Black 01 - Black Rain (4 page)

“Hurry up, you make me late for my appointmunt, yes?” he commands, his Cuban accent thick. His breath smells of a freshly smoked Cuban cigar. He stands there watching her cover herself from his gaze, folding the razor, putting it back into the soap dish. He smiles as he checks his throat for blood in the mirror. He is handsome, with slick, jet-black hair, a neatly trimmed thin mustache and a muscular stout body like Mike Tyson’s. His deep reddish brown skin is flawless, except for the scar on his right cheek he received from a fall as a child riding his bike.

Dread slaps her rear as Chase walks by. She turns and rolls her eyes mischievously. “I should slit your throat and kill you for doing that shit.”

She grabs a pair of jeans, a pullover top and a pair of matching slip-on pumps and carries them to the bed. She applies Bath-Sheba shea butter to her body, combs her hair and puts on her clothes.

“I love it when you wear nothin’ under your clothes.

It is so sexy, eh?” Dread embraces her from the back and slowly grinds while kissing her neck. His thick erection pokes her and she swallows the bile that has risen in her throat. She plays it cool and pulls herself free.

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“Remember, we’re late, Cattanno. I need to make up my face,” she reminds him.

“Right, we are, and you’ll have to remind me to make up for rushing you, my dear. I’ll be waiting in the auto-mo-bile,” Dread says as he slaps her rear again before leaving.

The tension ties up in her shoulders and she wants to pick up something and bust him in the back of the head.

That would be a death wish with at least six armed and loyal bodyguards in the house at all times, so she sits, attaches her pistol to her pants at the small of her back, and applies makeup as angry tears fill her eyes.

“Please hurry up, Joe, and get me out of this hellhole.”

She walks down the solid oak staircase from the second-floor bedroom, reaches under her shirt and removes her small .25 caliber handgun and takes it off safety. As she gets to the foyer, two Nebraska cops appear to escort her. The first is Ronnell Jenkins, a stubby black guy from Louisiana with blue-black skin, bright ivory teeth and very pink gums that almost make him look like a Deep-South cartoon stereotype.

The other cop, Stanley Turner, is called Weasel because of his long nose and beady eyes set so close together. They are Dread’s bodyguards. Chase is led through the games room that holds a big-screen TV, Ping-Pong table, pool table, several arcade games and an eight-seat minitheater.

They enter a large hallway with a white marble floor imported from Rome. Several expensive stands and pil-lars hold busts of Roman emperors, which sit proudly as if condoning her present plight. They proceed to the side entrance where the luxury fleet of cars sits near the estate drive and garage.

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The head security guard, Brutus Tucker, greets them.

“I’ll take it from here, fellas.”

Brutus relocated from Portland, Oregon, after tiring of the rampant gang problems. Kids were killing kids for senseless reasons. He transferred to the Nebraska police department five years ago and hooked up with Dread. Brutus’s square chin reminds Chase of Dudley Do-Right on steroids.

Brutus loves classic Harley-Davidson motorcycles and happens to be a crack mechanic, a fact that keeps Dread’s interest in him strong. At six feet eight inches, with a boyish grin and blond, longish hair, he has a tendency to be flirtatious with the ladies, including Chase when Dread isn’t around. They often pass the time playing cards. They both love spades and play pitty-pat for a quarter a game.

Brutus gives the other guards a nod and they obediently climb into a black SUV.

“Hello, Ms. Chase.”

“Hello, Brutus, and how are you this Friday evening?” Brutus has always been respectful and nice to her. Not like the other yes-men that cower at Dread’s very words.

“I’m doing fine, just fine. You be careful tonight,” he beckons with dark troubled eyes as though he wants to warn her of something but can’t.

Chase inches into the backseat and tries to fight her urge to run. Something is about to go down. Something is terribly wrong and Dread wears a smirk as though a revelation is coming. He slides next to her and puts his arm around her neck.

“You know, loyalty is very much important to me.

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Why, I don’t know what I would do wit’ myself if something about you is untrue. I would just go crazy and someone would have to die, of course,” he says, looking her in the eyes.

