CHAPTER 7

 

“We got two of them in the building and another two waiting outside,” the man in the dark blue trench coat spoke into a tiny microphone, well-hidden among the buttons. He stood beside Brandon awaiting orders.

“Should I go in?” asked Brandon.

“Wait until they all get in,” a sharp voice sounded in Brandon’s ear. “It’s a small house. They’re gonna be caught in there like mice in a trap,” replied his Sergeant.

“Roger that,” Brandon mumbled with impatience.

The Sergeant could feel his officer’s hatred burning through his ear, shooting to his brain like electricity. On one side, he could understand where that came from, but at the same time he kind of… didn’t. Sure, like every decent human being around, he hated drug dealers for ruining people’s lives. But on the other side, Brandon seemed to be the only one who did it with such a forceful passion.

Ever since he started working for the police department – and mind you, it had been a few good years – he hadn’t met a man that wanted to do everything humanly possible to catch the drug dealers quite like him. Brandon Baker was an unstoppable force. A tireless machine that didn’t fear even the most dangerous hustlas.

He had been on the force for a few years now, but was basically still a newbie. However, seeing how things were progressing with him, it wouldn’t be a surprise to anyone if he was promoted.

The Sergeant cast another frugal glance to the house’s entrance. The men were gone. They were most likely all inside and therefore, they made easy targets.

“They’re in,” he announced through the mic. Move in!”

Those were just the words Brandon had been waiting for. Armed to the teeth and followed by two other policemen, he busted through the house door.

“Police! Don’t move!”

There were four men in front of Brandon, all looking about as dangerous as an old sock. Small time wannabe thugs, he concluded. And if he needed further proof, the little white plastic bags on the table came to his aid. It wasn’t even a quarter of what an actual dealer would work with. But he had to deal with that for now. Plus, there was also a nice pile of dollar bills next to the bags that almost begged him to take it.

“Hands where I can see them!” he shouted as one of the men began reaching for his pocket. The move didn’t go unnoticed by the other policemen because in the next second, the thug was saying hello to the floor, his nose pressed tightly against it as the officer checked his pockets. He took out a small revolver and tossed it to Brandon.

He caught the gun and started laughing.

“Is this what you guys use for defense? This pussy toy gun?”

“Fuck you think you are, nigga?” one of the thugs spat, casting Brandon a hatred-filled glance.

“If I were you, I’d watch my language,” he replied sweetly, circling the small gun around his index finger. “You wouldn’t want that dirty mouth getting you into trouble now, would you?”

“We got people everywhere, motherfucker,” the man continued, prompting satisfied grins from the other thugs. “We gonna be outta there in no time and we’ll come for yo bitch ass.”

Boom!

As the man fell to the floor, the hole in his head getting bloodier by the second, Brandon blew the smoke that drifted above the gun’s barrel. No one seemed to react.

“I hate them big-mouthed fools,” he sighed. “Why can’t y’all be nice and shut the fuck up once in a while? Let’s get these pieces of shit outta here,” he spoke as he took the money and drugs off the table and shoved them into a backpack he found nearby. “We gonna keep the greens, boys.”

“What’s going on in there?” asked the Sergeant from outside.

“We have three perps and one casualty. He went for his weapon and officer Baker fired in self defense. It was a clean shooting sir,” said the officer.

“Good. Clean it up and clear out. I'm sending in forensic.”

“Roger that.”

None of the thugs said a word. They didn’t even protest when the policemen cuffed them and forced them outside the house and inside the police car. Something told Brandon that it wasn’t their first time seeing the inside of one.

Brandon slid behind the wheel of his car and radioed in to headquarters. Afterwards, he turned to look through the bullet proof plastic separating him from the thugs.

“Boys,” he grinned as he gripped the wheel tightly. “You’re in for a nice holiday in prison.”

