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Authors: Amaleka McCall

BOOK: Secrets Uncovered
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“Oh God!” she cried, knocking his hands away, as if she were a victim of domestic violence.
Avon removed his hands from her person as if she were a hot stove that had just burned him.
“Elaina, I'm sorry. Please ... tell me where the kids are.” He softened his tone, moving a few steps away from her. His heart hammered against his chest bone.
Avon had never wanted to be the person to make her afraid again. They'd had their ups and downs, especially when the accidental shooting had threatened to bring his DEA career to a halt. Unfortunately, on a few occasions when he had been extremely stressed with the job, Avon had unwittingly taken his anger out on Elaina, slapping her across the face.
It had been one of Avon's lowest personal moments as a husband, and there was no turning back the hands of time. Avon apologized profusely after each incident, but his wife had clearly grown weary of his moods and his unpredictable bursts of anger.
Avon grabbed his bald head and squeezed it, trying to calm himself down. He took a deep breath and put his hands out in front of his chest. He would be calm and reasonable with his wife.
“Baby, I'm not going to be angry. Just tell me where they are so I can protect all of you.” He steadied his voice, letting his anger subside like a flame smothered in dirt.
“I have them hiding in a closet downstairs,” she finally admitted, hanging her head as if she were the worst mother in the world. Relief washed over Avon; at least she hadn't done anything drastic or stupid. “Avon, I was scared. That's why I put them there.” She seemed to be stumbling in explanation.
He placed his finger against her lips. “Hush, you don't need to explain, I understand,” he whispered, the words catching in his throat.
Elaina lifted her head; her eyes pleaded with him for answers. “Avon, tell me what is going on? Who is after you? Who would do this to us?” She searched his eyes, his face, for answers from her estranged husband.
Avon didn't respond. He didn't have the words. His own mind raced. He brushed past her and rushed from the garage back into the house. He ran over to the basement door and yanked it open; he rushed down the dark stairwell to free his children from their confinement.
He found his kids huddled together in the corner of the closet. The sight of them cowering in fear sent a pang of hurt through Avon's stomach. His daughter was crying as she held her brother in a death grip, like he was her life raft. His son sat in urine-soaked pants. The sight broke Avon's heart. Tears burned at the back of his eyes as he knelt down and scooped them both up into his strong arms. He needed them to know he would never let anything happen to them ... ever.
“C'mere. Daddy is here now,” Avon whispered, the heat of his breath on his daughter's face, a soothing balm to her tears.
She immediately buried her face in her father's neck and sobbed, just like her mother had done a few minutes earlier. His son was another story. The boy's sweat-and-piss-drenched body hung in Avon's arms, stiff and stoic. He didn't bend or respond to his father's soft words. Instead, the boy stared right past his father's face and looked off into the distance, at nothing. The boy was scared shitless. One tear streaked, unchecked, down his cheek.
“You guys okay?” Avon whispered, kissing both of them on the forehead. He had to make sure his children didn't see how angry or terrified he truly felt.
“Daddy, somebody shot Pfeiffer!” his daughter wailed. Her little voice quavered with fear. “Oh, baby, I know. I know. I'm so sorry Daddy wasn't here. I'll never let anything like this happen again. I promise,” he comforted, meaning every word. His son didn't say a word and still had not responded to his presence. He just stared blankly above his head. Avon shook him and tried to get him to talk. The boy was still in shock.
“Fuck,” Avon huffed under his breath. There would be fucking hell to pay when he found the bastards who had shot at his family. Avon was taking off the kid gloves and going full-metal jacket with these pricks.
He took the kids back upstairs to their rooms. There was no way he would allow them to stay in a closet like scared puppies.
When his mother-in-law came home, her face was dark and her body stiffened at the sight of Avon. Helen held on to her daughter like she was a treasure beyond worth.
When he moved closer to Elaina, she tightened her grip, turning her face up at him as if he were a smelly skunk. There was really nothing he could say to comfort a woman who had come so close to losing her daughter and grandkids within the blink of an eye. Despite her resistance, Avon needed to make some quick and hard decisions that involved Helen's acquiescence.
“We all have to leave here,” Avon announced seriously.
Elaina looked up in surprise and fear. Helen looked at him like he'd lost his damn mind. She stared at him with coldly hooded eyes.
“No! We need to call the police and get to the bottom of this! You can't keep coming here with all of your secrets and spy games, putting my daughter and grandkids in danger!” His mother-in-law lit into him. She was on her feet now, standing toe-to-toe with Avon like a lioness protecting her pride.
