his good arm when it was kicked out from under him. A boot crashed down on his injured arm. A knee pinned his other to the pavement. Above him loomed a masked man in coveralls. The dark figure pressed a large knife into the skin below Marcel’s left eye.

“If I wanted you dead, you would be. You make one sound, I’ll pop your fucking eye out and feed it to you.” Burning green eyes, remarkably brilliant in the darkness, reinforced the stranger’s threats.

NOT WANTING TO LINGER IN the street, Thorpe quickly gagged Marcel with a rag and duct tape. He rolled him over and cranked his left arm behind his back. The wounded right shoulder offered little resistance as Thorpe brought the wrists together and bound them with tape. He removed Marcel’s pistol, unzipped his own coveralls and secured the weapon. Then he directed his captive to draw up to his knees. Marcel complied, and Thorpe pulled him to his feet. When Thorpe spun Marcel around and pushed him toward the woods, a muffled cry emanated from beneath the tape. Apparently Marcel had hoped they’d be heading back to the house, with the stranger unaware his grandmother was inside. Marcel stumbled into the ditch and purposely fell to the ground; Thorpe would have to drag him the rest of the way. Off the street and in the shadows, Thorpe switched on a hands-free LED headlamp mounted on his forehead.

Thorpe had shot Marcel with a crossbow. Attached to the bolt was high tensile, braided fishing line. He’d used the line to yank Marcel backward as he reached for his weapon. The barbed broadhead was still buried in Marcel’s shoulder. Thorpe cut the strand so it wouldn’t get caught on foliage as he dragged his cargo through the woods.

At an even six feet with little body fat, Thorpe was 190 pounds of compacted muscle. He had a fighter’s physique. Still, Marcel was a thrashing encumbrance, and the fifty-yard haul through the underbrush was grueling. Arriving at the barn, Thorpe pulled Marcel across the threshold and over to a support pole in the corner of the pitch-black interior. He slammed Marcel’s back against the timber and held him by the throat. Thorpe wrapped tape around the pole and his captive’s neck several times, but wouldn’t leave Marcel in this position for long as suffocation would soon follow. Having secured Marcel to the pole, Thorpe cut the tape on his captive’s wrists, brought his arms behind the pole and secured them again. Then he cut the tape around Marcel’s neck and placed a black hood over his head. Afterward, he used additional tape to cinch Marcel’s lower torso securely to the support pole.

Thorpe carried a police radio underneath his coveralls. A wire ran from the instrument, up his sweaty back, and into a bud inserted in his left ear. So far the radio remained quiet. No one had phoned in a disturbance regarding Thorpe’s activities, leaving him free to interrogate his captive.

First, Thorpe removed his own boots and exchanged them for a different pair inside his canvas bag. He then left the barn to retrieve his crossbow as well as Marcel’s Timberlands and his baggy-assed jeans. The unlaced boots and loose pants had come off as he was dragged through the woods. Thorpe also needed to evaluate the crime scene he’d created. The time Marcel spent alone, cloaked in silent darkness, would only facilitate the coming interrogation.

Contrary to what the movies would have you believe, there was no magical truth serum. Several mind-altering chemicals, including PCP and LSD, had been used with varying degrees of success. Ultimately, drugs weren’t reliable because the subject’s reality became distorted. Plus, drugs took time—a commodity of which Thorpe was in short supply. No time for drugs and no time to implement stress positions. He could use sensory deprivation to a degree, but was mostly going to have to rely on pain, fear, pride, and humiliation.

Thorpe returned to the barn where his captive sat gagged, hooded and bound to the pole. His headlamp cast an eerie glow on the prisoner as he circled Marcel several times in silence to help build tension. He knew Marcel could sense his presence; the man turned his head to Thorpe’s movements, desperately using his ears to gather information. Thorpe returned to the equipment bag, withdrew additional items, switched on a battery-powered lamp, and again changed boots.

Back at his prisoner’s side, Thorpe squatted and spoke into Marcel’s ear. “All I want from you are answers to my questions, nothing more. Do you understand?”

Unable to speak, Marcel nodded his head.

Thorpe continued, “I’m going to remove the gag from your mouth; if you scream out, you’re going to cause yourself a shitload of pain. Understand?”

Marcel nodded again as Thorpe raised the hood to remove the tape and rag from Marcel’s mouth. He let the cloak fall into place then spoke in an even tone, “Honest answers earn your freedom. Lies cause you pain. What’s your full name?”

“Marcel Newman.”

“What’s your girlfriend’s name?”

“Which one?”

“The one you bring sandwiches and drinks to every fucking morning,” Thorpe replied. He was asking baseline questions to gauge Marcel’s responses. At the same time, he was letting his captive know his interrogator was an informed man.