She puts her hand close to her gun and contemplates killing him right there. Just surviving jumping from the car could have fatal consequences, so she plays it cool.

“And give up all this? Don’t be silly, Dread. You spoil me and take care of me. What else could a woman ask for?”

He kisses her on the forehead and reclines in his seat with his hand on her thigh, saying nothing the rest of the ride.

They drive into the sprawling suburbs of Dodge County and turn onto a deserted dirt country road near Freemont, just off Highway 30. About a half mile up the road is a silo and a big red barn with a Nebraska corn-husker emblem painted on one side—a big smiley-faced, blond redneck with straw hanging out of his mouth, dressed in black overalls adorned with a big red Nebraska
N
on the front.

The cartoon character also has on a white shirt with an ear of corn hanging out of his front pocket, a big red hat on his head and he holds a football in his right arm.

A couple of Nebraska police vehicles sit parked by the barn and the field next to it has about fifty head of cattle milling around.

Ronnell shouts out like an old house Negro, “We’re here, boss!”

“Wonderful, let’s get dis done,” Dread says while rubbing his hands together.

Chase frowns, “What is this, Dread? Why are we out
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in the middle of nowhere at some stinking barn? Why did you drag me out here? I’m not impressed, honey.” She stays in her seat in protest, fearing her life is about to end.

She feels that if she enters that barn her life will end or at least change drastically. There is nothing to be seen for miles, just dirt and straw. The setting sun colors the rusted sky with blue, orange, red and yellow. A water trough overflows next to a big chunk of licking salt. The rest of the area is miles of plowed fields, naked of any harvest.

“Dis is a time of reckoning, baby,” Dread says, laughing as he enters the barn. “Get her, gentlemun, and bring her wit’ us,” Dread commands.

“Take your fucking hands off me. Let me go, you bastards!” Chase screams as she punches and kicks at Weasel and Ronnell as they enter the SUV from the driver’s side and grab her feet and arms.

“Let her go, fellas. Chase, calm down and c’mon,”

Brutus orders as he places his hand on his .44 magnum.

He gives her a smile and a wink. But she knows he’ll use that gun if he has to.

The two goons let Chase go and she straightens her clothes and follows them into the huge aged barn with Brutus bringing up the rear. This scenario brings being scared to a new level.

The musty, dusty and dark barn smells like husked corn. At the rear, lanterns illuminate something hanging from the beam that parallels the vaulted ceiling. Faint moans sound, as of someone in pain, and as she gets closer, that someone slowly comes into view.

Everything within her flows up to her throat. Panic slithers up Chase’s spine as goose bumps break out on
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her skin. The thought of being exposed as an FBI agent is at the forefront of Chase’s mind as she sees her partner and fellow agent, Purvis Smelley, dangling from the beam. His wrists are bleeding from the thick, coarse rope. Blood flows from lacerations across his left brow and his lower lip. The blood has made a trail down the front of his shirt and his pant leg, and it slowly drips from the tip of one shoe, forming a figure eight of con-gealed blood as, at a snail’s pace, he swings from the rope, back and forth.

A week before they took this case, Agents Smelley and Chase had met at the Pink Cadillac Country Bar for dinner and drinks. They’d had the time of their lives.

Chase hadn’t liked country music or anything to do with it until that night when Smelley had taught her to line dance, listen to the lyrics and let the music into her heart. They’d danced and drank and enjoyed each other’s company, and he’d made her laugh and appreciate country music and everything that went with it. He was full of life and joy.

Smelley gradually looks up as if he can feel her presence. He blinks away the blood that is dripping into his eyes. He smiles at her then lowers his head. Three of his front teeth are missing from his blood-covered mouth.

She prays to God to please don’t let him blow her cover.

She wonders how she will get out. How will she get Smelley out before he gets killed? Her gun has six bullets and eight men stand around Smelley, not counting the four who came with them. Even if she gets Agent Smelley down, he’ll be in no shape to help her take on this motley crew. If only Joe were here.

Dread saunters around Smelley, sizing him up.

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“Well, it does look like he knows you pretty well, my darling.” Dread looks at Smelley and at Chase for a reaction.