He felt her pain, but he also felt his cheeks go flush with anger. It didn't matter how long he'd been gone in the past and what mistakes he'd made, he was the head of his family. Avon ground his back teeth together and composed himself. He jutted his finger toward his mother-in-law and squinted his eyes.
“You can stay here, but my wife and kids are coming with me!” Avon countered. He looked at his wife expectantly; when she didn't follow his lead, he grabbed both of his kids by their hands and ushered them toward the front door.
Elaina got up reluctantly and looked at her mother with tear-filled eyes. She was so torn; it was all too much to process.
“You have to come with us, Mama. It's not safe here,” she begged. Her mother pursed her lips and wrangled her arm away from her daughter's desperate grasp.
“It's not safe where he is either,” her mother replied, folding her arms across her chest, refusing to leave her home.
Elaina gave her mother a desperate look, but she knew it was useless. In the end, like a dutiful wife and mother, she followed her husband and kids out of the house.
All she could do now was pray that her mother would be safe. That's all she could do for all of them—pray that they would be safe.
 
 
“Ma! Ma!” Junior called out in a state of panic as he rushed back into his SoHo apartment. He was sweating profusely and his legs shook. The apartment was not big; so when Betty didn't answer, Junior's stomach began to cramp.
“Ma?” he belted out again, his voice cracking with desperation. Then he heard the water running from behind the bathroom door. He rushed to the door and knocked, hoping that his mother simply hadn't heard him over the rush of the running faucet.
“Ma!” he called out again, twisting the doorknob. Now was not the time for him to worry about invading her privacy. The door gave easily. The shower was running, but the curtain was pulled closed. Junior reached out and snatched back the curtain.
“Oh shit!” he huffed. Those were the last words he spoke before his world went black.
A black hood had been forcefully placed over his head, snatching his breath away. A sharp pain invaded his spine and his legs buckled. His body went limp; his legs betrayed him as he fought against his own body to stay standing. Junior knew falling was the kiss of death; yet it was the inevitable. His back hit the marble tile floor, sending a spine-crushing pain through his back and down his legs. Junior opened his mouth to scream, but the sound was stuck in the back of his throat. Instead, he took in a mouthful of black fibers from the hood, which scratched the back of his throat. He was being dragged now; his legs flip-flopping like a fish out of water.
Something crashed into his diaphragm. Vomit involuntarily spewed up from his stomach and into the black sackcloth. His hands clawed at the edges of the material, which threatened to cut off his air supply. His esophagus was being crushed; he felt tiny needles creeping up his body from his feet. Junior knew that meant he was drifting away, losing consciousness. The thought caused him to fight harder.
His assailant's communications sounded like muffled, hushed whispers in his obstructed ears. A crushing blow to the face caused something to explode behind Junior's eyes. He could feel the moisture seeping into his death hood from his busted face. A kick in the nuts sent a shock wave of pain through his entire body. He reacted as if someone had put him in an electric chair, his body seizing and jerking violently.
Junior couldn't hold on for much longer. He could see Broady's face like a painting on his eyelids. Then his mother's face—the last vision of it, contorted, stiff, came into focus. Another hit to the body brought Junior back momentarily.
“You fucked with the wrong ones, nigga!” he heard, barely making out the choppy voices. He didn't know if it was the hood or the fact that his ears were ringing. He was dragged to a new spot on the floor; the carpet was burning his back. More punches, kicks and boot stomps rained down on his body.
“Don't kill him! The boss wants him alive,” one of his assailants said before he laid his fist into Junior's gut for good measure.
Junior was transported from one black world into another.
Chapter 10
Upping the Ante
Candice rushed through the familiar doors of the shooting range. Her heart immediately sank. She missed her uncle at times like these. In fact, she had been thinking about him a lot lately. Candice wondered what he'd think about her current predicament.
“Candy, you can't be a cleaner and be so emotional,” he'd tell her.
The range was a place of solace for her. The smell of lead, the sound of bullets flying and the power she felt when she shot her weapons helped alleviate much of her stress. Also, she needed to sharpen her skills a bit.
She was only fifteen years old when she came to the firing range the first time. The adrenaline that had coursed through her veins that first day had caused her knees to knock and her stomach to churn. Uncle Rock had told her to relax and focus on the task—getting her shots down range, on target and stopping the threat.
Yes, stopping the threat had always been her mission.
Uncle Rock had stepped up behind her that day and instructed her to pick up the first gun she'd ever held—a .40-caliber Glock 22. The rough handle felt comforting against the palms of her hand. She felt like a superhero when she held the metal beauty.