“You tell me then, motherfucker.”

Marcel’s toenails appeared to be on a semi-annual clipping schedule. So it was no difficult task when Thorpe clamped a pair of needle-nose pliers on a thick, yellowing nail and tore it from his prisoner’s big toe. Marcel’s muscles appeared to solidify into rock, and though he growled in pain he didn’t scream. Thorpe stepped away from the ragged breathing of his captive. Marcel muttered an onslaught of profanity as saliva ran down his neck.

Thorpe gave him a few minutes to recover from the shock before continuing his interrogation. “Now, what’s your girlfriend’s name?”

“Cynthia,” Marcel relented.

“Cynthia what?”

“Cynthia Barnes.”

“That’s better.”

Thorpe got to the meat of his questioning: “About a year ago, a woman and her child were shot to death in a South Tulsa home. They were the wife and daughter of a Tulsa police officer.” Thorpe paused, letting the statement register before he asked, “Who murdered them?”

The question hung in the air. “I don’t know nothin’ bout dat shit,” he spit. The silence before his answer said more than his words.

Thorpe unsheathed his knife and cut open Marcel’s shirt from waist to neck. Marcel thrashed to the extent his restraints would allow.

“What da FFFUCK?”

“Shhhhh,” Thorpe hissed, as he stuck the blade through the hood into Marcel’s left ear and slowly began to push. “Marcel, are you going to shut the fuck up, or am I going to have to kill you an inch at a time?”

Marcel closed his mouth. Thorpe used the knife up one side of Marcel’s boxers then ripped the material away. His prisoner now sat naked, with much less pride, on the dirt floor. As Marcel contemplated his new predicament, Thorpe changed into yet another pair of shoes, using the lull to his advantage. Silence accelerates fear. The freezing barn would increase discomfort and pain; everything hurts more when it’s cold.

Thorpe directed his light onto Marcel, who shook uncontrollably. Steam rose from his body. Slobber flowed down his chest. Thorpe knelt and spoke softly.

“I know you know. This is where things get real fucking ugly if you don’t change your attitude. I’m going to ask you the same question again, and if you don’t tell the truth, you’re going to cause yourself a lot of agony. It’s up to you to help yourself.” As Thorpe finished the sentence he clamped the pliers on Marcel’s left areola, then asked, “Who killed the woman and her child?”

Though Marcel couldn’t possibly see, he turned his hooded head toward Thorpe’s voice and replied through clenched teeth, “Fuck you, you cracker motherfucker.”

Tough guy. As if disappointed with an obstinate child, Thorpe sighed theatrically, then, using both hands and all his strength, pulled and twisted at the same time. Marcel’s nipple was ripped away as a ragged chunk of flesh. Thorpe tossed the skin to the side as Marcel shrieked and passed out, blood darkening the slobber on his chest.

Marcel was a solider. Twice, he’d been “caught-up-short” on drug violations. On both occasions, he could have avoided incarceration had he cooperated with authorities. But to Marcel, his rep and his name were more important than his freedom. He went to prison, served his sentence, and came back to Tulsa with a wealth of street cred. Thorpe was going to use that against him.

Short on time, Thorpe held smelling salts underneath Marcel’s nose, bringing him to consciousness. “Can you hear me, Marcel? You are going to answer my questions, or you’re going to die here on this dirt floor.”

Marcel stirred, and after a few seconds of coughing, sputtered, “Man, I’m fucking dead anyway. Just ‘cause I’m black don’t mean I’m stupid. Don’t take a genius to figure out who you are. You da husband. You da cop.” Marcel let out a long, wet cough then continued, “But I’ll tell you so you kill me quicker. It don’t matter none anyways. Da two niggas killed ya kin…they dead. Killed da same night they killed ya family.”

Thorpe considered Marcel’s declaration. It was possible Marcel gave him the names of two dead men so he could protect the real killers and end his misery now rather than endure more pain. On the other hand, he doubted Marcel would remember the two murders occurred on the same night given it happened a year ago—unless in fact there was a connection. Thorpe knew of the two men but wanted to see if Marcel could produce their names.

“What were the names of the two who were killed?”

Marcel paused as if considering whether providing the identity of two dead gangbangers would be a violation of his personal code. He must have decided it wasn’t.

“Big D and Little D.”

Thorpe knew Marcel was referring to the brothers Deandre and Damarius Davis, both of whom were killed in North Tulsa the same night Thorpe’s wife and daughter were slain. Homicide had looked into whether the murders were related but had been unable to find a correlation. It didn’t make sense. Out of all the people Thorpe had sent to prison, he’d had only limited contact with “the Double D Brothers.” At most, he’d conducted little more than a cursory pat-down of either man, certainly nothing to reap this harsh a retribution.

