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Inside of a tinted, maroon Honda CR-V, Keith sat reclined in the driver’s seat scanning the surrounding area. He focused on the white and gray duplex that was five houses away.
The task he was assigned was far from simple. He had to end the life of a man who was not only intelligent, but a killer himself. His nerves had been on edge ever since he began to follow Jihad ten days ago. So far Keith had been successful at keeping a tab on him from a safe distance.
To his surprise, Jihad moved to a remarkably routine schedule. Every morning, Monday through Friday, Jihad left his home by no later than eight-thirty, got into his Porsche Panamera, and drove to Starbucks. He always placed his order with the same cashier, a young, attractive Hispanic woman who never failed to provide a bright, flirtatious smile at the sight of him. Keith even noticed that his order never differed. About five minutes after entering, Jihad left the coffee shop with a large cappuccino and two blueberry scones. He never followed Jihad after that point. Doing that would highly increase the odds of him being spotted.
Every Saturday night, Jihad went to a different club or bar to unwind. Even then, he stuck to a specific schedule. He was out of his house by midnight. His only inconsistency was the time he returned home. He rarely brought a woman to his place, which meant some nights were spent at a hotel.
Keith contemplated breaking into his house and lying in wait, but even if he could get around Jihad’s massive man stopping Presso Canario, there was no way he could disable the elaborate alarm system, including motion activated cameras.
With the uneasy feeling that he was pressing his luck by tailing Jihad for so long without being detected, Keith decided not to wait any longer. Being that it was ten o’clock on a Saturday night, he knew that Jihad would be leaving within two hours. He reached under the seat of the stolen SUV and pulled out his Glock 31. With a push of a button, the magazine fell into his awaiting lap. The clip was filled to it’s fifteen shot capacity with massive .357 SIG bullets. After pulling the slide back and releasing it, which caused a round to be injected into the chamber, he placed the gun in his hand and waited.
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Shawn gave Tisha directions from the reclined passenger seat of her Acura ILX. She made a right off Germantown Avenue, onto Mount Airy Street where Jihad lived. Cruising at a steady speed down the street, the CR-V caught Shawn’s attention. It looked as if someone had been inside, but the windows were tinted and the dark skies didn’t help pass any light. He brushed it off, instructed Tisha to pull over in front of a specific house, then removed his phone and called Jihad.
“Hello?” Jihad answered.
“I’m in front of your house. Come open the door. And put that big, dumb ass dog in the basement.”
“How about I let him answer the door for me?”
“Stop playin’.”
“Then don’t call my dog dumb. He’s put up. Come on in,” Jihad said before hanging up.
Shawn gave Tisha a peck on the lips, then eased out of her car nicely dressed in a Givenchy striped sweatshirt, Paul Smith slacks and Jimmy Choo sneakers. He opened the metal fence, walked up the short flight of steps and into the moderately sized home. Jihad’s house was well taken care of and furnished with great attention to detail.
He walked in and saw Jihad making a quick dash up the stairs. “Damn, cannon, you’re not even dressed. I thought we was going out tonight?” Shawn didn’t receive a response. A few minutes later, Jihad trudged down the stairs. After one look at Jihad’s disheveled face, he knew their plans were cancelled. “Are you alright?”
“Hell no. I’ve been sick all fuckin’ day. I think this bitch put something in my drink.”
“Nigga, ain’t nobody put nothing in your drink. That’s all that bootleg Chinese food you be eating. Or you probably just ate some bad pussy.”
“Yeah, whatever nigga. Do me a favor. Run to the store and get me some Tums.”
“Aaight, but I gotta take your car, I thought I was being slick, I had my girl to drop me off so I could be chauffeured, but now you want me gettin’ behind the wheel.” Shawn complained. “Where’s the keys?”
Jihad spun around and darted back up the stairs to the bathroom. “Kitchen counter!” He yelled, trying to hold back the vomit that was about to spew.
Shawn shook his head, walked to the kitchen, and snatched the keys off the counter. He wasn’t too upset because he didn’t mind taking the Porsche for a spin. He would have purchased one if Jihad hadn’t beaten him to the punch.
He eased the four door coupe out of the garage and backed out of the driveway, heading down the street.
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Keith had just finished rolling his blunt. He grabbed his lighter and clicked it. The fire lit the weed, he took a deep pull, filling his lungs with the pungent smoke.
His eyes widened as he looked through the windshield. The Porsche Panamera had just drove past him. “Fuck!” he cursed himself as he started the SUV, threw the blunt into the ashtray, and adjusted the gun on his lap. It was now or never. He mashed down on the accelerator, pushing the CR-V to catch up to the Porsche.
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Shawn noticed the lights of the CR-V come to life and pull off only moments after he passed it. Once he made it to the end of the street, he made a right, then slightly reduced the speed. The Honda made the same right turn. Certain that he was being followed, he removed his massive Dan Wesson fully automatic .38 Super handgun from his waist. Fully loaded with twenty one rounds in the magazine, he switched the safety off and rolled the passenger window down, and prepared to fire his weapon.
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With one hand on the steering wheel and the other on his gun, Keith steadily decreased the distance between the two vehicles. Odds were that he had already been spotted. If Jihad decided to flee there was no way the Honda would be able to keep up. With few other options, Keith honked his horn and flashed the high beams.
The Panamera pulled over to the left. Keith rolled down the driver’s window.
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With nerves working on overtime, Shawn kept his finger wrapped around the trigger of his gun. Leaning forward in an attempt to see who was behind the wheel of the SUV, he relaxed a bit once he recognized the driver. “Damn, li’l nigga. I didn’t know who you was.”
Keith was shocked to see that Shawn was driving the car and not Jihad. Being that he was next in line to be killed, Keith figured he might as well get rid of him while the opportunity presented itself. Without responding, Keith raised his Glock and quickly fired three shots into the Porsche. The bullets narrowly missed their target. With lightning-fast speed, Shawn aimed his gun and pulled the trigger, sending an army of bullets into the SUV. Keith fired several more rounds, and then pulled off. Astonished that none of the slugs pierced his body, Shawn pursued Keith fueled by rage. The pursuit didn’t last long. The CR-V veered onto the sidewalk and crashed into a tree.
Shawn slammed on the brakes, and the Porsche came to a screeching halt. He jumped out, gun in hand, and ran up on the crashed truck. Blood trickled out of Keith’s mouth as he raised his head off the steering wheel. He had been shot. He was alive, but in bad condition.
While looking into Keith’s pleading eyes, Shawn raised his gun. “You should’ve stayed in your lane, li’l nigga!” The bombardment of slugs from the automatic gun ripped Keith’s face apart. All that used to be in his head was now nothing more than a bloody mess splattered throughout the interior. Shawn hustled back to the Porsche and pulled off...