“Grip and trigger pull are the most important aspects to shooting, Candy,” Uncle Rock had told her. He'd 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.
Candice had never seen Uncle Rock so passionate about anything, so in tune with the weapon and with his pupil.
When he thought she was ready, Uncle Rock had inserted the magazine into the weapon. “It's your time to shine, Candy Cane,” Uncle Rock announced like a proud father.
His words of encouragement made her feel warm inside, just like when her father used to call her Candy Cane. Candice's first five shots were dead center mass.
Today Candice swallowed the lump that had formed at the back of her throat and shook off those haunting memories. She couldn't let her emotions take control, not now.
She looked down at the other range stalls; three were occupied by men. None of them were paying her any attention.
Good.
She rolled the bright orange foam earplugs between her fingers until they were small enough to fit into her ear canals. She smiled as she remembered Uncle Rock's voice instructing her to “always double bag your ears or you'll be like me, a deaf and dumb old man.”
It was a cheesy joke, but it always made her giggle. Occasionally he would even crack a rare smile over the comment.
She plugged her ears with hard ear protection and slid her specialized clear plastic protective eye goggles over her eyes. The black gloves were the last step. She worked her fingers into the leather gloves; she hated shooting with gloves because it made getting her rounds on target and in the five rings a bit more of a challenge. But Uncle Rock warned her hundreds of times about the dangers of lead particles getting all over her hands, contaminating her skin and blood.
Candice set her jaw and stomped her left foot, angry at herself for getting all mushy. Candice swiveled her neck and cracked her knuckles. She needed to toughen up for this war. “This is all for you, Daddy. Uncle Rock, I'm going to make you proud. I'm going to do everything right this time,” she whispered to herself.
The sound of rounds being fired from the adjacent shooting lanes gave Candice the push that she needed. She pulled down the gun rest and placed her perfect plastic case on it. The handmade case had been created by Uncle Rock to house what Candice considered the best gift she had ever received. Candice slowly unlatched the case and pulled up the top in a dramatic fashion, as if unveiling the Hope Diamond. When the case flapped open, Candice's eyes sparkled and she smiled down at her uncle's gift. The feeling of excitement that Uncle Rock's beautiful AR-15 had given her many years ago was even stronger today.
Candice moved to the left and put the weapon on her support-side shoulder. She blew out a cleansing breath and tried to relax. She closed her eyes for a few seconds and imagined Uncle Rock guiding her movements. She placed her support-side ear on her 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. 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's voice guided her from the grave and beyond.
Candice let her legs go soft and bent her knees slightly, with her back straight. She got into the correct stance and positioned 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, Candice looked down range at the ripped-up target. She carefully pulled the trigger back again and again. Finally she was satisfied as she called in the obliterated target.
“Well, DeSosa, you better be fuckin' ready because your time has run out.” Candice didn't care who heard her or who watched her. She was completely in her element, and single-minded in her objective.
 
 
Arellio DeSosa opened the strange manila envelope left on his car windshield. He read the strange writing on the front. It was his name spelled out in letters that were cut out from magazines and newspapers. Curious, he turned the envelope over and dumped out its contents.
Arellio doubled over like he'd taken a powerful gut punch. His heartbeat sped up; his hands were racked with tremors. He looked at graphic 8X10 glossy photographs. He frantically flipped through them; each one was worse than the previous one. Finally he arrived at the last picture.
“No!” Arellio let out a guttural scream, dropping all of the pictures to the ground. Cyndi came rushing out the front door and down the long, circular driveway. She found her husband sitting on the ground next to his car, sobbing like a woman. He shouted “No! No! No!” over and over again. A cold chill shook Cyndi to the core. Something very bad had gone down.
“Arellio? What is it?” she asked, touching him on the head. She quickly discovered his source of distress. Cyndi went to her knees to retrieve the scattered photographs. Her chest tightened and tears burned behind her eyes. She picked up the photographs and was overcome with a mixture of grief and disbelief.
The first photo depicted her brother-in-law, Guillermo, with his head thrown back and eyes closed as another man took in a mouthful of his manhood. Cyndi felt sick as vomit crept up her throat.
With her eyes wide she shuffled to the next picture. “Oh God!” she gasped. It was a frontal shot of Guillermo, his face clear as day. He was on his knees, a man mounting him from behind. Guillermo's face seemed contorted—whether in pain or pleasure, Cyndi could not tell. She felt light-headed. How could she comfort her husband through this disgrace?