“Why would those two assholes kill a cop’s family?” Thorpe demanded.

“How da fuck I know?” Marcel replied, still able to muster up attitude. “Musta’ been stealin’ yo shit when it went bad.”

Thorpe rose and walked away, his mind scrambling to catch up. What were the chances two North-side bangers would end up in Thorpe’s South Tulsa neighborhood, attempt to burglarize his home, shoot and kill his family, and be killed themselves a few hours later? Not very damn likely. If they were in fact the killers, then someone had sent them, and that same person or persons had bought their silence with a couple of bullets. Thorpe returned to Marcel, determined to get at the truth.

“Who sent the Double D Brothers to kill my family?!” Thorpe demanded.

“I don’t know what you fuckin’ talkin’ ‘bout. Just kill me already.”

Thorpe knelt and peeled off Marcel’s hood. Then he pulled his own ski mask up over his headlamp so that it filtered minimal light. Eyes uncovered, Thorpe stared at his captive. “Marcel, you’re right. I am going to kill you. No matter what you say, or what you do, you are going to die tonight. I know you’re a solider, and I doubt you’re afraid of death. A part of me actually has respect for you because in your own fucked-up way, you have some honor about you. But you’re about to make the most important choice of your very short life.”

Through the dim light, Marcel stared defiantly into Thorpe’s eyes. Good. He had the man’s full attention, and he needed it to drive home his next bluff. Death was nothing to Marcel; he’d accepted his ultimate fate years before. Most bangers have no regard for human life, sometimes not even their own. Marcel had no problem dying like a soldier. He would have the respect of his crew and enjoy a legacy—much like a radical Islamic dreams of dying a martyr. Thorpe had to convince Marcel he would strip that respect away…even in death.

“Marcel, I’m about to ask you a series of questions. You can answer these honestly, or you can lie…it’s your choice. Either way, before I kill you I’ll give you a moment to make peace with God. If I think you’ve told me the truth—and I’m pretty good at sifting through bullshit, Marcel—you’ll die painlessly. But, and listen real carefully to this, I’m going to take a little insurance policy out on your ass.”

Thorpe paused while continuing to stare into Marcel’s eyes; he needed to ensure he understood. “After you’re dead, your body leaves here with me. It may be in one piece, or it may be in several; that’s up to you. What happens to it afterward is also up to you. If I determine you’ve been truthful, your body will be found on a street somewhere. Your homies will assume you’ve been killed by rival gang members. They’ll come to your funeral and remember you as a soldier and pay you the respect you deserve. You still listening, Marcel?”

His captive nodded his head as he stared back with unblinking eyes.

“Good. Because if you lie to me, Marcel, they won’t ever find your body. Instead I’ll start writing search warrants on all your homies, and I’ll name you in those warrants as my snitch.”

Marcel’s eyes widened and intensified with even more anger.

“That’s right, Marcel. You will have disappeared and warrants will start popping up with your name written all over them. Everyone will think you’ve turned informant. You’ll be dead, but no one will come to your funeral to pay respect. The only reason they’d show up would be to piss on your grave. Now look in my eyes and ask yourself—will he really do this?”

Thorpe really needed to sell this bluff to make sure he got truthful answers. In effect, he was forcing Marcel to be a snitch in order to avoid being labeled one. He was about to find out what was more important to the man: real honor or the perception of honor.

Marcel stared into Thorpe’s unwavering eyes for a full minute before he turned his head away, his body appearing to collapse in upon itself. All Marcel had in this world was his reputation, and this cracker motherfucker was prepared to take that from him as well.

He watched as fear and doubt clawed its way into Marcel’s being. Thorpe knew he’d won the battle. Marcel still might offer slivers of resistance, but was now a broken man.

“All I heard was—it was something else got fucked up,” Marcel finally admitted.

“Explain.”

“’Bout a week after your daughter was killed, dude told me the Double D Brothers were the hitters. He said it was some fucked-up shit. I asked him about it, but he quit talking. He said he shouldn’t have said anything. He tried to act like he was being solid by keeping his mouth shut. But I could tell he was scared.”

“Who told you this?”

“I don’t know his name,” Marcel lied.

Thorpe placed the blade of his knife at the base of Marcel’s penis. He very slowly began drawing the serrated edge across when Marcel blurted out the name, “Kaleb.”

“Kaleb…Kaleb Moment?” Thorpe asked.

“Yeah,” Marcel said, defeated, “…fuck!”