She swallows hard and tries to control her breathing.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You need to let that poor man loose. You’ve made your point. He’s in enough pain, Dread.” Unfortunately, though the situation was dire, that was all she could come up with.

Dread smiles as he stares at each of them. His motley crew moves in closer, weapons drawn, anticipating a showdown, a revelation or an end to this situation. All is quiet, except for the sound of Smelley coughing up blood as he dangles from the rope.

Dread pulls out a switchblade and walks up to Chase and places it at her throat. As she tries to move his arm, two of his men grab her.

“This shit ain’t funny, Dread.”

“No, it’s not. But you need to tell me the trufe. Are you FBI? You know dis man? You been plotting against me? Are you trying to destroy everything that I have built? I was smart enough to have the phone tapped and dat’s how I caught this son of a pig reporting me to the FBI. I always knew it was something about that guy I did not like, but you, Chase, hmm, I love you and it’s killing me to think you could be party to my demise wit’

some piece of shit.”

Dread’s face is touching hers. The spittle from his speech sprinkles her cheek. He has a fistful of her hair, her head pulled back so her throat is exposed to the sharp edge of the blade.

Agent Smelley laughs. “Uh-huh, just like I thought!”

he gasps as he coughs some more. “Dread, you aren’t
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anything but a little punk bitch, picking on women. I don’t know that lady. This shit is between you and me, asshole. I came in alone, but others will follow and take your punk ass down. Now, come over here and lick my balls, you Cuban pig!” Smelley chokes out another laugh.

Dread looks around at the others in the room and becomes enraged. His complexion turns red as his body trembles and his lip quivers at the disrespect. He releases Chase’s hair and runs his fingers through his own.

His eyes roll back into his head as his face distorts with anger. “Lick your balls? You tell me to lick your balls in front of my woman? Oh, yes, my friend, you are one crazy bastard.”

Dread charges over and stabs Smelley in the stomach and chest repeatedly as the agent jerks from the force of the blows. Blood spills from his body and mouth. The rope jerks and swings and Smelley’s body becomes limp.

Dread wipes his knife on Smelley’s shirt and spits toward the ground at the blood puddle now being ab-sorbed by the straw and dirt floor.

Then he pushes the bloodied and soiled body away from him. He walks up to Chase, places his blood-drenched hand to her face, cupping it and pushing the tip of his switchblade toward her right eye.

The tip of the blade touches her eyelash. He brings his face so close to hers, she can feel his breath.

“If I even thought you were a fed, I’d cut both your eyes out and gut you like a pig.” Dread looks for a reaction from her and she gives none.

He smiles and kisses her. “Let’s get out of here!”

The men release her and walk away. Chase pulls her gun and fires two shots over their head. They turn with
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guns drawn, and she aims at the rope suspending Agent Smelley. She fires one shot and the rope comes free as Smelley’s body collapses onto the ground.

Tears of rage flow from her face; she doesn’t care if she dies at this point. They have killed her friend and she has been disrespected. She goes against everything her karate instructor taught her. She lets her anger control her actions. Shit, she wants revenge and she wants to fight.

“If you fuckers ever put your hands on me again, I will kill each one of you and the mothers that gave birth to you.”

Dread laughs, “Ooh, you know I like it when you talk dirty to me. Bring her along.”

She puts her gun away as Weasel and Ronnell come toward her. She takes a stance and braces herself for battle. They look at the other men, then to Dread.

Weasel throws up his hands in confusion, “What’s this? You gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me, lady. Come on before we have to hurt—”

She does a flying drop kick to Weasel’s face and knocks him over one of the cattle stalls. Dust rises from where he lands. She faces Ronnell, ready. Anger boils inside her and Chase wants to hurt somebody for the way Smelley was killed. She refuses to cry or show weakness and knows this will play into her survival.

All the attention is on her. The men encircle the de-fiant woman. Dread stands with his beefy arms folded, grinning devilishly at what is unfolding. He waves his hand and two more men attack. The female undercover agent drops to the ground and swing-kicks the first, bringing him to the ground. She crushes her elbow into his throat. She gets back to her feet and kicks the other
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