It had been Brandon’s 19th catch. The 19th step to ruining his brother. And so far, he had never failed in putting criminal scum behind bars. It had become a hobby. Some sort of weird addiction that he couldn’t, nor did he want to, give up. And that was just the beginning.

~~~~

Malik was seething. As he flipped aimlessly through the pages of a Motor magazine he could feel the blood boiling in his veins. He looked at the small man in front of him and felt his anger rising. He never liked Ibn. He only brought bad news whenever he’d pass by and even though he appreciated it, he’d reached a point where he saw him as a bad omen. This day was no exception.

“Where they holding them at?”

“Mac’s place,” Ibn replied, lighting himself a cigarette. He took a long drag from it and released it slowly. The smoke rose up like a silken thread twirling around in dance. It had a sour smell that Malik couldn’t stand and he frowned. He had always hated cheap tobacco. “They got three of them and my man at the precinct tells me they ain’t gonna let them go that easy.”

“Three?” Malik asked, knowing he always had four guys to every house.

“Yeah, three. D-Man got popped.”

“Fuck!” Malik said his anger rising. “And what the fuck you talking about they won’t let them go?” Malik hissed through gritted teeth. “I pay Sam to make sure all my people are released after a night there!”

“Apparently, there’s a new nigga in town meddling with our business,” Ibn told him. “You think those three pieces of shit would’ve got caught otherwise? You know ain’t nobody gonna bother with your operation.”

“But this Mutha Fucker did.”

“Yeah, dats facts. Never thought I’d live to see a clean cop,” Ibn snorted.

“You know who he is?” Malik asked, his patience wearing thin. Three of his rookie men had been arrested and were at risk of never seeing the streets again for some small time shit, and this ugly motherfucker was standing in front of him smoking and joking like shit funny.

“I ain’t got nothing yet,” Ibn shrugged. “Sam told me he works in a different precinct. So he don’t know him. There’s a few noobs there anyway, so it’s hard to tell who’s who. But don’t worry, man,” he hurried to add when he saw Malik’s savage look. “I’m working on that.”

“You’d better fuckin’ work faster,” said Malik, his tone oddly calm. “Or else I’ll fuckin’ blow your brains out.”

Ibn forced a laugh even though he was a little shook.

“I’ll take care of everything, Malik. Don’t worry about it.” He got up and pressed the cigarette against the ashtray’s cold glass until it went out. It wasn’t even halfway smoked. “It’s my business on the line too. This shit affects everybody.”

Malik gave him a sharp look, still frowning.

After saying that, Ibn left the room, leaving Malik alone with his thoughts. He thought about this new guy and how he had to be fast and quiet in eliminating him. He couldn’t let even the smallest disrespect go without retaliation. That’s when motherfuckers start believing you’re weak and try to take what you have.

He leaned back in his seat, knowing he had to hurry and deal with this new cop to set things straight again. He thought about his brother who was probably in some other state, working his ass off and catching criminals one by one. He smiled. If that was true, then it meant Brandon was the only one who made their father proud and in all honesty, he couldn’t be happier knowing that he was the one that helped Brandon get where he was.

He decided to pass by his mother’s house a bit later and maybe take her out for dinner. God knew when was the last time he’d taken her out.

~~~~

It was a cool summer evening and Brandon had one person on his mind, Bentley Mack. He heard from an insider that he was one of the few men who actually got to approach Malik without the risk of getting shot. And that was exactly the type of man he needed. The ones that were like vital arteries to his brother. The more he cut, the more he’d bleed. Only God knew how much he wanted to drain him dry.

This has been the second week he’d been watching Bentley. It took him a while to learn his habits, but he eventually managed to do it. Every Thursday at the exact same hour, he’d go to the same dirt cheap strip club, find exactly the same hooker, and pay her five hundred for a private dance and fuck. They both knew it was illegal and while one lived for that thrill knowing he wouldn’t get caught, the other only saw it as yet another pay day.

“When’s he comin’ out?” his partner, Curtis, asked. “I’m getting’ bored as hell sitting here.”

Brandon didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he checked his watch and with a smirk, he turned to the other man.

“He should be there right…now,” said Brandon smiling.

The club’s red door opened and out walked a tall, muscular man looking really relaxed. His belt was still unbuckled and his tie undone. It seemed that the usually punctual Bentley spent more time in there than he had planned.

They both waited patiently for Bentley to pass through the area where the lights didn’t work, and when he finally did, they started their attack. The poor guy didn’t even see where it came from. With a short blow to the temple, he was on the ground squirming in pain as the two men’s pointy shoes dug into his flesh again and again.

“Stop!” he yelled, covering his face from an incoming hit.

They didn’t say a word. If anything, their attack increased in intensity. Their hits got faster and harder until he couldn’t even muster the strength to cover his face anymore. Brandon kneeled down in front of him, making sure the man couldn’t distinguish his features and grabbed him by the collar.

“We know what you did, Bentley,” he growled, emphasizing every word with a fist to the man’s face. He didn’t stop until his knuckles were soaked in blood. “We know you sell bad shit to good people and we’re here to teach ya a lesson.” Looking up at Curtis, he ordered, “Search his car. Leave the keys, but take everything else you can find. I’ll search his clothes.”

Curtis didn’t wait to be told twice. He hurried to the car and Brandon knew when he got there thanks to the distinct sound of glass breaking. Without saying any other word, he started doing what he had assigned himself. The man was too senseless to even think about protesting, so his job was a lot easier than his partner’s. He only found a couple hundred dollars and a joint.

He took both.

“I know who you work for,” he whispered in the man’s ear. “Tell him that this is just the beginning.”

He threw Bentley back on the ground and turned to leave, but not before spitting on him. He had never felt more powerful. He thought about the joint in his pocket and realized he didn’t actually need that to get high. Power was all he needed to feel elevated.

“How much did ya get?” Curtis asked when he finally got in the car.

“Two hundred bucks and this bad boy,” he replied, handing the joint to his partner. “Take it. I ain’t got no need for that shit.”

“You sure, though?”

“Of course. How much did ya get?”

Curtis smirked.

“The nigga had four thousand under his seat. We got rich tonight.”

“We sure did,” Brandon laughed. “Fucker stood no chance anyway.”

“Which kinda surprised me, to be honest.”

“Not really,” he spoke, counting the money Curtis brought. “He was drunk as fuck. He was bound to have a date with that pavement sooner or later.”