The next picture showed Guillermo picking up a man and handing him money on a dark street corner.
The following picture felled her completely. Guillermo had a look of pure shock and terror on his face. His eyes bulged almost out of his head, and his mouth hung open in a terrified
O
shape. A severed penis was shoved between his lips.
Cyndi let out a loud screech. If this had been some kind of nightmare, she would have hoped she'd wake up soon. With trembling hands she flipped to the last picture in the stack. Cyndi twisted her body away from her husband and vomited on the driveway. The eviscerated remains of her brother-in-law were too much for herself and her husband to handle. How could they offer comfort to one another when they both were in so much pain?
“You motherfucker!” Tucker boomed, rushing toward the old man, spit flying from his mouth. “You fucked with my family? I'm going to rip your fucking head off and shit down your neck, you old bastard!”
Three black suits stepped in Tucker's path, forming a wall around their charge. Grayson Stokes didn't even flinch, his icy eyes remaining steady and calm. He folded his wrinkled hands on the table in front of him like he was watching a boring variety show rerun.
Avon struggled against a wall of muscles. “I'm gonna kill you! Fuckin' white devil!” he barked. The walls of the room felt like they were closing in on him. “Face me like a man!” Avon challenged.
“Is that why you asked to meet me, Agent Tucker? So you could curse at me? So you could make yourself look like a total fool?” Stokes said calmly in his throaty, phlegm-coated voice.
“No, I asked to meet you so I could fucking kill you, you piece of shit! What type of fucking games are you playing?” Tucker could barely contain his anger. Veins throbbed at his temple and in his neck. He felt like he was having an “Incredible Hulk” moment.
“What makes you think it was me that tried to harm your family, Agent Tucker?” Stokes asked, peering around the broad backs of his protectors. “Do you really think you are that important to me?”
“Who else would do it? Who else would have a reason to do it?” Tucker contorted his jaw so hard he gave himself a headache.
“Did you ever think that DeSosa would do something like that? He is a fucking criminal, Agent Tucker. He knows you were undercover, infiltrating his top drug-dealing thug. Don't you think he has a reason to go after your family?” Stokes painted these scenarios for him to make him think twice about his current conspiracy theory.
“DeSosa wouldn't even know where to find my family!” Tucker boomed, jutting a trembling finger at Stokes. Stokes chortled and then was overcome with a fit of coughing.
Tucker felt like he'd been bitch slapped by Stokes. His patience snapped. Tucker bulldozed into the three Stokes protectors. “You think it's funny, you half-dead motherfucker!” he screamed as he dived across the table with his hands outstretched.
He wasn't fast enough. He was roughhoused by the suits and put into an arm bar, his arms raised over his head and locked behind his neck. The pain that rushed down his spine as a result rendered Tucker helpless. He had no choice but to calm down. Breathing like a captured animal, he finally stopped flailing and fighting.
With a deadpan expression Stokes watched Tucker's face; the old man's demeanor was as calm as a placid river. Finally he waved his right hand in the air like it was a magic wand. “That's enough,” he called out, snapping his fingers as though calling off well-trained attack dogs.
Tucker was released. He collapsed onto a chair and waited for the feeling to come back into his arms.
“Another hotheaded Tucker.” Stokes shook his head in disappointment, as though Tucker was simply a lazy student who didn't do his homework.
Tucker was back on alert; his eyes were hooded over with ill intent.
“You think I didn't know about your hero daddy? Agent Tucker, I know everything. But do you? I bet you didn't know your father
wasn't really
the undercover narcotics detective shot dead in a buy and bust,” Stokes said cruelly.
“You shut the fuck up!” Tucker growled. His teeth were clenched together tightly; his words were barely audible.
“Your father was no more than a dirty drug cop who was taking payments from drug dealers. He got shot because he wanted out—just like Easy Hardaway. He wanted to get into a game he knew nothing about, and there was no turning back. There's never a way out, only a fucking way in, A-gent Tu-cker!” Stokes spoke like a preacher in the pulpit; his eyes were dilated and flashing with malice.
Tucker shot up out of the chair. He was faster this time and managed to catch Stokes around his frail turkey neck. Tucker squeezed as hard as he could from across the table. “You're a fuckin' liar! I'm gonna kill you, once and for all!” Tucker howled, snot pouring from his nose. His brain felt as if it would burst through his skull with all of the pressure building inside his head.
The men in black were on him in a matter of seconds. He held on as if his life depended on it. Stokes was making a horrible rasping noise, like a grating car engine that wouldn't turn over.

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